"That's it, Michael - that's the last mission we do together. Don't request me again. I think if I have to look at you one more time I'm going to scream," she said to Michael. Michael just looked at her, blank as usual, and said not a word. Nikita looked up at Operations viewing their little exchange with great pleasure from the observation deck. He drummed his fingers and couldn't hide a little half smile.

Finally, after a long pause, Michael spoke. "Then don't look at me," he said, and walked away.

It was nothing new - yet another misunderstanding between them in a string of many - another successfully divisive effort by Operations. Nikita knew she had lost it - knew she had lost her cool, and finally understood that Operations had orchestrated the entire thing and achieved what he had desired - he had created another huge rift between the two of them. He had very obviously pitted them against each other on the mission.

"I want to be taken off of Michael's team," she told Madeline in her office.

"You need a few days off, Nikita, to cool you head and re-think your priorities," she said.

"I don't need any time off, Madeline. "I AM FINE, and I know what I want." Nikita said with conviction. "No more - find someone else for him to work with. There are dozens of operatives. Assign me to someone else's team."

"I'm going to ignore that request for the time being. You know personal feelings have nothing to do with missions, and you know that you are not supposed to allow your feelings to get in the way of your performance. I'm going to give you time to think, and as far as time off goes, I'm not asking you, Nikita, I'm telling you. You WILL take a week off, and you may travel if you wish. Let me know where you want to go, and I'll make the arrangements."

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

Nikita knew fighting it was no use. She chose Paris for her little getaway, and figured that she might as well enjoy it. It was a much needed change, and she relaxed for the first time in months. Six days passed more quickly than she had expected, and the seventh found her with the strong feeling that this time, she owed Michael an apology.

That afternoon, Nikita found herself along the banks of the Seine, wandering through a park and admiring the plethora of paintings displayed by local artists. The paintings were all over the place - so many she was practically tripping over them. They were pure tourist temptations, each and every one. Most of the artists were friendly and spoke broken English. She had not come this way at all with the intention to buy, but found herself drawn to a particularly charmingly small but beautiful rendering of a water scene with little boats under a night sky. Boldly juxtaposed strokes of blues and whites made the water come alive with moonlight. It was enchanting - and all too familiar a scene. It reminded her of a night now months and months ago. As her restless hand traced the outer edge and felt the smooth wooden frame and the roughness of the canvas, sudden emotion and longing stirred within her. She recalled desperation followed by indescribable satiation. She remembered peace and relief tinged with irony and grief, and ultimately hope that was enough to cause her to endure physical wounds. She recalled his saying how much he needed her. Before she realized what she had done, she had handed the artist a wad of francs and paid for it. "Oh, wonderful," she thought to herself. "What am I going to do with this now?" Feeling somewhat foolish and blushing at her innermost thoughts, she said "Merci" to the artist and walked away with the little painting. She finally decided that it she would give it to Michael as a sort of peace offering. It was beautiful, actually, she decided upon looking at it a second time in "le Metro", where she now sat. Maybe it would brighten up those horrid gray walls in his office a bit - if he accepted the gift at all.

Feeling somewhat grungey from Paris pollution and utterly worn out, Nikita let herself into her little hotel room and set the painting on the bedside table. A rather cold breeze stirred the gauzy drapes and reminded her that it was not yet spring. She immediately shut the window, drew a nice hot bath in the old porcelain bathtub and had a good soak. By the time she had dressed, she was too sleepy to even think about dinner. Half dazed and half giddy, she ordered a cup of tea for herself from room service, drank it, and collapsed into bed. Some time between the moment her head hit the pillow and she drifted to sleep, she felt his name form on her lips in an unconscious whisper. It was strange - sometimes she held long conversations with him in her sleep. She was the one who supposedly wore her heart out on her sleeve - but there was much, so much that she kept hidden from him. In her sleep, she could speak frankly with him and tell him her true feelings.

She awoke much later and looked at her watch. It was 4:00 a.m. She propped two of the plump feather pillows up against the wooden headboard and sat up in bed.

She pulled her blanket up to her chest to keep warm, rested her chin in her hand, and sat, wondering what on earth she would say to him when she returned and saw him in person. She needed to let him know that she knew that this time, their misunderstanding had not been his fault. Her sleep for the night was over.

____________________________

The flight out of Paris was long, and Nikita could not sleep. She rested with her eyes closed for small stretches, but the knots in her stomach would permit nothing more. She downed two bottles of water, but was perpetually thirsty and dry at the throat.

Somehow with the rises and dips in altitude and the steady humming of the airplane's engines, she was eventually lulled to sleep for a while. She could have sworn that only minutes later the plane commenced its descent. Defeated, she yawned and sighed.

It was 7:00 p.m. in Toronto by the time Nikita collected her luggage and made her way out of the airport. She debated whether or not to go straight home. She was indeed exhausted, but figured that she would probably not be able to sleep a wink until she had seen him and made some sort of peace with her lover, her mentor - her boss. She headed instead for the Section.

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

Nikita's gut twitched nervously as the elevator carried her down 500 feet below. Upon stepping out, she could immediately see that nothing of great importance was happening at the Section that night. It was relatively quiet, except for casual comings and goings of a few people still lingering around. Birkoff, of course, sat working intently at his station as he always did. He was truly obsessive, utterly predictable, and she loved him for it. He gave her a friendly "Hey," and then resumed working on whatever project he was engrossed in.

It never even crossed her mind that she would not find Michael in his office. This sort of quiet night was precisely the kind of night on which he loved to work late. He could accomplish so much more when things were slow, when ten people weren't demanding his attention at once. She was counting on seeing him. She herself could not admit to herself how thrilled she was at the thought of seeing him. Her pulse always raced when they met, and now raced in anticipation. When she saw that the lights were off in his office and the door closed, her heart sank. She stood there, pondering for a moment, before she sought out Madeline.

She was not surprised at all to see Madeline working late. "Hello, Nikita," Madeline greeted her in her usual polite, even tone. "You're looking well," she continued. "It seems that your time away did you good."

"Thank you, " Nikita answered.

"What brings you by this evening, Nikita? I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow morning. Thought you might be tired after the long flight," Madeline probed.

"I am exhausted, actually, but I…" Nikita started, but Madeline cut her off.

"But you wanted to see Michael," she interjected. "Well, he's left for the day. I'm sorry, Nikita," she continued, as if to make a point that she knew how important seeing Michael really was to her and how predictable Madeline thought she was. "He's gone home."

"Where's home?" Nikita asked point-blank, taking some satisfaction in seeing Madeline's mouth drop slightly open in shock, and delighting in the knowledge that she had just proven less predictable than Madeline had previously thought.

Madeline didn't even answer, but took a breath and stared at her.

"Come on, Madeline. Michael's known where I live for years, now. Don't you think it's only fair that I know where HE lives?" Nikita was tired of playing it safe with Madeline. Of late, she really did not take pains to avoid confrontation with Madeline - in fact, she welcomed it.

"That information is strictly classified," Madeline stated flatly.

"Madeline, I'm not going to stalk him or anything, and you know it. I just need to talk to him, that's all."

"Why can't it wait until the morning?" Madeline inquired.

"I guess maybe I just don't feel like waiting, Madeline," Nikita sighed with irritation. "Maybe it's important," she alluded with an air of false mystery, "but whatever it is, it IS private".

There was a long silence during which the two women studied each other. Madeline started by staring quite pointedly at Nikita, as if she were rather taken aback that Nikita had actually mustered the nerve to make such a demand. Nikita refused to back down, and held Madeline's gaze with confidence and determination, until finally Madeline was forced to speak.

"You want me to tell you where Michael lives," she said flatly, as if the obvious needed to be restated.

"Well, yes, that would be the gist of it," Nikita thought to herself beginning to feel annoyed at the game Madeline was playing, but she simply answered "Yes," with just the slightest hint of impatience in her voice. She was still standing, and her swollen feet were aching from the flight. Now her legs were feeling shaky and she was quite sure that if she remained like that for another second she would collapse.

Madeline sank back a bit in her chair and sighed. It was late, and she was too tired to fight this. "Please sit down, Nikita," she finally invited.

Nikita mused to herself for a moment that one would think indeed it would have killed Madeline to offer her a chair before.

"You know of course that the information you are requesting is confidential," Madeline began. "However, I don't think he would mind, and I'm going to make an exception, even thought it is against my better judgment."

Nikita wasn't really sure what exactly prompted Madeline to give in. At times Madeline seemed sympathetic, but never without motive - never without an underlying goal. Nikita knew one thing: Madeline never did anything without a purpose. Nikita didn't care at the moment what the hell Madeline's motive's were. She wanted to see Michael, period. For some unknown reason she chose to give way to her demands and told her how to find Michael's place. Nikita was so tired and overcome that all she could manage was a simple "Thank you." She excused herself.

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

Nikita stepped out into the cold night air. The moon was full and shone brightly in a clear, star-filled sky. She wondered how she could have been so preoccupied that she had not noticed it before. The familiar sight was a comfort to her, and her eyes were drawn to the gentle orb again and again as it rose higher and higher in the sky and once again marked the passage of time. Now her energy was returning to her. Thoughts of seeing Michael after such a long time pumped life into her, exhilarated her even more than she would like to admit to herself. Feeling a little anxious and unsure of what the night had in store for her, she drove to his house.

Michael's house was in a quite, residential neighborhood nestled among many trees, most of them fir. His house in particular was buried behind a wall of greenery - a virtual fortress of evergreen. Even in the dark, though, she could make out it's simple, modern design with large windows and cedar exterior. "So, this is where he lives, where he retreats to," she mused. "This is his shelter." She felt a tingle go up her spine in anticipation of…what, she knew not.

She parked a few houses away and walked back to the front entrance, painting in hand. The crunch of the road's tiny loose gravel under her boots seemed to climb from the ground into her ears. She softened her step to quiet the sound. She stood among the shadows outside his door and looked around carefully before knocking softly. No one answered. She cursed silently to herself. The night was cold and becoming colder. She could see her breath as she stood for what seemed like and eternity and waited. Nothing - no sound, no stirring, not a single response came from within. Nikita was not satisfied to leave things like this, so she went back to her car, kept the painting safely inside, and returned to Michael's house - only this time, she lost herself among the dark shadows to make sure she wasn't seen.

Nikita carefully worked her way to the side of the house, stepping over roots and squeezing through the dense shrubs as she felt the prickly evergreen needles catch on her coat and leave their sticky, fragrant sap behind. She felt dry leaves crackle under her feet and felt her pulse quicken with excitement. Blood pumped through her body with efficient speed. Pausing to catch her breath and gather her thoughts, she wondered what kind of a mission she was really on. She wanted to know about him, needed to see into his world, even if only for a few moments. She suddenly felt like a thief in the night - there to steal pieces of his life that he had been unwilling to reveal to her. She could not believe she was doing this. She was actually spying on him. It would have been wonderfully satisfying had it been to any avail, but it was becoming more and more clear that no one was at home. All of the windows were completely black. Some of the shades were drawn, but not all. She could see enough to make out that not a single light was on anywhere inside. There was not so much as a glimmer from a distant room. She could see nothing, could make out nothing of the inside of Michael's house. Disappointment began to rankle inside her.

Her life had been an open book for him from the day they had met. His, however, remained a mystery. She had been intimate with him, yet he remained a stranger. She knew how to make him climb the walls, yet had never been invited behind the walls that he called his home. She knew that she was in every way as skilled at breaking and entering as he was, and pondered for a moment what it would take to slip in a window in order to let herself in. He himself was guilty of breaking and entering into her life itself, and just once, she would have liked for him to come home and find her sitting patiently in the shadows of his living room after having let herself in under the guise of needing to talk with him. The mere thought thrilled her. Would he be furious? Would they argue, shout, wind up in bed? Sometimes a little anger heated up passion. She toyed with the idea and felt her eyes flash hot in the darkness at the mere thought. In the end she could not bring herself to do it.

________________________

Having just showered, Michael lay on his bed in the dark, in the deepest corner of his home. He loved the dark - he loved sitting in the darkness. It made him feel as if he had successfully obliterated himself - at least for the time being. It was a great comfort. He felt small and insignificant - as if he were lying on the ground gazing at the sky. His need to feel smaller came from the constant feeling that he was committing great misdeeds in the world on a daily basis. Oh, this feeling was buried deep within him - too deep for him to acknowledge in his conscious mind. The logical Michael believed most of the time that his deeds were necessary to accomplish the ends, and however sordid the deeds had been, the ends ultimately justified them. He believed that his miserable existence was a necessary evil that had been carved out for him by fate, and that he was resigned to live it out. He wanted, no, he needed to punish himself, though. Somehow the idea of erasing himself in the shadows was an easy way to accomplish this.

Another way of punishing himself was to think of Nikita. Lovely Nikita, HIS Nikita, for she surely belonged to him if there was any justice in the Universe - yet he was not allowed to touch her, to love her, to give her comfort and succor when she was in need. No, he could view her heartache from afar, watch her through the imaginary glass window of his own hell - but he would never be able to give her anything of himself. He would never allow himself that luxury. He had tried to convince himself that he was dead inside, and had nothing to give her, but he knew in his heart of hearts that this was a myth. Oh, if their circumstances were different - what he could, what he WOULD give her. His heart throbbed and ached at the thought of her, indeed, it pounded - but it pounded safely out of her sight, in the privacy and sanctity of his darkness. It was at these moments that he was most vulnerable - his heart and soul made bare under cover of the night. Thank God she did not know where he lived, for he knew that if she were before him right now - close enough to reach out and touch - he would surely surrender to the passion that had now become almost uncontrollable for him. He struggled with the dichotomy of wanting to touch her desperately and the relief of knowing he could not.

He was lost in deep thoughts of her - comforting himself with the remembrances of her fiery rebellions and identifying with them wistfully, adopting them as his own in his mind and heart, reveling in the liberating feeling they brought - when he thought that he heard a sound of branches ever-so-slightly scraping against the side of his house. The noise, although barely audible, brought him back into the present moment. His senses were ever-sharp, ever-alert, and no sound, no matter how minute, no sound that was out of the ordinary would escape his ears. He dressed without turning the light on, and decided to slip out the back door and investigate.

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

It was all very strange, Nikita thought. He certainly couldn't be asleep at this hour - it was only 8:30. He must be out, she realized. But out with who, doing what? She began to feel uneasy. Could it be that he was seeing someone? As beautiful as he was, he would have no trouble at all finding someone to keep him from feeling lonely. It dawned on her that he could be out enjoying the company of another woman - and more. Was she too late? The thought was enough to wrench her gut. She suddenly felt sick and stood there, in the cold night, outside Michael's window, and clutched her abdomen. She was feeling physically ill, like vomiting, and swallowed hard as the bile rose in her throat. Was she choking? She could swear that for a moment there was no oxygen coming into her lungs. She sank down onto the cold, wet ground and just sat there, trying to regain control over her emotional state. The moisture from the cold earth penetrated through her clothing to her skin, making her feel chilled again. She coughed inadvertently and felt self-conscious and exposed. "Oh my God," she thought, as she realized that perhaps Michael had felt similar feelings as he listened in when she was at Jurgen's place months before. He had tried to explain it to her in his own vague way later when they had talked about it in his office.

She felt a sob of frustration building in her chest. She stopped herself from crying although she really wanted to bawl good and hard, but she knew for her own strength she would have to control herself. This was not the time or the place. Now she realized that her imagination was running wild and she needed to get a hold of herself. The whole thing was ridiculous - the idea that she would be able to find Michael at home when she needed to talk with him. Ridiculous indeed, it was preposterous. The ever-elusive Michael would never be found by anyone unless he himself wished to be found. "Damn him," she thought. "Damn Madeline," she said out loud, covering her mouth and shocked at her own utterance. She knew at that moment that Madeline surely had foreseen the outcome of the evening, and was positive that this had been the reason she had given her the information. Yes, surely Madeline knew that Nikita would never find Michael at home tonight, and that she would wind up feeling utterly foolish and dejected. "Well, I asked for this," she thought. She rose, brushed the dirt from her clothing, bundled her coat around herself and left.

Instead of heading for her car, she decided to take a walk and try and regain some calm and composure. The street lights guided her down to the place where his street dead-ended and another side-street entered. She followed it downhill, quickening her pace to pump some warmth into her body, and found a park at the end of it.

There were no streetlights here, but the moon shone brightly enough to more than light her way. Tall, majestic fir trees cast shadows all over the ground and created many dark patches. She could see water on the other side of the trees - a lake. The moonlight played and danced on the surface, sparkling and beckoning her to come closer. She strolled among the firs and made her way to the water's edge. Stepping out of the shadows, she found herself bathed in moonlight. She stretched her slender limbs outward, allowing the silver light to over her and play on her clothing and in her hair. Even the moisture from her breath glowed when she exhaled. She inhaled deeply, as if to cleanse her insides with the clear night air. She threw her head back for a moment and tasted the freshness of it. Completely drawn in by the stillness and beauty around her, she began to calm down. Turning her eyes toward the water again, she could see strands of mist lingering close to the surface, and the wisps glowed silver in the moonlight. On the other side of the lake, tiny lights from houses glittered like stars reflected in the water. She gazed at the water for a long, long time, until all of the agitation had finally died out inside, and until her her own inner pace had slowed down to match that of the tiny ripples on the water. The sound of its gentle but persistent lapping at the shore defeated the last traces of tension and worry in her mind, and she relaxed. Slowly, she turned her attention inward and found a chord of peace deep inside. She was finally in touch with her self, with her soul. With all of the nonsense that she had been a part of, she had almost forgotten that it was there inside of her. Wherever Michael was and whatever he was doing didn't matter right now.

Nikita had lost track of time. The body warmth that her brisk walk had generated had completely worn off, but she was so lost in gazing at the water's dancing surface that it took some time for her to realize that she was cold and shivering. She pulled her coat more snugly closed and stuck her hands in her pockets, fingering the small amount of lint in the right one. She needed to get home and sleep, and finally felt at ease enough to do so. She stepped away from the water's edge and climbed up the small embankment, but when she reached the lawn of the park, found her eyes drawn back to the lake behind her. She wondered, was this where Michael came to find peace and solace and take his mind off of the brutal realities of Section life? It's proximity to his house had to mean that surely he had visited this place before. Was he as moved by it as she had been? She could not shake the feeling that he was no stranger to the lake, the quiet, shadowy trees - the silence they protected. Somewhere buried in that confused and cold shell of a human was a soul that could be touched by beauty, she felt sure. She suddenly felt so close to him that for all she thought, he might have been right there with her, close enough to reach out and touch. When she turned around, however, there was no one. Nikita was sure in that instant that she had been afforded a small glance into his world, and smiled inwardly at the thought. Mission complete.

She had to really struggle to keep from falling asleep at the wheel as she drove home. Heavy and weary, she climbed the stairs, quietly opened her door, and stumbled into bed. Soon afterwards she was deep in slumber.

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

Nikita's alarm startled her out of a deep and restful sleep. She stretched and pulled herself out of bed and into the shower. She finished getting ready and left for the Section before the sun came up.

It was still early morning when she arrived. Things were relatively quiet - Operations and Madeline were thankfully nowhere to be seen and probably eating breakfast in one or the other's office, and Birkoff was lost in his own world.

Nikita had a case of the butterflies, but had never let that stop her before. She ignored them and plowed onward. She didn't even take time to remove her coat.

She approached Michael's office door and saw that it was slightly ajar, almost as if he had left it open in expectation of a visitor. She felt awkward and somewhat guilty for having been in his yard the night before, and wondered if the strange tinge of guilt was showing itself in the form of a flush on her cheeks. The sudden warmth she felt there told her it was.

He looked up from his computer as he always did. She knew she was always welcome in his office - this was something she took for granted. By now, each of them knew how to read each other's body language. Michael knew by the sound of Nikita's footsteps whether or not she was angry with him. Nikita knew by the look in Michael's eyes whether or not she had any chance at real communication with him. It was as if he possessed invisible shades that could be pulled down by a mere blink of his eyes to cover his pupils in order to obscure his true feelings. When the shades were down, Michael's eyes were dull and unresponsive. On the rare occasion that the shades were up, his eyes flashed with depth and desire.

"You're back," he simply stated the facts as he looked at her and made a valiant attempt at hiding the slight glimmer that appeared in his eyes for a split second. The shades were up.

"I...brought you a little something for your office...from Paris," Nikita almost stammered as she pulled out the small painting wrapped in brown paper which had started to tear from being handled so much. "I thought you could use something on one of these walls. It's impressionist - I mean, it's not REAL of course…well…it's an original, but not from THAT period actually, I mean, you know," she sounded as if she didn't know what she wanted to say.

Michael almost looked as if he were in shock, but graciously accepted the painting and studied it for a moment. "It's nice…thank you. That was so thoughtful of you." To hear Michael offer words of appreciation was almost more than Nikita could bear - such simple words - the bare basics, really, and words which could have been uttered by anyone in a most insincere and bland fashion - but when he said them slowly, quietly, and deliberately, Nikita knew they were said with the utmost sincerity. His fingers absently tapped the code into the device to the right of him, protecting their privacy and cueing Nikita to speak freely. Nikita knew that she had him - the real Michael - at least for the moment, and realizing how rare and far-between these times were, decided to make the most of it.

"Michael, I'm sorry for speaking harshly last week. I realize it wasn't your fault," Nikita said to him as the words tumbled out of her mouth in one fell swoop.

"It doesn't matter," he answered.

Nikita rose to leave and was surprised to see Michael rise from his chair as well, and although he said nothing, she sensed as she often could for knowing him so well, that he had something on his mind, or on the tip of his tongue. She felt that he wasn't finished. She wanted badly to allow him the time to say whatever it was that he wanted to say, so she lingered a bit. Still, there was silence, and he said nothing, but sighed and kept his hands in his pockets as he stood gazing out the office window.

Nikita could bear the silence no more, and so decided to ask him what she had been wanting to ask for weeks. It was a question she could only ask the real Michael, and she could feel that his walls were down - she was indeed standing with the real Michael - not the cold, hardened, business-like Section operative. She couldn't resist…

"Michael, do you ever think about the last time we were together?" She swallowed hard at the end of the question, and was almost afraid to look at his face for a reaction.

She didn't have to look, for she sensed that he was moving toward her, and she was right. His silence was almost frightening to her, for she feared another blank-faced answer that would tell her he had again closed off as a reaction to her question. She instinctively backed up, and suddenly found herself back to the wall, and found him standing with remarkable proximity to her. His arm brushed against her cheek as he twisted the slats of the blinds shut.

"You mean," he started slowly and took her hands in his, toying with them, "you mean, the night we made love?"

Nikita struggled with her dismay at his words. He could have used one of many more impersonal references - he could have said, "when we slept together", or "when we were intimate", or, "when we made the mistake," as he had referred to that next morning, but he did not. He said, "made love". She felt every single nerve ending on her spine tingle and was suddenly overcome with desire - a feeling she was all too familiar with when she was close to him and he was being "real" with her. Again she swallowed hard.

Michael took both her hands and pinned them against the wall behind her - just as he had in bed that night so many weeks before when they had seized the opportunity to behave as husband and wife, minus the privacy most couples took for granted. "What the hell," he thought to himself.

"I try not to," he spoke again candidly, and saw Nikita's face fall as she flinched visibly. He really meant to half-tease her, but saw that he was so inept at teasing that his words had caused far more hurt than anything else, so he quickly finished his sentence. "…but the memory of it haunts me day and night."

Nikita wondered if the relief showed very obviously on her face, but she didn't get a chance to wonder for very long. His mouth was on hers in a tender kiss, quiet and discreet for fear that someone, somewhere in Section would hear them. It was as if he were pouring liquid electricity into her, and she wanted more. She found his mouth more delicious than ever, and wondered what it was about him that could make her feel like a schoolgirl.

"Just in case you've forgotten," he whispered in her ear as his lips brushed against her neck one last time.

Nikita felt that she should go before someone intruded on them and shattered the beauty of the moment. Her hand quietly began to slip out of his when he grabbed it firmly again, and pulled her back to face him for one more time. His other hand smoothed a loose strand of her hair back away from her forehead. "I wanted to tell you something important," he said and looked deeply into her eyes. His hand found its way to her shoulder and began meticulously removing a few evergreen burrs that were still imbedded in the wool while Nikita waited with desperate curiosity. When at last he was finished casting them to the floor, he smoothed his hand down her arm one more time and found her other hand, taking it in his.

"Yes?" she asked, "what is it, Michael?"

"I wanted to tell you that...you're hair looks beautiful in the moonlight."

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.