PS4

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Nikita carefully studied the stranger’s face in the reflection before her, searching for any hints of personality or character that might be hidden beneath its smooth surface. The broad brow, large blue eyes, high cheekbones, and generous mouth drawn flat and expressionless might have been described as pretty, if there had been any animation in the features she observed. However, there was none. The square jaw and firm chin were too tightly clenched, perhaps, but from what cause? Pride? Anger? Pain? Determination? Disillusionment? Depression? Despair? The face revealed no clues.

Seized by a surge of anger over the blank countenance in the mirror, she reached for the switchblade she kept behind the toilet and, bowing to an impulse she had not felt in years, quickly slashed two horizontal lines across her left cheek bone. She watched the cuts bleed for a few heartbeats and waited for the anger to recede. Somehow, the result was still incomplete and her anger only built. After a moment, she placed the tip of the blade against the inner corner of her right eye and slowly drew it down along her nose. Pulling the blade away she waited for the blood to well up and drip down her face, creating the image of a crimson tear. Satisfied, she let go the breath she had been holding and closed her eyes.

The events of the last several months spiraled through her at dizzying speed, culminating as they always did in a forest glen, hearing the words “I don’t love you Michael. I never did,” fall from her lips. Truth or lie, as Michael’s pain washed across her, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. In one sentence she had delivered an unforgivable wound to the only person who had ever put her life ahead of any other consideration. Whether or not she told the truth or a lie, he deserved better than that from her.

When she had planned their final scene, the words seemed to make sense – a strategy that Michael himself would have approved, a strategy that most quickly accomplished the goal of making Michael run far and fast away from section and from her.

She told herself it was the only way to make him leave. She told herself that Michael needed to be cut entirely free of Section before he could find himself again, and that obviously meant severing the bond that had held the two of them so tightly in it’s grip. She had told herself it would be good for her too, to learn to live without him. She even told herself that the words could even be true and that this truth was the best, most honorable farewell gift she could give him.

In the end, none of that had mattered. In the wash of his pain, all her justifications rang hollow and she knew she had made the wrong choice. She had hurt a man who’d been hurt so badly, too many times that her own actions in the end were nothing but gratuitous cruelty. All her self-righteous speeches, all her actions in the past and the future to protect the vulnerable and the weak would never free her from responsibility for that one act of conscious and premeditated brutality.

Did it matter if the words were true? Sometimes she believed it did, most of the time she knew it did not matter. But were they true? For herself and her own heart, she had come to realize that she needed to know. Before, and since – oh especially since – she had argued over and over to herself that they were true.

How could she love him? It was not as if he were honest, brave, or true. Lies came more easily to him than breathing. He was not brave, if bravery was standing up through fear. On missions he was driven by fatalism so extreme it bordered on a death wish, hardly bravery in the traditional sense. In his emotional life he was an outright coward – the only time he had told her he loved her he was amnesiac. The closest he had come since to an open declaration of feeling was to read French love poetry aloud to her, knowing full well that neither her French nor her appreciation for poetry were good enough for her to catch more than the general sense of the poems. As for loyalty, he appeared to have none at all – he could not be bought, but that seemed to be a matter of pride, not commitment, or ideals. But what has any of this to do with love?

Did she love him? What did she know of love? She had gone from a drunken mother to the streets to Section, and directly into Michael’s keeping. Their first encounter had struck an erotic spark that had burned deep into their roots, eventually erupting into a firestorm that neither of them could contain nor put out no matter how hard they wanted or worked to douse the flame. But was that love? It certainly was not generous or kind, it was not gentle or easy or restful. In fact in those early years, it was downright horrible. While his blood cover lasted, the tension had been nearly unbearable. But even so, he would not let her go. Whatever small steps she took towards another man he thwarted, sometimes dramatically, but for the most part he had only to come near enough for the fire between them to singe them both to draw her back. The heat was so strong it had even sucked her back into Section after months of freedom. But was this dark flame love?

And he had hurt her then, so badly sometimes, turning their fire against her again and again to force her down paths she would never have chosen on her own, each time leaving her alone to grieve when it was over.

Even after his blood cover ended and he gave himself completely to her – in body anyway – he remained in many ways as inaccessible as before. Oh, she had tried to love him. But trying to love Michael was like trying to love a block of granite. Yes, there were enough fissures, cracks, and crevices to scale him, and she had come to know every inch of him intimately with every part of her own body. And you could love the way you felt when you reached the summit. That you could love. Neither Michael nor Nikita were much inclined toward noisy lovemaking, but after years with Michael, Nikita knew that if she could yodel or burst into an aria when Michael pushed her over into fields of sensation that made the rest of the world vanish, she would. But climbing cliff faces was hard and painful work and you got hurt, a lot, banging against unyielding granite that bruised and cut.

And was not love supposed to involve more than the outer shell? More than the granite on the outside? No, she did not love him! How could she? Michael, whoever he was on the inside, simply was not available to be loved. And he could not really have loved her either. If he had loved her, he could not have remained so completely closed, he could have given her the words she needed, of love and hope, of shared dreams – even if that’s all they had, it still could have been, should have been shared. In the absence of those things, there could be no love! You could be caught in the snares of a dark and powerful physical desire, one so strong as to pose as love, to pass as love, but that ultimately was not love. She could not love him under those conditions, and furthermore, she told herself, he could not love her either. He could desire her, want her, focus his life on her, all without giving himself to her in ways that true love did, unconditionally and without reserve.

At least that is what she told herself. And she even believed for moments, sometimes hours at a stretch. But the rest of the time she knew that it was a lie. She knew that if she could she would fly to his side to bind his wounds and tend his hurts for the rest of her life even if she received only curses in return. If he asked her to leave him she would fight to stay by his side with every skill he and Section had burned into her, but if in the end she believed that his happiness could be secured only by walking away, she would.

She did know him, body and soul. He was good and kind and gentle and within the strange boundaries of their world, upright – fiercely so – when it came to protecting as many of the vulnerable as he could, even and especially her. And he was lonely and tired and grieved for all he could not save. She loved him.

Nikita opened her eyes and stared at the damage she had done to her own face. She raised her hands, traced the crimson tears of her stigmata with her fingertips, and was amazed that the blood did not burn. As she looked down at her bloody fingers the lines of a play Michael had once taken her to drifted through her mind, “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten these little hands.”

For the first time since he had left her alone in the forest, she wept.

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

“Mmm…hmm. ” Nikita moaned in quiet encouragement as Michael’s warm hands drifted slowly across her belly and up her torso. She curved into his embrace as his cool lips began to brush her shoulder.

Sudden knocking at the door startled them both. The distinctive tones of Mick Schtopel sang out, “Ni – ki – ta, I know you’re in there. Let me in.”

“Ignore him,” Michael murmured into her ear, just before biting gently at her neck.

The knocking continued, even changed into pounding, and despite her best efforts to hold on to him, Michael began to fade away. Coming fully awake, Nikita realized that the pounding was not a dream, not fading away, and most depressing of all, appeared to really be Mick.

She hauled herself out of bed and stomped down to the door. Sure enough, there on her monitor was her new boss, Mr. Jones, in full Mick regalia. She stomped back to her bedroom and shrugged on a robe before returning to open the door. Mick, for it surely was Mick, blew in, burbling away about coffee and croissants as Nikita stood aside, silently waiting for him to explain what brought him to her at this hour, in this guise.

“You know Popsicle, I never thought I’d say this, but I miss that special morning snarl of yours.” As this brought no response either but Nikita shutting the door and leaning on it, Mick set down his burdens on the counter and began to drift about her apartment, touching things, straightening piles, checking for dust and clucking to himself over his dirty finger.

Nikita watched him impassively, six years in Section having taught her that her superiors all moved in mysterious ways, assuming he would get to the point more quickly if she waited him out.

“So cupcake, when did you decide to take up the cello?” Mick had made his way into the corner of her bedroom.

Nikita's tone was flat, “It’s Michael’s.”

“Yes. So why do you have it?”

“Housekeeping tosses everything, by policy. It is too fine an instrument for that.” Nikita shrugged and moved into the kitchen.

“Going to learn to play?”

“No.”

“So?”

“I thought I’d meet someone some day who might appreciate it, give it to them.” Nikita gazed out the window, seeking some guidance on getting through this encounter, and receiving none.

“And the leather coat it appears to be filling out so nicely?”

“I always liked it on Michael. Thought I’d keep it.”

“Hmm.” Mick had drifted back and was now standing in front of her. “Looks like those cuts on your face have re-opened.”

“Sparing injuries.”

“Nikita, no one at Center or at Section spares with knives. A blade made those cuts, and my guess is, re-cut them too.”

Nikita moved away from Mick, but said nothing. As far as she was concerned, it was her face, her business.

“I did some checking. Those cuts on your cheek look almost exactly like the ones Michael got when you turned him over to Genet. Going out on a limb here dollface, I’d say that the elegant cut to the eye also has something to do with Michael.”

After waiting a beat for the response he did not expect, Mick continued. “I’ve heard of rending clothes or cutting hair, even smearing on ashes and soot, but scarification is not a typical way of dealing with grief. What would Michael say?”

“Michael is dead.”

“Come now Popsicle, as far as either one of us knows, Michael is alive and well and as he always liked your face, I don’t think he had care for your treatment of it.”

Nikita turned to look at Mick. So, they knew. Question was, what would they do about it?

“Cutting yourself is not going to do you any good and as Michael is undoubtedly too far away to see it, it won’t affect him either.”

“How do you know he isn’t dead.” Despite herself, her voice hardened on ‘dead.’

“Ahhh, so that’s what’s been troubling you.” Mick wandered away toward his sacks on the counter. “Its an ugly reminder of past and present injustices Nikita, but with very few exceptions, it is virtually impossible any where in the world for the body of a white man to appear without provoking at least some official inquiry. We’ve been watching for that and none has surfaced. And I don’t think the exceptions are any place Michael would choose to die, assuming his Catholic soul would actually permit suicide.”

Mick waited while Nikita digested this in silence. “Michael is free, as you wanted him to be. It is past time for you to move on.”

“According to who? Mick or Mr. Jones?”

“Both. Nikita, you were good to me, and one of my chief regrets about the end game was that I lost that part of our relationship. I can’t get it back, but I can and do still care about you and I am here to tell you that you have got to stop drifting through this self-pitying haze and get back to work. Given your demeanor, I assume that to get him to run, you told Michael you had no feelings for him. . . true? And now you are afraid that in despair and anger he may have done himself damage?”

Nikita just raised her chin a notch and barely held on to her hard won ability to keep her expressions to a minimum.

Mick continued, “SIMMs suggested that there was a sixty percent chance you would choose that tactic.”

“SIMMs?” Her voice rose on the word – she could not help it.

“Yes, SIMMs, Nikita. We considered all the possibilities for freeing Michael from Section, and you were by far the best bet. We decided that he most likely would only take it from you, not from anyone else.”

Nikita was flabbergasted by this last remark, but immediately realized that she shouldn’t have been. “So, you wanted Michael free all along.”

“Yes, that was one of the most important objectives.”

“Why could not Michael and I have stayed out together?”

“Because with you by his side, there was a less than five percent chance that Michael would ever return to Section. We had to separate you, so we set up a scenario to do that.”

Nikita decided she could not deal with ‘return to Section’ yet. “This was all about Michael? From the beginning?”

“Of course. Who else?”

When Nikita did not answer, Mick continued, “Look, why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up and get dressed while I lay out our breakfast, then I can answer some of your questions.”

Mick bustled away to gather up his packages and shooed her towards the bathroom.

Nikita decided that there was nothing else for it but to do as she was bid. After a quick shower she returned to find that Mick had laid out a surprisingly complete breakfast. After taking her seat she opened her mouth to ask the first of the questions she had formulated, but Mick gestured with his fork, “Eat, eat, I’ve cleared both our mornings, we have plenty of time.”

While Nikita would have been content to eat in silence, Mick was not. He decided to fill the time by carrying on about his latest interior decorating challenge. It was increasingly clear that however Mick had become Mr. Jones, Mick was not an act, but the man.

Swallowing the last of her tea, Nikita recalled Mick from his ode to damask with, “Why does Center want Michael to be free?”

“Right to the point, as always my love. I’ll try to be brief. The Sections, Oversight, Center, the whole shebang, is a Cold War creation, West vs. East, Virtue vs. Evil, Capitalism vs. Communism, Democracy vs. Totalitarianism etc… During the Cold War certain issues were much clearer than today, in some ways much easier. The two powers firmly controlled most of what went on in their spheres and Section was the West’s chief enforcer at home and front line shock troops beyond the iron curtain. Given the tenor of the early Cold War, finding volunteers was not difficult. By the late 1970s and early 1980s however, it was clear that the old controls were slipping, the developing world was more restive, and volunteers increasingly hard to come by. Just as the Sections were becoming stretched, personnel resources began to dry up. So, the decision was made to recruit from prisons – the world prison population being on an upswing that hasn’t slowed yet.”

“I know all this.”

“Yes, but it is important. Of the many challenges this new recruit pool posed a particularly difficult one was from where would Section, Oversight and Center draw their next generations of leadership? The Sections, and eventually Oversight and Center would have to be run by those who came up from the ranks, because only they would have the background and expertise to do the job. But how could we give control of the Sections to those who had been recruited at gunpoint? How could we ever be truly certain of their loyalty to the cause at hand if they were never allowed to freely choose what is, as you know, an extremely difficult life?”

“So you had to find ways to set leadership candidates free so they can choose to return.” Nikita did not bother to keep the disbelief out of her tone.

“Exactly.” Mick beamed.

“And Michael is one of those candidates.”

“The candidate, really.” Mick coughed a depreciating little cough and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Michael was phenomenal from the beginning. He passed every test, survived every challenge, and improved and grew in skill and understanding. But, Michael’s loyalties were extremely hard to pin down, so we tested those too.”

“Simone, Elena and Adam, me.”

“Yes. Michael’s apparent commitment to Section never wavered, until after he discovered he had been lied to about Simone’s death. With your pending cancellation, Michael violated a Section directive for the first time. At last we had a way inside his head.”

“So you approached me while I was on the outside.”

“Well,” Mick shrugged delicately, “Center had actually written you off, we were merely pleased that Michael had at last acted out of personal choice to save a vulnerable but charming young woman. We figured what he had done once, he would do again and this time we could shape it from the beginning.”

“So why was I approached?”

“I was already developing Mick Schtopel’s contacts, and I heard that the Freedom League had a lead on looking for an escaped Section operative – who turned out to be you. We found you first and made contact.”

“Yes, a man I’d never seen before, or since, walked in to tell me that I would be taken by terrorists within the next few days and I should let it happen.”

“Right.”

“He told me, if I survived the next few weeks, I would be working for Center as an observer of Section as part of a future evaluation.”

“That is what happened, isn’t it? More or Less?”

Nikita disregarded the interruption, “But it was really about Michael.”

“We hadn’t found a suitable candidate for attachment, and Michael was busy self-destructing, revealing a side of him that was more human, but much more disturbing given our hopes. Returning you seemed a good way to put a stop to that.”

“Like I was a lost puppy.”

Mick ducked his head and shrugged, “Well, yes.” He looked up and smiled brightly, “It worked, didn’t it?”

Nikita brow creased with concentration as she quickly re-evaluated the past three years, “Was the whole Adrian thing a set up too?”

“Oh no, we simply returned you to Section, knowing that your own personality would continue make rescue by Michael necessary. We merely wanted to see what Michael would do. Paul and Madeline’s decision to use you to play Adrian was a brilliant move on their part to make use of your particular skills and weaknesses, in fact it suggested several things to us about how best to make use of you.”

“What about my evaluation reports for Center?”

“Your quarterly reports to Center were at first entirely pro forma. Gradually, as your skills and sophistication improved, so did your reports and they have been increasingly valuable.”

Nikita uttered a dry, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, my entire purpose these last few years was to be mangled by Section to test and or weaken Michael’s loyalty to his superiors.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why not just set him free?”

“Well, that would hardly do much for morale among the remaining operatives, now would it? In truth, we felt we could not offer freedom as a reward, it would have to come as a form of rebellion for later loyalty to be meaningful. Besides, we did make several oblique offers of freedom. Michael turned us down.”

“Because he wouldn’t abandon Adam or myself.”

“Or his duties, it was clear each time that Michael also continued to find much to value in his abilities to carry out his job.”

“So why continue the test?”

“Because it was also clear that Michael’s commitment to those duties was wavering, as was his desire to live. The number of times he deliberately challenged Paul to kill him this last year alone is staggering – as is the number of times Paul tried and failed, but that is another story.”

Mick paused for a sip of coffee. “Michael’s increasing fatalism began to worry us a great deal. You see, in the years that we have been watching him we have continued to lose other promising candidates in the field. Michael is not only the best, but lately it appears, among the only. It seemed to be time to pull him out whether or not he was willing, and you were the vehicle to do that. He had already risked everything for you over the Gellman episode, and as your relationship finally righted itself, we decided to strike while the iron was hot, as it were.”

“I have a bone to pick with you about the ‘Gellman episode’.”

“Ahh-hh, Michael told you, hmm? Right. Later. Almost done. So, we put together the end game, and I brought you in a few months ago, and that was that.”

That was that?! Not by a long shot, Nikita thought. “This is the most ridiculous story I’ve heard yet,” she snarled. “In what universe do you suppose Michael, or any other candidate, would willingly re-enter this life?”

“You did.”

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

“Nikita.”

“Operations.”

They faced each other across the perch, each undoubtedly waiting for lightning to strike. Nikita let a wry twitch pull up the corner of her mouth. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

“Yes.” Operations paused for a moment before continuing, “I wouldn’t have accepted your request for a transfer if I didn’t need your skills.”

“I understand.”

“Understand this. Section has been severely damaged by the loss of too much top level leadership within too short a span of time. I need your skills in analysis and profiling, but I especially need them in the field. However, I will not tolerate any questioning of my authority to decide on mission priorities.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Operations gifted her with his crooked crocodile smile, shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to the window. “We have one other issue to deal with before you assume your new responsibilities. To fully carry out your duties, you should be at least level four, not level two. Your skills in data analysis, profiling and in the field more than qualify you for at least that. But, you haven’t been promoted. Do you know why?”

Nikita shifted out of parade rest and joined Operations at the window. She started to answer because you don’t like me, but realized how petulant that sounded and changed her answer just in time. “No, I don’t.”

“Your supervisor consistently opposed your promotion whenever the possibility came up.”

Nikita’s momentary confusion cleared to mild amazement. “Michael opposed my promotion?”

“Yes.”

“On what grounds?”

“Level three operatives are required to begin to build their own network of contacts and to develop personal relationships with those on both sides of the fence who might at some point be able to render assistance and information at timely moments. Michael believed that as you had yet to fully appreciate how your own attitudes regarding Section dictated some of your actions, you, and therefor Section, would be unacceptably vulnerable to outside manipulation.”

As vulgarity, even without much heat, in the hearing of one’s superiors, was unacceptable, Nikita had nothing to say.

Watching her face, Operations took her silence for agreement and moved on. “I recognize that you have in fact begun to build such a network, your use of Genet was impressive by the way, but I assume that network is still small, too small to be of much real use outside of a few narrow areas.”

“Yes,” seemed the safest answer.

“So, between your supervisor’s negative assessment and the practical consideration that, for whatever reason, you do not have one set of resources important to your new duties, what do you think we should do?”

“I believe that my supervisor,” Nikita decided to stick to the neutral ‘supervisor’ over having to repeat Michael’s name again in front of Operations, “would agree that in the last few months, I have learned to appreciate more fully how my attitudes regarding Section have provided openings for the manipulation of my actions. I can assure you that I will be much more aware of how these affect me in the future.”

“Go on.”

“I believe I should be promoted to level three and given security clearances up to level five on a need to know basis for mission profiling.”

“Granted.”

After a startled glance at Operation’s profile, Nikita nodded her agreement to the reflection in the glass.

As she turned to leave, Operations spoke again. “I have been filled in on your ties to Center over the last three years and on their purposes in turning you into an informer.”

Nikita flinched internally at the word, but as she had hurled it at herself uncounted times recently, she no longer object to its sting. She had been exactly that, and as with so many informers, had come to identify with those she informed, at the expense of her integrity and pride. Dreading the inevitable rejection of her friends and colleagues when they learned of her activities, she had allowed some of her self-esteem to depend on believing that Center’s principles matched her own. Informer, nark, quisling, fool, pawn, patsy, internal-affairs bimbo, she had worn out a thesaurus in self-recrimination.

“You were not the only one to let your attitudes regarding Section influence your actions.”

Nikita turned to face Operations, one brow raised in skeptical question.

“I resented Michael’s continuing desire for personal attachments as unbecoming in one who -- if not for Section -- would be warming a French prison cell. I accepted Section’s recruitment, even welcomed it, as did most who came before me. We all knew that we could turn it down. When we choose those who followed, they didn’t have that option because they had forfeited the right to make those choices. I am one of those who needed, still needs, to be shown that even from such material we can find those who would choose freely to dedicate themselves to our cause. I failed to see how my own perceptions allowed others to dictate my actions. I will also be more aware of this in the future.”

Nikita examined her superior’s profile, knowing that she was receiving both an extremely oblique apology and a warning to her and through her to Center that Paul too had learned from this end game. She decided to hazard the question closest to her heart, curious as to Operation’s opinion, “Do you think he will come back?”

“Yes.” Operations paused to shake his head in a silent, self-depreciating laugh, “Why do you think I wouldn’t kill him over his AWOL trip with you? For all our history and our differences, I also recognize the future of Section in him.”

“Then why did you agree to the abeyance mission?”

“I didn’t have a choice, besides I assumed that even if Center had another plan in mind, you and Walter could be counted on to avert that outcome. I was sure of it after Jones explicitly warned me off interference.”

“Oh.”

“My only real concern was that Michael would refuse your aid. He seemed bent on self immolation.”

Nikita would not touch that one with a ten-foot pole. But she did have another question. “So, why did you try to kill him, kill us, so many times this past year?”

“I periodically lost faith in Michael’s commitment to Section’s goals. There were too many moments this last year, for my taste anyway, when Michael chose you over Section, even over himself. I felt he was, if not rogue, out of control.” Operations paused for moment, biting at his unlit cigar. Then he went on, “Michael was, is, too dangerous to let live under those circumstances because he could damage us so severely if he opted to.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“I’m willing to wait and listen to what Michael has to say when he comes back to us.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Who knows what will seem best then?”

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

****Note – I am influenced by all the wonderful fan fiction I have read, but in this next bit I am particularly indebted to Delle’s “Temporary Heroes” which shapes the “fanon” I am drawing on here. Thank you Delle for all your stories;-).******

With the top of the convertible down, the late summer sun baked Nikita’s face and arms as she drove toward the farm. In the more than two months since she had returned to Section One, she had intended to visit on several occasions, but each time she had allowed something to prevent her from making the trip. Today, finally, she had forced herself out to the car and the car onto the highway. Once underway, she felt committed, passive, the decision was out of her hands. She would go to the farm today, have lunch with Walter, and try to mend one more tear in the fabric of her life.

The day was beautiful and the roads amazingly empty, but then August was over and the French were mostly home from holiday. The warmth of the sun and ease of the drive allowed her mind to wander – right back to Michael, where it almost always went given the chance.

The last long drive she had been on was in Iceland, in the spring. Michael had been driving and she had watched him, not the countryside. Willing herself to memorize forever the small ways his face had changed as he had begun to relax the controls he had put in place to survive. Now she remembered the faint laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, the fullness of his lips when he was thinking about things that pleased him, the way his skin would flush slightly when he revealed another hidden good deed, as though he were embarrassed somehow to lay a claim to having a heart and a conscience.

She had told him the truth when she said felt as though she were just getting to know him, but perhaps he was just getting reacquainted with these parts of himself too. At first he had been so tentative about their new circumstances, oddly formal in everything but lovemaking. Gradually he had begun teasing her, laughing at her when she said or did something that struck him as funny, laughing with her when she laughed at his own wry jokes, even laughing at himself. As the days and weeks passed, he let go some of the tension that had kept him so rigid, so closed, kept them both alive. That was why she had so hated it the day he had nearly come out of his skin over a loose line on the boat – the reminder of that part of him that would be a long time dying, if it ever could, made her almost unbearably sad.

Nikita’s thoughts darted away from the unhappy end of the Iceland trip to the last time she had come out to the farm, another long drive with Michael. Their time together at the farm was actually the longest they had ever been able to be together, really together, day and night. Longer even than their time on the boat. She regretted now that she had not been able to be more relaxed about their time then. That she had not shown him just how much she did treasure sleeping next to him every night, working with him every day, but she had spent the whole time waiting for the other shoe to drop. And in truth, so did he. Now it seemed so stupid but the longer they were there, the worse the dread of the inevitable end got. And that episode had not ended particularly well either, what with being left for dead by Operations and Section.

She had checked up on the remaining recruits since assuming her new duties. Jasmin was still alive, and so was Trent, his instructors finally channeling him into comm where he belonged. Amazingly so was Darwin, though he was teetering on the edge, not so much because he was not gaining skills in the field, but because he continued to piss off everyone around him. Claire was dead. She also discovered that Michael had continued to look out for them, putting a word of support or caution as circumstances demanded when their cases came up for review.

She understood better than ever why Center wanted him so badly, mind and heart. Michael was, if not precisely irreplaceable, so exactly suited to the demands of the job that having known him, every other candidate would always seem to be lacking something essential, some elusive quality of sympathy or of purpose combined with his savagely sure instincts as a hunter of men. But that rare quality would only fully develop if Michael could exercise it freely, secure in his own commitment to their calling, and in his own position within it. He had to be given the opportunity to make that choice, for all their sakes.

She turned off the highway; the country roads that would take her to the farm required more of her attention. Her hands on the wheel blurred in memory into Michael’s hands, so strong, so capable, driving or fighting, sailing or loving. The memory of the feel of Michael’s hands as he touched her face, her hair, the small of her back, other more intimate places began to suffuse her body with warmth and longing. With an abrupt French oath culled from Michael’s vocabulary, Nikita wrenched her mind back to the task at hand. The last thing she needed to do today was drive into a ditch or wrap the car around a tree while lost in dreams of Michael.

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

“Nikita!” Walter’s happy cry greeted her the moment the engine stopped.

“Hey Walter.” Nikita offered up a tentative smile as Walter hurried over to help her out of the car.

“You can do better than that sugar. Give a lonely old man a hug.” Walter threw open his arms and swung her into an embrace that swept her off her feet.

“Don’t you mean a horny old man?” Nikita laughed as she felt Walter’s hands slide down her backside as he released her.

“What’s the difference?” Walter asked, giving her a wicked leer from under his bandanna as he took her arm to lead her to his apartment.

“After knowing you, I’d say there’s no difference at all. Are you sure I should go inside your lair without a chaperone present?”

“Absolutely. The only thing on today’s agenda is lunch. Scout’s honor.”

“When were you ever a scout?”

“In the dark ages babe, in the dark ages. Come on, I hope you’re hungry cause I got quite the spread on – got to keep up those skills in impressing the ladies you know.”

“Walter,” Nikita stopped him with a hand on his arm, “thank you.”

“I oughta thank you kiddo.”

“No, no,” Nikita turned away, waving her hands to brush off the undeserved gratitude.

“Seriously Nikita, I’ve been really happy here, didn’t realize how damn tired I was of being underground, under glass, under the gun, all the time, not till I’d been here awhile. This was a good move for me. I know the final call wasn’t yours, but I also know the idea was. Now let’s get inside and eat before the chicken dries out.”

During lunch Nikita mostly listened as Walter described his new teaching duties, his new workshop, and several gadgets he had designed or improved since he had arrived at the farm. After they cleared the table, Walter turned to her and nailed her with his all too knowing gaze. “Okay sugar, now it’s your turn. We’re going for a walk and you are going to tell me how you are doing.”

“A walk?” Nikita could hardly believe her ears.

“Yeah, a walk. The area out here is much larger than we fully make use of, and the staff has put in several hiking and biking paths on the unused parts. I’ve taken a walk every day since I’ve been here, rain or shine. Gotta lot of underground living to make up for. Lucky for you, it’s a sunny day.” Walter’s warm smile did nothing to erase the determination in his eyes.

“Okay, a walk.” She answered Walter’s smile with one of her own.

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

“So sugar, tell me, why on earth did you go back to Section?” Walter and Nikita were strolling along a slightly rutted path through thickets that might someday be forests again.

“How much do you know about all that’s happened Walter?”

“Enough. They filled me in. Think there’s a small but significant chance Michael will reach out to me first.”

“Then you know why I couldn’t stay at Center.”

“No, I don’t.” Walter gave her one of his disapproving stares. “I don’t know why you would leave the comparative safety of Center to return to running Cold Op missions, especially since you’ve always hated the killing.”

Nikita looked at Walter, and seeing nothing but the concern of a friend, decided she had try to explain to him what was not entirely clear to herself.

“In the first weeks I was at Center I knew that I was getting weird vibes from the other staff there, but I was so strung out myself about the endgame, I didn’t really care.” Nikita took Walter’s arm, needing some human contact to keep talking, and continued her story. “Once Mr. Jones let me in on the secret of why and how they had used me and Michael and our relationship, I realized that the Center staff mostly thought I was both an idiot and an unfeeling, castrating bitch.” Nikita over rode Walter’s sounds of protest, “That last is a quote.”

“Oh sugar. I’m sorry. You didn’t and don’t deserve that.”

“Maybe.” Nikita shook her head to clear her thoughts. “The point is I was odd man out in a small operation. I found the work frustrating too. Center spends much of its time preparing reports to various governments to justify continued financial support for the Sections. I know that this is important, without the money the Sections would have to fold their tents, but well, it’s bookkeeping and grant writing, essentially. The rest of the time, they evaluate known threats and rate the efficiency of the Sections against the probable and the desirable outcomes, then work out allocation of funds, responsibilities and future development.”

Nikita paused a moment, shrugged her shoulders, then continued. “It all seemed so far away from the daily struggle to protect innocents that Section One engages in. I’d thought the decisions Operations and Madeline made were cold, but they always had the balls to stand there and watch the wounded and the dead come in.”

Nikita snorted sourly. “In Center, Section’s losses are only statistics. I realized I’d be happier on the front lines. I also knew that Section was having real problems adjusting to the loss of Michael and Madeline, Birkhoff and Jason and you, even Davenport and myself. I ran some SIMMs, it was clear that I could make a real difference. I needed that, I need that now. So, I requested the transfer, and after some initial hesitation, both Mr. Jones and Operations approved it.”

Walter walked along in silence for a while, obviously mulling over her explanation. “So, are you happy with this choice?” he finally asked.

Now it was Nikita’s turn to walk for several minutes without responding. “Yes.” At Walter’s sharp glance, she looked down and with a wry smile, qualified, “Well, I know I don’t want to go back to Center, so, yes, I am as happy as I can be with this choice.”

“But, you’re not happy.” Walter said this as one stating a fact, not posing a question.

“Walter, you know what I’ve done, what I do, what I will do again.”

Walter looked her straight in the eye as he said, “And Michael’s not here with you.”

Nikita looked away and with a slight grimace replied, “That too.”

“I think they may be right on this one, I think there is more than a chance he will come back.” Walter patted her arm, trying to increase the assurance offered.

“But not to me.”

“Then he had be the loser on that one.”

“Walter, you don’t know what I said to him to make him run.” Nikita could feel the tension knot in her neck just referring to that last, fatal, conversation.

Walter set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, prepared for battle. “Yes. I do. And I think it was about time you said something like that to him.”

“Walter!” At Nikita’s horrified tone of denial, Walter held up his hand to ward off further interruption.

“Let me finish. I’m not saying the circumstances were ideal for it, but I’ve always thought he took you too much for granted. Left too much of the water carrying for you. Didn’t work hard enough to court you, let alone tell you know how much he valued you and your happiness. Didn’t fight hard enough to make your relationship work. Be good for him to think he has to work at earning your love.”

“Walter, Michael spent almost every day of the last six years fighting for my life!”

“I’m not saying he didn’t fight for you sugar or even that he doesn’t love you, the only person he ever really tried to hide that from was you – something he did all too well if you ask me.”

“He told me in hundreds, maybe thousands of ways that he loved me.”

“Yeah, but did he ever say the words, I – LOVE – YOU – Nikita?”

“Only once,” Nikita conceded with a frown, but she came back swinging, “the words aren’t as important as the actions.”

Walter raised a disbelieving brow. “Yes. They are.”

They walked on in silence for a while, then Walter burst out, “You know something that’s bugged me for almost a year now? …I know it wasn’t at the top of anyone’s list of worries at the time, but it’s really stuck in my craw. Why was Birkoff’s AI the only one to send you flowers on your birthday?”

Nikita stared at Walter then burst out laughing. “Walter, Michael did not forget my birthday, he never has. We celebrated early last year, that’s all. We had two days of downtime together about ten days early, didn’t look like we’d get any thing else for four to six weeks. In fact, I’ bet you’d especially approve of some of the gifts he got me last year.” Nikita twinkled knowingly and chuckled low in her throat.

“What?”

“Remember when Operations asked us to watch his friend Willy?” At Walter’s nod, she continued, “We stayed a very marginal neighborhood and right around the corner was this porn shop with a window display of sex toys. About the fifth or sixth time we walked past it, I made some comment about having never understood what the appeal was. Well, Michael remembered, and he gave me a small collection – and then he showed me.” Nikita raised her brows suggestively and her eyes lit up briefly and her checks flushed slightly as she remembered those two days. “And now, I understand.”

Walter guffawed, “Atta boy Michael!”

Like dog with a bone, though, Walter went back to his point. “Did he ever send you flowers?”

“No.”

“He knows you like them.”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever work at making yours a healthy relationship?”

At Nikita’s blank expression, Walter continued, “Did he ever defend himself, explain his choices, refuse to let you go without a struggle? Argue with you? Get mad at you about pushing him away? Kiss and make up? Send you a funny card? Hold you when you raged about Section? Was he even there for that?”

Nikita sighed. “Walter, I have thought of these things. Believe me, I’m sure no one else has made as extensive a catalog of Michael’s sins, of commission and of omission, as I have. Weighing each against the other, placing them in order of severity against decency, against mankind, against innocents, … against me. About three months ago I spent an entire night reliving each horrible, agonizing moment to try to determine which was the ultimate worst thing Michael had ever done to me. Not tell me about Elena and Adam, then have me live with them, or use my feelings for him to pimp me to Karl Peruze. I couldn’t decide.”

Walter looked shocked for a moment, then “Sugar, I know those were pretty horrible things, but Michael didn’t want to do them….”

“Walter,” Nikita gave Walter’s arm a reassuring squeeze, “I know that too. I know that Michael would never in a world where he could choose do either of those things to anyone, much less to me. I know that Michael punished himself over those events far more severely than I ever would because I allowed for the fact he had little or no choice, and he didn’t. Which I think is one of the reasons he didn’t press any of the times when I pulled away, much as maybe I really wanted him to. Michael had a lot of trouble believing that he deserved my love and trust, and whenever I pushed him away, I know he believed I was right to do so, that maybe I’d be better off without our relationship – certainly safer. And, he wasn’t wrong. Our relationship did put me in considerable danger, I did get hurt, not just by him, but by Operations and Madeline just to get to him.”

“Oh Sugar…” Walter stopped helplessly.

“But I never really could you know, push him away. And I knew I should, knew that both as a Section operative and as an informer for Center the last thing I should be doing was compromising him by loving him, being with him – Michael’s safety would have been as improved as mine if I could really have let him go. But I couldn’t. Every time I missed him more, not less, and so I’d reach out, and he had be there. He’s part of me, Walter, even if he doesn’t want to be anymore.”

The day, which had been so warm, was turning overcast as the evening approached and the wind was picking up. Walter directed their steps into a new path, saying they would be circling back to close to where they started.

After walking for some time in companionable silence, Walter tried again to offer Nikita some hope for her future. “Nikita, Michael knows that you love him.”

“Does he, Walter? What did I do to ever show him that?”

“Nikita, love is not a list. But in small and large ways you demonstrated that you loved him, cared about him and his happiness, cared about his family for him, along with him, cared about his life – even when he didn’t. I know Michael believed that you loved him, and Michael is not a fool. Part of why he is so good at what he does is because he has good judgement about people, of all the people you might have tricked into believing you loved them when you didn’t, Michael is not one of them.”

“But Walter, I hurt him so badly. You weren’t there. I was. I know. He believed me.”

“Look, Sugar, even an ego as powerful as Michael’s, is not invincible. You said yourself that you think he thought you shouldn’t love him. Hearing aloud what he feared, believed, should be true – even if it wasn’t – had to hurt like hell. He’ll recover and realize that you were pushing away, hard, for a reason. After all, you could have let him die. He wanted to.”

“I know. And I blame myself for that.”

“Nikita, Michael was tired of fighting what looked like a losing battle for control of his own life, for a control freak that’s pretty nasty shit. Death seemed an easy way out, but Michael didn’t really want to die, any more than Operations, or anyone else, really wanted him dead. Or he would be. He’s not superman and he’s not coated in Teflon, appearances to the contrary. Yes, your relationship played an important part in that, but that wasn’t your fault. YOU weren’t the one to throw up the worst roadblocks – Operations and Madeline and Center were.”

Walter glanced at Nikita’s disbelieving countenance and went on, “Michael is not that fragile sweetheart, he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has, or be the prize everyone wants, if he were.”

Nikita finally chuckled, “Walter do actually believe any of this or are you just saying whatever comes into your head to cheer me up?”

“I believe most of it.” Walter said with a wide grin. “I do know that Michael is one hard-assed son-ofa-bitch and persistent as hell. I think he will come back to Section and he will come back to you because, to be honest, I can’t imagine any other life that will satisfy his need to feel personally responsible for the state of the world and get laid by the woman he loves while doing it.”

Nikita was still breaking out into fits of giggles on the drive back to Paris.

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

Nikita crouched in a corner of the refinery, visualizing the layout and the movement of her teams as they fought their way into the compound, periodically calling their marks and positions. “Quinn, third quadrant scan please.”

“Four hostiles on the inside, level two. Wait, four more just entered from quadrant 4. They’re headed toward the main entrance.”

“Okay, blue team, join red team at position Alpha and go, on your mark, in 10.”

Nikita felt rather than saw the four members of blue team leave the perimeter behind her as they fanned out towards Alpha. The three members of her own green team waited for her signal to move towards the mission’s primary objective, the destruction of the small research and production facilities for various poison gases hidden within the larger refinery compound.

They waited until the red and blue teams had successfully taken control of internal plant security and patched Quinn through, then, “Go Nikita.”

The mission progressed smoothly, losses – one – and injuries within expectations, the explosions that destroyed the labs and covered their exit performing as designed.

On the way back to Section, Nikita linked to Quinn and they began to work on the mission report. Quinn asked, “What made you ask again about status in quadrant three?”

“Sure you want my answer?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“I felt something move in that direction I couldn’t account for.”

“Felt something?”

“I learned to trust my instincts a while ago.”

“More like ESP. You’re one freaky lady.”

“So you tell me.”

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

After the report was completed, Nikita signed off, took out her earpiece, leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The ride in would be a long one and she hoped to grab a bit of sleep. Unfortunately she was still too wired from the mission to drift off, instead she found herself contemplating these last several months in Section.

After her unhappy exit from Center she had been prepared for a similar dismissive reaction from the ops in Section. Somewhat to her initial surprise, it did not occur. Nikita acknowledged that at least part of that lack of contempt had to do more with their general ignorance of how she had been used to set up Michael’s exit from Section than anything more positive. Nevertheless, they did know she had worked for Center and was in a position of greater power than she had appeared. They assumed that she had played Michael to survive and to accomplish her undefined mission – an extended valentine operation essentially. On the whole, most ops, especially the cold ops, appeared to admire this. It seemed to reassure them, even give them some satisfaction, that Michael could have been so badly used, betrayed and sentenced to death by a woman, by her.

It also raised the cold ops’ estimation of her profiling and planning skills. They were suitably impressed that she could have carried off an extended mission in which she ‘fooled’ everyone into thinking she was an emotional and compassionate idealist – a mission which they tended to imagine had more elaborate stakes and more significant ramifications for her career in Section than it did.

Before, she had earned their respect on too many missions for them to doubt her skills in the field. After, without the constant comparison to Michael, or even Davenport’s calm command presence, Nikita’s very real leadership skills were more visible, and more generally acknowledged than ever in the past. Her leadership was, if not unquestioned, respected. Increasingly so in fact, as she gained a hard earned rep for bringing home as many as she could and for keeping risks in balance with the significance of the mission, which she continued to fully explain to her teams before every live op, Michael’s advice and practice to the contrary. It worked well for her.

She had even profiled and run tactical on a few valentine missions, acknowledging that in some cases this was the best strategy – lowest risk, highest rate of return. She had been careful in selecting the ops involved, but found that Section actually had many ops who, for whatever reason, viewed sex as simply another weapon, one they were comfortable with and more than willing to use. Which of course only made more clear that her own past valentine missions had all been assigned more or less for the sole purpose of tormenting her and Michael – Section had other ops who could have, would have done a better job on almost all of them. Now that she had finally met most of the valentine ops she knew that they were well trained for what they did. Turned out they had stayed away from her in past because of her public objections to such missions, and by implication, to them. Now that they believed she was one of the best of them, with regard to her ‘use’ of Michael, they backed her leadership too.

So it turned out that rather than returning to diminished respect, quite the opposite had occurred. She was both more generally admired, and more generally feared, than she had been before.

Oh there were some, especially women, but not entirely, whose more romantic hearts were hurt by her apparent betrayal of Michael. But these too feared her, and with Nikita’s support from the cold op cadre, could do nothing to make her life more difficult.

In general of course, as a result of her new reputation she was even more isolated than she had been before. The men had stayed away from her because of Michael, now they stayed away because she frightened them all by herself. The women stayed away because where she had appeared friendly and vulnerable, she now appeared to have been calculating and dangerous. Walter and Birkhoff were gone, as were many that she had trained with.

Quinn was one of the few exceptions to all this. She had arrived at Section One shortly before the endgame; she knew the Michael and Nikita saga only as gossip, which she tended to discount. Quinn was most definitely not a romantic soul, and it did not bother her at all that Nikita had risen over the ashes of a betrayed lover. In fact, more than once she had hinted that she approved.

Quinn also was one of the very few, the only really, who was not afraid of Nikita in the sense that Nikita might do her personal harm, because, as she said, “You could have killed me, instead you made sure I survived. Your sense of fair play wasn’t entirely faked.”

After that, Quinn asked Nikita to see that she got more combat training, especially personal defense work. Nikita decided to take on that job herself. It was good for her to be in the mentor role, and she and Quinn were well matched physically in terms of size, if not, initially anyway, strength. Quinn improved quickly and Nikita discovered that it was a pleasure to work out with an opponent where her goal was not to quickly finish the match before the inevitable physics of size and strength won out over skill and speed, but rather to concentrate on form and strategy. She and Quinn also ran together sometimes, not talking much, but enjoying not being alone.

Quinn was not a friend, exactly, but Nikita gratefully accepted the companionship Quinn offered. She was actually rather glad that Quinn did not seem to want more. Nikita was reasonably certain that Quinn would dismiss her immediately as a weak and foolish female if she realized that for all Nikita’s professional competence and frightening reputation, she was apparently trapped in an unending cycle of emotional turmoil. All centered on Michael – does he or doesn’t he, will he or won’t he. And there were plenty of times when Nikita dismissed herself on the same grounds. Only she knew it of course, but she was still occasionally working herself into a weeping rage, a rage directed at Michael, at herself and at Section and Center – all completely unresolvable – over her past, her choices, her hopes, her future. But to no particular avail. Time, the great healer, was working very slowly indeed.

The respect of her colleagues and the grudging approval from Operations was actually one of her few anchors through all of the upheavals of the last several months. Something she never ever would have expected. The irony was not lost on her when she acknowledged to herself that she was surviving on the deep and sustaining personal satisfaction derived from her skills as a counter-terrorist.

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

“Sir, there is an incoming call asking for your authorization for a secure line.”

“Well is the caller on the approved list or not?” Operations did not bother to conceal his irritation with the incompetence of the questioner.

“He says his name is Michael Samuelle, sir.”

“Get the line and put it through, now.”

“Yes sir.”

Operations took a deep breath, darkened the perch windows and waited for the call that could change, once again, his fortunes in the hierarchy that ruled his world. Nevertheless, when his phone beeped, he hesitated for a moment before opening his end of the connection.

“Michael. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“As of now, my services are available to Section on a contingent basis. For a fee.”

“Contingent on what?”

“I will only accept jobs that can be carried out by myself acting alone, or with up to two others whom I will select and provide, with the technical support of Section. I will not accept jobs that require full teams, or those that require me to enter Section. I will only accept jobs that can be carried out within a time frame I deem acceptable, and do not conflict with other work.”

“Other work?”

“I will be notifying contacts in several other government agencies of my availability. I expect these offers will be well received.”

Operations resisted the urge to stare at the phone. “Yes. I expect they will be. Nice of you to let me know first.”

“Of course.” There was a pause. Then, “My fees will be quite high.”

“Of course…Will any of your conditions change in the future?”

“It is most likely they will.”

“I see.” Operations took a moment to gather his thoughts. While this was not a wholly unexpected gambit on Michael’s part, it was not one the ones most heavily favored, and so he was less prepared that he wished. For the first time in quite a while he missed Madeline. She had predicted Michael’s behavior more accurately than anyone else and her advice would have been extremely helpful right about now. “There are one or two missions on the pad that would benefit from your input. Would you be available to provide consultation and advice?”

“Only if you are willing to communicate at a distance. I will not come to you.”

“I believe that can be arranged.”

“Yes.”

“How do we contact you?”

“I will send you a copy of my contract, specifying my requirements, conditions and methods of payment. It will include instructions for further contact.”

“I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you then.”

Paul closed the connection and stood for a moment staring off into the middle distance, contemplating possibilities. Certainly he would take Michael up on his offer; he had be a fool not to, as would his opposite numbers in whatever agencies Michael chose to contact. Section did work with a very small number of independent contractors, those who could undertake certain types of jobs that it was not feasible for Section to do itself, either too highly specialized – deep sea underwater retrievals, for example – or jobs for which it was best to have an extra layer of deniability. The addition of Michael to that list would dramatically increase Section’s success rate in mission completion, especially if they could work out a satisfactory method to get Michael’s input in mission profiling. Nikita was surprisingly good, to Paul at least, at mission profiling, but she was too inexperienced and immature to fully replace Michael, much less the devastating combination of Michael and Madeline. Truth was, they needed Michael. And Michael knew it. And Operations hated being on the weak end of any deal.

As to Michael’s future plans, and theirs for him, time would tell.

Still, the next move had been made, the pieces reshuffled again, and possibly, to Paul’s advantage. Like a sailor scenting a freshening wind after too long becalmed, Paul could not restrain his smile as he dialed the phone.

“Mr. Jones. . . Michael has made contact.”

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

The night was clear and cold, and very dark. The moon had set and the yellow light from the car’s headlamps stretched out in front illuminating the narrow road; snowy trees and fences, brush and weeds flashing by as the car headed deeper into the countryside, and shutting everything beyond into absolute blackness. Travelling inside this glowing bubble, Michael felt both suspended in time and impatient.

It had taken him months to figure out what he wanted to do with his life, months more to devise the best strategy for achieving his goals, and then a final few weeks to put the necessary provisions in place to begin. When all was prepared, he made his calls announcing to various counter-terrorist agencies that he was back and available for hire. Once the calls were completed, the contracts sent out and the first job offers coming in, he had headed straight for Paris, ready at last to face Nikita. He had been a few hours outside the city when a remote sensor he carried with him went off. Someone had just entered the cottage in Belgium. He decided to go on to Paris anyway, there was not a direct route to the cottage from where he was, and it might not be her.

But, when he got to Nikita’s apartment, it was dark and empty and the bathroom shelves bare of her favorite toiletries. He spent a few moments prowling around anyway, looking for changes since the last time he was there. Except for a general sense of disuse it was the same. Exactly the same. Pondering the implications of this, Michael let himself out and headed for the car, another long drive, another long day.

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

Michael stood just outside the little light falling from the window, watching Nikita. She was asleep on the couch, in front of a dying fire. He could not tell if she had meant to sleep there all night, or simply had fallen asleep before going up to bed. Her hair looked shorter than it had been the last time he had seen her, her face thinner. She was stretched out on her back with an arm flung over her head and one knee raised against the back of the couch. The blanket had fallen aside to reveal one long leg, covered in long underwear and draped with what he was willing to swear was his old blue terry bathrobe.

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

The cottage door banged open, startling Nikita into full alertness. The limited light threw long shadows, but she could clearly see a man walk through the door, carrying a large armload of firewood. He paused to stamp the snow off his boots, then walked over to the nearly empty woodbin and set down his burdens. When he turned to face her, he stared right into the barrel of her gun.

Nikita felt her heart leap as her chest constricted. She could barely breathe his name. “Michael.”

“Nikita.”

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Bringing in firewood?”

The very obviousness of his reply staggered her for a moment. All she could think to say was, “Why?”

“You never bring in enough to last the night and get through breakfast.” Michael moved to stir up the fire and add more logs, turning up the wick in the sputtering oil lamp before he turned back to her.

“Oh.” Still wary, she sat back into the couch and dropped her gun from full alert to her lap. Okay, two could play this game. “You’re right. It’s gotten cold in here.”

“Much warmer than outside.” He said as he took off his jacket and gloves, tossing them onto a kitchen chair.

“Been outside long?”

“I got here just after dawn.”

“It’s almost midnight now. What have you been doing?”

“Making sure you were alone.”

Nikita’s eyes widened a fraction in shock; then denial, then shame, and finally acceptance all briefly passed across her face.

“It might not have been anything you were aware of.” She felt Michael looking carefully at her as he offered this reassurance, but she was still to stunned by his sudden appearance, and appearance of normality, to react. She also felt fully deserving of the implicit accusation that she was, once again, bait, knowingly or not.

“Why would there be a trap here? Now?”

“Thirty-three hours ago, I contacted Operations offered my services on a contractual basis.”

“Oh.” Nikita paused, calculating. “I see.” Though she did not exactly understand the ‘offered my services’ part, she could do the math. “I left Paris about thirty-three hours ago.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know?”

“I put a motion sensor on the bathroom door three months ago. You tripped it, not long after you arrived I assume.”

“Almost immediately.” Nikita smiled slightly. “I have five days of downtime. Scheduled for more than a month.”

Michael returned her smile with a quick lift of his lips. He offered her what reassurance he could, “There is no one here but us.” He spread his hands and gestured to include the room, the house, the property, and waited for her to give him some sign that she was pleased to see him.

Nikita allowed herself direct eye contact for the first time; Michael’s green eyes were clear, but watchful, waiting for something from her. Whatever guidance she had hoped to find was not there. “That’s good. Right?”

“Yes.” Michael offered his own tentative smile, one that reached his eyes.

“Good.” Nikita nodded and let out a deep breath.

As she relaxed, Michael could see more clearly the lines of stress on her face, and regretted waiting so late to approach her. “You should go on up to bed. I’ll be up shortly.”

Nikita looked up, startled and confused.

“I’ve been walking the property since dawn. I’m hungry and cold. I’m going to shower and look for some food.”

“I could get you something while you shower, keep you company while you eat.”

“It’s midnight and I woke you up, you still look tired. You should go back to sleep.”

“I…” Nikita caught Michael’s gaze again, saw it was shuttered now. Suddenly she was not sure what she ought, or wanted, to say or do next, so to her utter surprise, she found herself nodding in agreement. “Okay.”

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

As Michael came out of the bathroom, still toweling dry his hair, the light spilling from the open doorway illuminated an object in the corner of the room he had not noticed before. Out of the traffic path, away from the heat of the fire and the kitchen, protected from the drafts by the bookcases, sat his cello case. He knew before he touched it that it was his. Next to it sat an open packing box, which upon investigation proved to hold the small collection of music he had kept as well as the only hard-copy photos he had of Adam.

Michael sat back on his heels as he contemplated the objects from his past that Nikita had saved for him.

Eventually, he made his way up to bed, falling nearly instantly asleep as soon as he wrapped himself around Nikita's warm body. .

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

Nikita woke slowly. The first thing she was aware of was how cold her nose and face were, the second, how warm the rest of her was. Suddenly her eyes flew open as she realized that she was so warm because someone’s heavy arms and legs were wrapped around and entwined with her own.

She turned her head slightly in the gloomy dawn light and lifted the blankets so she could see the hand that lay across her belly – definitely Michael’s hand, wrist and thermal clad forearm. She had not dreamed last night. Michael had waltzed into the cottage like he had just stepped out a moment earlier, told her to go on to bed as though weren’t a million issues that required explanation, and then disappeared into the bathroom. What was that all about!

On the other hand, she could not believe she had actually gone to sleep before he had joined her. She was sure as she made her way up the stairs that she would not, could not, just go back to sleep. It was not possible. All she was doing was gaining time to think. She had crawled into bed with her head spinning as she tried to bring some order to the million and one questions roiling through her brain, nerves still jangling from the adrenaline surge he had caused banging through the door and waking her up from a sound sleep, and apparently drifted off as soon as she had gotten warm. Oh, how could she have just drifted back off?

Of course, she had to admit that underneath the questions and the adrenaline and the irritation and miffed feelings at being sent to bed like a trainee, was joy, pure joy. A hard knot of tension she had being carrying around so long she had nearly forgotten about it had unwound and dissipated, leaving her more relaxed than she could remember feeling in a long time. Michael was here, with her, apparently sound and whole, and had come to the bed they had shared in the past as though there were no doubt that it was his place, his right to do so.

Now though, all the questions that she carried to bed attacked at once. What was he doing here, what had he been doing all these months, what did he mean, ‘offered my services?’ Even more important, what about them, their relationship, the horrible things she had said, the hurt she had caused, the hurt that they both had? What about that? What WAS he doing here? And just where did he get off assuming that things had not changed between them, that despite the last eight or nine months he could just reclaim his place in her life and bed anyway?