---

The grumble of distant thunder, the scent of rain in the air, and a strong breeze that fluttered the curtains violently, woke Nikita out of peaceful sleep. She slipped out of bed and quickly closed the half-opened window. It was nearly dark, more so, because of the approaching storm. A quick glance at the clock on a nearby night-stand, made her smile. It was nearly eight in the evening, and she had spent the entire day in bed--and only a little of that time, sleeping. She looked over her shoulder at Michael, who was still asleep; his tangled cinnamon hair hiding his eyes, as he lay on his belly, hugging his pillow close. She sighed with appreciation. He had the nicest butt!

Taking advantage of the moment, Nikita stepped into the bathroom. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth, then dragged Michael's brush through her hair.

As she inspected her reflection in the mirror, Nikita caught herself smiling, unable to stop. She was so happy, so utterly content. At long last, she and Michael were together. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, to trap a giggle, as she made her plans for the evening.

"First, a seduction, then dinner, then a long, hot, sensual shower, then. . . " Nikita was startled out of her daydreams as a nearby lightening strike shook the house. "Maybe we should call out for pizza," she said to herself as she opened the bathroom door and reentered Michael's bedroom.

"Nikita! No!" Michael screamed aloud. Nikita dove to the floor, and rolled, as her training had taught her to do. She got to her knees, her hands in front of her to block an incoming blow, but there was no sign of danger in the room. The rain began to pound against the window, and another flash of lightning illuminated the room with blinding, blue-white light, but she and Michael were alone.

Michael cried out again, this time his words unintelligible. Nikita climbed onto the bed to get to him, realizing he was in the throes of a terrible nightmare.

"Michael!" Nikita flung herself against his chest and caught his wrist, as his left arm batted at some unseen terror. An instant later, Michael was awake. He stared wide-eyed at Nikita's concerned face for a moment, before slinging an arm around her neck and pulling her into a taut and silent embrace. With her ear against his throat, Nikita could hear his heart racing. Nikita was alive! Not dead--alive! Michael held tight to that knowledge, forcing the half-remembered nightmare back into the dark recesses of his mind.

"Michael, are you all right?" Nikita asked against his neck, as her arms held him close. His breathing was ragged and his skin was clammy and all of Nikita's pleasant plans for the evening were forgotten.

Desperate to hide his fear, Michael rolled over with her and pressed her into the bed with a grinding kiss. He heard a little grunt of pain before he pushed himself away. Nikita looked up at him and caught his tormented, wide-eyed expression in a momentary flash of lightning. She remembered seeing it once before, moments after Simone's death. She closed her eyes, feeling sick with absurd jealousy.

When Nikita opened them again, she cupped his despairing face between her hands. "Were you dreaming about Simone?" She asked bravely, as she stroked his hair from his forehead.

"No." His voice was soft, yet so full of pain; Nikita's eyes filled with tears.

Michael bowed his head, concealing his face and emotions. The dream had been a reminder. No woman was safe in his arms, Nikita least of all. It had to stop. To save her life, he would have to kill her love for him. He slowly lifted his head and looked into her tender, worried expression. But how could he hurt her again? How could he bear being alone--again? ‘I wish things could be different'. He'd said those words to her and meant them with all his heart and soul. But things couldn't be different. He had no future to share with her. Each morning he awoke knowing it might be his last. More often than not, he prayed it would be.

Every sweet thing Michael had ever longed for, he saw offered in Nikita's eyes. Forbidden fruit. Love, marriage, watching his baby growing inside her, . . . none of it could ever be. Would ever be.

Not ever.

Michael knew a normal life was denied to them, but Nikita still innocently clung to her dreams. Which was more cruel, he wondered, to allow her false hope--or kill her now, with the truth?

"Michael?" Nikita watched as his face played out his thoughts. What tormented him so? She wondered. They were together. Knowing that, Nikita could face anything. Couldn't he?

"I love you, Michael."

He shivered, as her slender fingers combed through his hair, cupped his head and drew him down to her mouth.

She whispered, as she kissed him. "I'll love you forever."

But Michael knew, all he would ever have was now. For her kiss, he traded all of his tomorrows.

Nikita sensed something was bothering Michael. There was desperation in his kisses, as if each one might be his last. And yet when he buried himself deep inside her, he whispered her name with such tenderness, that Nikita's fears evaporated. He hadn't said it, in words, but she knew he loved her. Nothing else mattered, as long as they were together.

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

Madeline had given Michael three days. She hoped it would be enough. Seated at her desk, Madeline folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. She had seen the tapes. Operations had not. Neither had he witnessed Michael's tender, but foolish attempt to comfort Nikita in medlab. He had been away at the agency, reporting in person on the success of the mission in Iraq, fortunately.

It was also fortunate that Operations did not inquire into the details of Michael's "accidental" exposure. Madeline's explanation--that a small tear had been found in Michael's bio-suit while he had been visiting Nikita--seemed to suffice.

Michael was Operation's most valuable asset. He was intelligent: spoke a dozen languages fluently, was a brilliant tactician, and a natural leader. He could also kiss a woman, learn her secrets, swear undying love to her, and kill her without compunction--all in the span of an evening. He was, as Operations had hoped he'd become, a perfect killing machine. Perfect, as in having no weaknesses to exploit. Until now.

True, there had been the Simone episode; Madeline still wondered over it. Why had Operations allowed the marriage and the child? It had made no sense at the time, but as it turned out, Simone's and the baby's death had hardened Michael, making him twice as lethal a weapon as he had been before. Perhaps, that had been Operations plan from the beginning.

Ops had known Simone had been captured, not killed. Glass Curtain had contacted the Section expecting to use Simone as a bargaining chip. When the Agency refused to allow Ops to bargain for her return, Sparks kept her alive as a trophy rather than admit he had miscalculated. With no reason to trade for Simone, and no hope for her rescue, Operations decided to let Michael believe his wife was dead. After all, Simone had been Michael's one vulnerability, and killing machines didn't need vulnerabilities.

‘And now,' Madeline thought, ‘he has another. Nikita.'

Madeline knew Operations sensed this, which is why he watched daily for a good reason to cancel Nikita. He had spent a decade of time and resources training Michael, grooming him to one day take his place. Nikita endangered those plans, because she divided Michael's loyalty to Section, and ultimately, to Operations himself.

While Madeline understood Operations' motivations, where Michael was concerned, she was less cold-blooded. She sighed as she replayed one of the medlab tapes. Michael was as close to a total emotional breakdown as she had ever seen him and she was greatly concerned over it. She had known him for nearly a dozen years, and had seen him through the deaths of his wife and child. Through it all, Michael seemed to get stronger and better as an operative. Now suddenly, he was completely in pieces.

Madeline tapped her forefinger against her chin while her thoughts drifted back to the first time she had met Michael. He had been twenty-one when he had arrived in Section, and Madeline had been chosen to do his psyche evaluation. It had been an interesting case:

Section One, January 21, 1985

"Michael?" Madeline studied the face of the new recruit carefully. ‘He's handsome,' she thought. ‘That's a plus'. He was also young and untried, but Madeline was sure he would excel in seduction scenarios. She made a few notes.

The young man sat completely still in the chair in front of Madeline, his head bowed, his silvery-green eyes fixed on the top of Madeline's desk. His rust-brown hair had been clipped short in prison. File pictures showed his hair had been long. It looked better long, she thought and made another note. ‘Long hair. More romantic.'

"Do you know why you're here?" Madeline asked quietly.

He didn't answer, but Madeline saw his lips press together and knew he was listening. She watched him for several moments before opening his computer file and scanning its contents. The file said he was born in Lyons, France, was currently 21 years old, and a former student of Paris University.

"You majored in chemical engineering. . . " Madeline murmured aloud. The file also said he had been scheduled to graduate at the top of his class, prior to the incident. She continued reading, lifting her eyes occasionally to check on his expression. "Should I assume your training as a chemical engineer aided you in building the bomb?"

Although he still refused to answer, Madeline saw his eyes squeeze closed as if she had hit a sensitive spot.

"Do you still insist you acted alone?"

His voice was soft as he uttered one word, "Yes."

Madeline leaned her chin on her hand, focused on Michael's stone-faced expression and asked, "Why did you do it?"

Michael's eyed Madeline for the merest moment, before he looked away. In that fraction of a second, Madeline saw the answer and nodded to herself. Michael, she decided, hadn't a clue.

"I'm assigning you to Jurgen. He's waiting outside." Madeline stated crisply.

Her words sounded like a dismissal so Michael pushed out of his chair. But Madeline caused him to wait when she continued,"You will report here again, first thing in the morning."

Sullenly, he nodded, then left.

Michael met Jurgen standing outside of Madeline's office. The tall blond leaned casually against the grey, stone wall of the corridor with his well-muscled arms folded across his chest. His voice was husky as he spoke, "Hi, Michael."

Jurgen regarded his new student with some curiosity. The boy didn't look like a mad bomber, but he'd read his file: Fifty-six people dead. Nearly a hundred maimed and injured. Fifty-six people--for no apparent reason.

Michael gave no acknowledgment of Jurgen's presence.

Jurgen pursed his lips, unfolded his arms, and moved away from the wall. "I see," he said quietly, then decked Michael with one well placed blow to the face.

Pulling a dazed and bleeding Michael to his feet by the back of his shirt, Jurgen commented drily, "Rule number one, . . . always pay attention."

Section One, January 28, 1985

A week later, Jurgen sat in Madeline's office while Michael waited outside.

"So? Is he worth salvaging?" Madeline sat across from Jurgen with her arms folded.

"If we can keep him alive, yes."

"Meaning?"

"I think he wants to die. I've seen it before. They call it survivor's guilt."

Madeline knew Jurgen spoke from personal experience, "You've seen his file."

Jurgen nodded, his expression almost sympathetic. "He's smart, and picks up things quickly, but he shows no interest in anything. He's torn up inside and if he can't get over it, he'll be of no use to us. He'll endanger any mission he's on, because he has no reason to live."

Madeline nodded. "I agree. Please send him in. You can collect him in three hours. Anything else?"

Jurgen shrugged, and pushed his long, lean body out of the chair, "Nope."

Madeline smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "As always, a man of few words."

Jurgen returned the smile faintly, then nodded. "I'll be back at four."

"Michael." Madeline smiled up at him as he walked into her office, and gestured for him to be seated. He was dressed all in black. It seemed to suit his demeanor. His face was like a mask, expressionless, save for the grief in those astonishing silver-green eyes.

"Jurgen says he's pleased with your performance, but he's worried about your motivation. Would you like to talk about it?"

"No." Came his soft, one word answer.

Madeline rose from her desk, her arms still folded and began to slowly pace the floor.

Michael watched her warily; Jurgen had managed to teach him to pay attention.

"Since I know the reason you are here, let me tell you why I'm here." Madeline stopped in front of him. "I . . . murdered my sister."

That got Michael's full attention.

"I pushed her down a flight of stairs, in a fight over a doll." Madeline's expression was suddenly sad. She walked back to her desk and sat on the corner of it.

"And now I'm here." She gestured at the room around them.

Reaching out, she took his chin in her hand, to keep his attention focused. "You may not know it yet, but Section is a godsend. I found purpose here. You can as well. You owe a debt Michael, which must be paid. You know what you've done. Being sorry about it, isn't enough. You have to give back some of what you've taken. That's what Section is all about." When she released him, she noticed a fading bruise just beneath his jaw line. Jurgen's calling card, no doubt.

Madeline walked around her desk, seated herself, and returned to her usual businesslike demeanor. "You need to consider your future Michael. To do that, you must consider your past. I want you to take some time tonight, to think about what I've said. Now, I would like you to brief me on your week with Jurgen. . ."

Later that evening, Michael sat on the edge of his bed, in the tiny room that Section provided, and stared at the floor, remembering. . .

Paris, April 1984

"How CAN you be so naive?" Rene waved his arms across the small table for two, knocking over Michael's coffee.

"I am not naive, Rene." Michael returned softly, as he mopped up the mess with a small napkin. Sometimes, Rene embarrassed Michael with his outbursts, but he knew his friend was sincere. "I just do not see how. . ."

"That's it! You do not SEE because you do not WISH to see! Look at where the government spends it's research dollars! How many cures for cancer have they produced? How many poor children have they saved from starvation? None! It all goes to the rich businessmen and to the military and to the corrupt government officials!"

Michael had no comment, for there was truth in what Rene was saying--he'd be a fool to deny it. The grant Michael had been counting on getting had been snatched away at the last minute and given to Francois Benoit, another student who was working on a new explosive.

Michael's project had been the development of a new plastic filter that could more cheaply desalinate seawater, enabling several third world nations to better irrigate their farmland. But, to the government, the explosive had had more merit.

"Wake up Michel! Look at the injustice that surrounds us! It must be stopped!"

With that too, Michael had to agree. Why couldn't people see that spending money on death did no one any good? War was monstrous--wasteful--insane. It was so clear that anyone should be able to understand it, and yet, wars continued, and with them, disease, poverty, and ignorance.

"Michel--we can change these injustices. We must! Look at the Americans! Viet Nam was stopped--ended--because of students who fought for the right to be heard. War is the insanity! They stopped a war--Michel! If they can do that, can we do less? Why not use our resources to do good? Feed children--cure the sick--give better wages to those who work!"

Michael nodded with a sigh; Rene was right. "But how do we change the world, Rene? Words are words--no one listens to what we say. They don't even take us seriously. Not even the strikers we supported last week--they were grateful--for what? That we carried them toilet paper and clean shirts?" Michael tossed his soggy napkin inside his empty coffee cup with disgust.

"We must talk to them in a language they understand, Michel. Give them back the poison they produce, in their own cups and make them drink it!"

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, tucking a lock of rusty brown hair behind one ear.

"Do you agree that students should not be making bombs when they could be saving lives?" Rene's eyebrows lifted with his question.

"Of course but. . . "

"C'est bien! If they love bombs so much, perhaps they should see first hand what they do!"

Michael sighed, knowing the speech to come. Rene was full of words and causes.

Freedom for everything! The world was unfair--fix it! But Rene surprised Michael for once by speaking gently instead. "Michel, look at you. You needed that grant money. They have stolen the bread from your sister and brother's mouths. What will you do now?"

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his chin, "I don't know. There is enough money for another month, perhaps two, if I am careful. I have hopes of another scholarship to pay for my master's program. Professor Renard says he can offer me a graduate assistantship, if I graduate with honor."

He sighed deeply then continued, "Etienne wants to quit school and find a job, but he's only fifteen. Monique gave me the money she made babysitting to help pay for electricity this month. She's only eleven, Rene! She has no new clothes. . . " He paused a moment, before adding with a catch in his voice, "She cries herself to sleep at night."

"And still they refuse to pay you your father's pension?"

"They say they can't pay me because I'm twenty-one and attending university. If I quit, of course, then they will pay. But I can't quit! Not now. My parents worked too hard to send me here. I only have a few more months left."

Rene reached into his pockets and pulled out several tattered bills, eighty francs, and handed it to Michael.

"Non, . . . " Michael began, knowing it was all the money Rene had, but Rene interrupted.

"It is not for you! It is for Monique. Buy her a new dress."

Upon his arrival at Paris University, Michael discovered a world full of new, and wonderful ideas, but along with the flowering of his intellect came the unsettling discovery that the world wasn't as good and wonderful a place as he once had thought. His soft heart was full of moral outrage at a world which spent more on war and death, than on starving children and poorly paid workers. As any idealistic youth, Michael saw the world as black and white, and chafed at the seeming indifference of his fellow man to the evil around them. In short, Michael had begun to realize that life was terribly unfair.

Extremely unfair.

Two years after he started university, Michael's parents were killed in a horrendous train wreck, as they traveled to Paris to see him. The accident was caused by the deterioration of a railway bridge. Just months before the tragedy, railway workers had called for a strike to protest the lack of structural improvements to tunnels and bridges. The strike was largely ignored, until the passenger train, carrying 108 passengers and crew, dropped fifty-five feet into a rain swollen river, killing all aboard.

Insurance settlements due the victims, were immediately tied up in lawsuits, so at nineteen, Michael found himself the head of his family, with no one to help him until he met his friend Rene.

Michael had met Rene at a college protest rally. Shouting slogans against the government neglect and corruption that had caused the train tragedy, Rene drew Michael like a magnet. He made Michael see that he must do something about what had happened.

"Show you care! Stop it from happening ever again! Force the government to do what they are paid to do! Make them listen!"

Like all idealists, Rene refused to let reality get in the way of his world view. Whether the world wanted--or needed--changing, Rene decided it would change as he dictated--by force if necessary. He saw in Michael someone pure in heart--a true believer in every sense of the word. Michael had honor and vision, and all the other virtues of a knight on an impossible quest; all the necessary attributes to subjugate hell in order to reach a noble goal.

"Join us, Michel." Rene held out his hand to him. Michael took it.

"L'heure Sanguine--the bloody hour?" Michael asked, when Rene handed him a flyer.

Rene shrugged, with a wry smile, "Gets your attention, doesn't it? Besides, it's better than ‘Sans Culottes!'"

Michael cracked a smile at Rene's reference to the French Revolution. "So, we are the L'heure Sanguine. Now what?"

"Now, we take the war to them!" Rene said gleefully.

For years Michael would relive the moment when Rene first suggested building the bomb and wonder what kind of insanity had induced him to help. At first, all Rene did was talk. Then, as time slipped past, talking became planning. Building the bomb seemed more like working on a science project, than the first step towards mass murder. The bomb was only a political statement, Rene had assured him. It would get them attention. It would force change! It never occurred to Michael that he and Rene were about to become terrorists, just as it never occurred to him that real people might die as a result. Real people--like Michael's little brother, Etienne.

"Michel! Where are you going?" Rene called out to him from above.

Michael looked up and waved. "To meet Etienne at the lab. He called to tell me a letter just arrived. He thinks it might be important. It's from the university!" Michael paused on the staircase with a huge grin.

Rene frowned, "It isn't a good thing to be over at the lab today."

"Why?"

Rene checked to see that they were alone before continuing in a softer voice. "Marc and I planted the bomb in Francois's locker. We were careful not to be seen, but none of us should be anywhere around that building until it's all over."

"What?" Michael's heart nearly stopped in his chest. "We agreed not to bomb the building during the day!"

Rene smiled, "Of course. It's all right." Calmly, Rene began to descend the stairs. "I set it to go off early tomorrow morning, about three. The building will be empty then."

But Michael's face went another shade paler as he looked at his watch.

"Three?"

"Oui. What's wrong?" Rene asked, losing his smile as he reached Michael on the stair.

"Mon Dieu! Rene! That timer isn't a twenty-four clock! It's five to three--get to a phone!"

Only one member of the L'heure Sanguine was ever arrested for the bombing of the campus science building. Only Michael, who had watched in horror, from a distance, as his brother walked innocently towards the doomed building. He ran to Etienne; ran screaming to warn him, pushing startled students out of his path, as he sprinted hopelessly across the crowded campus grounds--as the last seconds of his normal life ticked away. . .

It was only then, that Michael realized what he had done.

The explosion exceeded Rene's fondest expectations, leveling the second floor, and sending lethal shards of glass hundreds of feet in all directions. Shards that impaled Michael's classmates and decapitated his little brother, Etienne.

Clutched in his brother's hand, when Michael reached him, was the letter that would have changed their lives for the better. It said congratulations--that Michael would be graduating Summa Cum Laude in his field of chemical engineering. It promised a bright future. It meant his parents' working class sacrifices had finally paid off. It meant his father's struggle to pave the way for a better life for his children, against a hostile and uncaring world, had triumphed!

But in an instant, that bright future had shattered, leaving Michael's orphaned little sister completely alone. God had shown some mercy--she had stayed after school to help a friend with a project.

When the police found him, Michael was mad with grief, pleading with his brother to forgive him, and trying to put his head back onto his body. Witnesses testified that Michael was screaming about a bomb prior to it exploding, but even with overwhelming evidence to convict, there had been no trial, because Michael confessed all, taking sole blame for the bombing. It didn't matter that Rene had planned it and planted it. Michael had built the bomb, using the materials Francois had developed. In his mind, no punishment could be enough for what he had done, so he shouldered his punishment, and Rene's and Marc's as well.

Michael told his first lie that day. "I alone, am responsible." But to Michael, it had been the purest truth.

It had been that willingness to take responsibility for his actions that had brought Michael's case to the attention of Operations. Taking responsibility, in a day and age of ‘it being always someone else's fault' was unusual, and it indicated two things about Michael: One, he had no fear of death, since that was the penalty for terrorism in France, and two, he suffered from true remorse. Both, Operations knew, could be assets, if handled properly.

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

Section One, January 29, 1985

Madeline folded her hands on her desk and regarded Michael with a pleased expression. She had confessed her crimes yesterday to make a point. She wanted him to know that he wasn't the only one who had ever made such a grave mistake and to know that Section would allow him the opportunity to atone for his crimes. She had pointed out, that besides his brother, fifty-five other people had died that day. Many others were seriously hurt. Many more, had been left grieving. All because of one bomb and one angry, young man.

"You can use that education your father struggled so hard to give you, to do some good in the world, Michael. Help us stop other terrorists from killing and maiming other innocent people. You still have a sister--what kind of world do you want her to live in?"

Now as she looked at him, she saw the light of determination in his expression. Michael wanted and needed absolution. He also needed a reason to live. Madeline had offered him both, and she saw that he had accepted.

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

Madeline sighed, and shook off the memories. She understood the need for absolution; in many ways, she and Michael were a lot alike. They certainly had ‘things' in common. In three days, Operations would return. Hopefully, Michael could pull himself back together by that time. Whether Nikita would help him, or hinder him, Madeline didn't know. But she trusted Michael's instincts. He had risked the Section's wrath for love once before, and learned the pain of losing that love. He rarely made the same mistake twice.

But Michael was human, and he was hurting. And while Madeline knew he loved Nikita, the question remained: Did he love her enough, to give her up?

Part II

Michael lay on his back, with Nikita draped atop him completely spent and content. His hands continued to stroke the soft skin of her back as he lay deep in thought. He suddenly heard a noise, then heard Nikita chuckle, "Gee, how very romantic!" She lifted her face, her cheeks inflamed by a blush. The sound came again, only louder. It had been her stomach grumbling and Michael started laughing.

Nikita slapped at him playfully before breaking up as well. It was good to hear him laugh. Even as she thought it, it dawned on Nikita that she had never really heard Michael laugh before.

They laughed for a good five minutes, before Michael rolled off the bed and headed into the bathroom. Nikita heard him turn on the shower, just as her stomach complained again.

A moment later, Michael returned, took Nikita by the hand and led her into the shower. Without a word he quickly lathered and rinsed her hair, then gently bathed her. When he finished, Nikita did the same for him.

Michael squeezed the water out of his hair and reached for a towel, then bent to kiss one pert nipple. " If I didn't have to feed you. . . ." He said softly, with a smile. "If you didn't have to feed me--what?" Nikita asked, provocatively wrapping her arms around his neck and rubbing her body against his.

In answer, Michael pressed her against the slick shower wall with a passionate kiss. There was an extremely loud growling sound, this time Nikita laughed the hardest. It was Michael's turn to protest their fast.

"Do you eat here often?" Nikita asked.

Michael nodded, and took a sip of his wine.

"I feel so underdressed. . ." She whispered, pushing up the sleeve of a sweatshirt that Michael had loaned her. "If I had known I was staying, I would have brought a change of clothes."

"How did you find out where I lived?" Michael asked, quietly.

"I followed you." Nikita answered, mentally crossing her fingers behind her back. She still wasn't completely sure the past 20 hours hadn't been a dream, or how Michael felt about her intrusion on his privacy. No need to get Walter in trouble if she didn't have to.

"Why?" He asked suddenly.

"To apologize for the things I said to you. I didn't remember you holding me in medlab. I was hurt that you hadn't stopped by to visit. I thought you didn't care. When Walter showed me the tape. . ." Nikita frowned as she remembered her bitter accusation of that morning.

Michael's expression changed from placid to one of controlled disquiet, "What tape?"

"Madeline made tapes of Ryan, Lester and myself, to track the progress of the virus. Walter had it that morning when you came by. He was so angry at me for what I said to you and it really was unforgivable Michael. You risked everything for me and I . . ." Nikita stopped speaking, aware that Michael's attention was miles away.

Michael's mind rushed through what Nikita had said. He hadn't known about the tapes. If Madeline had the tapes, it meant Operations would see them. He had been so sure that Nikita was dying, he had thought of nothing else. Operations was no fool and if he so much as perceived that Nikita was so important to Michael that he would have died with her, willingly. . .

What would Operations do? Michael wondered. Then he wondered if he could get the tapes somehow, before Operations returned. But surely Madeline had already seen them--and she had witnessed all anyway. And now, Nikita. . .

"Michael? Hello? Venus to Mars?" Nikita was whispering.

"What?" Michael's attention returned to Nikita..

Nikita reached over and slipped her hand atop his as it rested on the table. "Is something wrong?"

Michael looked into her lovely cerulean eyes and forced himself to smile and lie. "No."

She smiled back, "Good. I was afraid I'd lost you there for a moment." Her fingers casually stroked his until he laced his fingers with hers and held them still.

"Do you want to go home?" Michael asked, his face suddenly serious.

Nikita's smile faded a little. "My home, or yours?"

"Which would you prefer?" The blank stare was back and Nikita wasn't sure how he wanted her to answer.

"Yours?" Nikita looked at him with a fragile expression, as if expecting abandonment or having this date to turn out like their first. He'd hurt her so many times in the past; used her to his and the section's best advantage; it was only natural that she feared another betrayal. God, he hated seeing that mistrust and fear in her face! He hated himself even more, knowing he was going to have to play out the game once again.

Shoving the bitter thoughts aside for the moment, Michael took the hand he still held and kissed it. "Let's go then." He stood and drew Nikita to her feet. He paid for their meal and they left the restaurant.

Michael was stone silent during the return trip to his house. As she drove through the misty, rainy evening, Nikita's heart sank. The empty, flat expression was back on Michael's face, and yet, there were signs of emotion. She'd known him long enough to read some of them: that far away look, the unconscious gesture of his fingers rubbing against his chin--a nervous habit she had begun to associate with concealed agitation. Michael was upset but Nikita had no clue as to why.

She thought back to their earlier conversation, trying to remember and pinpoint the moment he had begun the change from ‘Michael, the man', to ‘Michael, the machine.' It had been the tape, she decided, the tape of him holding her in medlab. She cast a pleading look in his direction but he was preoccupied with staring out the window and did not notice. ‘Why, Michael?' Nikita thought bitterly, ‘Is it because the tape proves you care? It is because you can't bear for me to know you care, so you can't pretend you don't, anymore?' Was he afraid?

The idea that Michael might be afraid of anything gave Nikita a jolt. Michael, afraid? She looked over at him again. He had braced his elbow against the car door, his long fingers restlessly rubbing, back and forth, against his jaw before stopping a moment to rest his forefinger against his lower lip.

Michael ran the scenario in his head as Jurgen had trained him to do.

"Step by step, think your way through the sequencing. Do it here," Jurgen had said, tapping his finger against Michael's forehead, "Before you do it for real."

"What about unknown variables? How do you plan for the unplanned?" Michael had asked with irritation.

"If you do your job right, there shouldn't be unknown variables." Jurgen had replied.

"But what if there are?" Michael continued to insist.

"Then, find a way to use them to your advantage. Never let the enemy capitalize on your mistakes."

It had been a mistake to let his emotional guard down in front of the others in Section. Worse than that, had been his selfish need for Nikita. The only thing she had left was the life that Section allowed her and Michael had endangered that life by fueling her love for him. The problem now was how to repair the damage.

His plan was simple and Michael was sure he had accounted for all the variables, save one. But even that variable was workable.

Nikita turned the engine off. "We're home." She said, quietly, not daring to look at him.

"Good." Came the soft reply.

Nikita felt his fingers as they brushed her hair behind her ear, a moment before he leaned over and tenderly kissed her neck. The sensation caught her breath in her throat and Nikita moaned Michael's name. There had been other words attached to his name, but Nikita forgot all of them after his lips moved to hers.

"Let's go inside, " he whispered against her mouth between kisses.

"Mmmm" Nikita nodded, too happy to think much less argue.

Michael thought he had it all under control, but nothing about his feelings for Nikita was controllable. He had planned this seduction carefully but hadn't counted on Nikita and her reaction. From the moment they stepped inside the darkened living room of his house, she took the initiative and earnestly began to seduce him instead.

She pressed him back against the front door with a kiss, effectively closing the door and trapping him there. Her slender hands tugged at his shirt and found their way beneath it. Cool fingers traced circles over the smooth, hard muscles of his chest, centering themselves over his nipples. The thought of doing the same to her, made them rigid, along with the rest of Michael's anatomy.

As if she had read his mind, Nikita quickly pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Next, she shimmied out of her skirt and kicked off her shoes. It left her completely nude. Taking Michael's hands, Nikita pressed them over the centers of her bared breasts, then rubbed the hardening, velvety tips against his palms, letting him feel how much she wanted him. The experience enthralled him for a moment. But only for a moment, only until she gave him a new one to take its place. She whispered his name, then standing on tiptoe, leaned into him, angling her body intimately against his. Her hands slipped around his waist, then glided downward, pressing and holding him against herself.

Slowly, Nikita slid her body down, until her feet were flat on the floor, then slowly pushed up again, like a ballerina on point. The intimate friction of her body sliding against his was maddening; Michael could feel her moist heat through his clothes. It was the most erotic, intoxicating sensation. . .

It had been a long time since Michael felt anything beyond the physical when it came to sex; Section had trained him to use it as a weapon--like a sensual martial art. He knew how to woo and manipulate women, what to say to them and when, to gain their confidence. Sex was just a means to an end; a dirty part of a difficult job.

With Simone, sex had been all consuming--not surprising, since it had been Simone that Section had selected to instruct Michael in the finer points of seduction. It had been a surprise to everyone, Simone included, when they fell in love with each other. But after he lost Simone, Michael returned to using sex as a weapon. He was honest enough with himself to accept the physical release it gave him as a fringe benefit of the job, but it gave him no emotional comfort. He wouldn't allow himself to get emotionally vested; not after Simone. Not until Nikita.

Section One, Three Years Ago

Michael sat at his desk staring at the computer file on his laptop. He wasn't happy about this training assignment, although Madeline had been subtle when she pulled him off of active status to make him a trainer. She hadn't mentioned the obvious--that Michael's most recent assignment had taken an almost suicidal turn.

Simone had been dead eight months--too long a time to grieve, according to Operations-- but for Michael, losing Simone had nearly ripped the life out of him. Madeline had understood this, and had placed him on inactive status for an entire month, but even she couldn't shield him from returning to work forever. When he had returned, Michael went through his assignments on auto-pilot. His complete unconcern for his own safety made him foolishly brave; and ironically, extremely successful in completing Section assignments. Operations had been delighted, but Madeline had grown concerned, and when Michael nearly drowned in the Oslo assignment, she told Operations if he didn't want to lose Michael, he'd have to allow him time to recuperate. Operations had grudgingly agreed.

The photo on his computer screen was of a young woman of seventeen. Tall, blond with vivid blue eyes, she was dressed like a street urchin, unkempt, and ragged. A cop-killer--caught at the scene. His material to mold for the next two years. He sighed and looked at his watch.

Time to go visit her.

The girl was asleep when Michael arrived. A medic entered the room and gave her an injection. "She'll be coming out of it in a minute or two. Expect a little confusion at first." The medic added before leaving the room.

Michael mentally sneered at the man's statement, as if Michael hadn't been through this routine himself. "A little confusion" had been absolute terror. Michael had been "executed" by lethal injection. Waking up in a white room, not knowing if you were in heaven or hell--well, a little confusion, was an understatement!

Nikita. Michael looked down at the peaceful face of the girl and was struck by the beauty of it. Her photographs hadn't done her justice; she had the face of an angel. He frowned, wondering how this "angel" had gotten so hard at seventeen that she could stab a man to death. He didn't judge her for it; he'd been in Section long enough to know people got there in many terrible ways, and his hands were the least clean of anyone he knew.

He brushed her hair off her forehead. It was soft as a child's. There was an innocence about her, a vulnerability. Madeline could sure pick them, Michael thought. A killer angel. Another lost soul.

In the moments that followed, Michael's opinion of the Nikita changed several times in succession. The ‘sweet innocent' exploded off the gurney only a second after Michael unlocked her restraints, leaving him to wonder if had she been faking the entire time, just waiting a chance to escape. And yet when she asked, "What is this place?" there was true fear in her voice. "You're not in prison anymore. The world thinks you're dead--suicide," Michael told her pulling out a photograph. "This is your funeral."

The girl took it, fingering it with absent confusion. "Mama?"

Michael wasn't sure he heard correctly and continued, "Row 8, plot 30."

"My mama didn't come?" She asked in a tearful, childish voice.

Michael watched her slide down the tiled wall, clutching the photograph to her breast, and felt a twinge of sympathy for her.

"We've decided to give you another chance," he told her. "This is where you'll train. This is where you'll learn." He saw more tears and felt oddly uncomfortable over them. "After two years, if everything goes well, you'll work for us."

"Why me?" she asked and Michael remembered why she was chosen. His tone was a little sarcastic when he answered.

"A woman with your looks, who can kill in cold blood. . . "

"I didn't! I didn't. . . kill anyone!" She protested tearfully.

For a moment Michael could almost believe her, but he shook off the thought. Of course she would protest her innocence, most everybody did. She was a good actress at least. He turned and walked to the door.

Michael sensed Nikita's attack before she actually touched him. He was fully prepared to deal with it, blocking her blows and flipping her across his hip to the floor in one practiced, fluid motion.

‘So! The kitten has claws,' he thought as he held her down. ‘Good. She did have the killer instinct after all.' He looked down at her tear stained face and for a moment his anger flared.

"When you attack someone from behind, go for the kidneys. It disables and they can't fight back. Consider that your first lesson." He released her, feeling vaguely disappointed, and got to his feet.

"I don't want. . . I don't want lessons!" She shouted back at him angrily. Her true personality was finally showing itself, Michael thought, as he opened the door.

"We start tomorrow morning, 5 A.M."

"And if I don't want to?" She returned viciously.

"Row 8," he answered her derisively, "Plot 30!"

Things continued in the same mode of operation for the next several months. One moment Nikita was meek and childlike, almost gentle, then another she was a tigress, fighting to get her way, and scoffing at authority. But through it all, she learned, and learned quickly. Despite her continued antagonism towards her fate, Nikita showed signs of being one of the best of the new crop of operatives. She certainly was one of the favorites. Birkoff had a crush on her that he hid behind playful sarcasm; Walter doted on her and flirted with her shamelessly; even Madeline seemed to have a fondness for Nikita. Only Operations seemed immune to Nikita's charm.

"How did she do?" Michael asked Walter, as he reached to inspect her last target.

"See for yourself," Walter grinned as he handed it to him. "I'd hate to be the guy that crosses her on a bad day."

"Yes. She is much improved." Michael commented mildly, setting aside the target.

"Why don't you tell her that sometime?" Walter said, shaking his head. "The kid's tried hard to please you, you know."

Michael lifted a skeptical eyebrow but made no reply, so Walter continued his lecture.

"Oh, and don't tell me you haven't noticed her making goo-goo eyes at you!" Walter returned with good natured sarcasm and folded his arms.

"You have one thing right. She's a kid." Michael frowned.

"Oh, come on--so she redecorated her room a little. . ." Walter argued in her defense.

"She spray-painted graffiti--"

"And I suppose that will bring Section One to its knees?" Walter gave a look of mock dismay.

"She has no discipline!"

It was Walter's turn to frown. "Michael. You're beginning to sound like Ops--and that scares the bejesus out of me." He picked up Nikita's shredded target like a proud father, and left Michael to reflect on Nikita alone.

"Drop!" Michael ordered from the platform above her.

"No!" Nikita struggled desperately to get a better grip on the rope that was stretched between the two towers, but the full pack on her back was weighing her down. She looked down at the water forty feet below her and made another frantic attempt to kick one leg over the rope above her head.

"Nikita! Cross your ankles and let go of the rope. Look up and keep your hands over your head when you fall, or you'll. . . " Michael didn't have a chance to finish. Nikita lost her grip, let out a shriek and fell sideways into the water. "Damn." He said beneath his breath and dove in after her.

While Michael's body split the water like a knife, Nikita hit it like a sack of rocks, knocking her senseless, and injuring one of the divers in the water. He followed her down to the bottom of the lake, tugging at the wet, entangling straps of the heavy pack as he struggled to free her of it and pull her to the surface at the same time.

When he got her to the surface, one of the divers had made it to their side and helped Michael boost Nikita's limp body onto the shore. "Get a medic," Michael told the diver with a calmness he didn't feel.

Nikita's pale face was nearly blue. Michael rolled her on her stomach and pushed some of the water out of her lungs, before rolling her over and beginning mouth to mouth resuscitation. In a moment Nikita began to cough and vomit up water. Michael held her as she coughed, shivered, and cried.

"I can't do this," she wailed as she threw up another mouthful of water.

Michael let go of her as the medics arrived. "Take her," he said grimly, then he bent near her and looked her right in the eye, "You can do it. And you will do it!" His voice was silky soft and deadly serious.

Nikita's expression was half hurt, half furious, as the medics lifted her to a waiting stretcher. She watched Michael run his hands over his head to smooth the water out of his hair, as he sauntered away to instruct the next trainee.

"If I died, he could care less!" She hissed, between tears.

"Sorry, but you're wrong." Moen, one of the trainers, knelt down and handed her a towel to wipe her face. "He's trying to teach you to survive. You have to be prepared for anything on a mission. If you can't hack it--if you wash out of survival training--" Moen pressed his lips together as he rubbed a second towel through her hair. He wasn't sure he should have started the conversation.

"If I can't hack it, what?" She snapped at him.

"You're canceled." He finished grimly.

"I'm dead either way, is that what you're telling me?"

"Not dead, if you listen to him and do what he says" Moen said with irritation. "It's your choice."

When they had arrived at the survival camp, Nikita had been amused. It was almost like she imagined summer camp might have been like, had she ever been allowed to go. There was a lake, hiking trails, even cabins. True it was a little rough, but as she sat on her bunk and looked at the sun setting low into a fiery grave of orange and hot pink, she was oddly content. She laid back on the simple cot and sighed. It was early and she was tired, but pleasantly so. She closed her eyes and was instantly asleep.

"Get up!"

"Hmm, what?" Nikita was startled awake. It was dark, but the horizon was still faintly gold. She realized she couldn't have been asleep for very long.

"I said, get up!" It was Michael's voice and his grip on her wrist jerking her to a sitting position. It was too dark to see his face, but she knew that silhouette and she knew that voice.

"Let go!" Nikita tried to pull free but Michael grabbed her other hand and dragged her off the cot and onto her feet.

"Come with me." He said in a tone that warned that he would not brook any argument.

"Let me at least put my shoes on. . . " She argued trying to twist free.

"You won't need them." He answered, pulling her out the cabin door into the cool evening air. She suddenly noticed that he was barefoot as well.

"Where are we going?" Nikita asked, finally giving in and following him.

Michael didn't answer, but the location was soon evident.

"After you," he said with more threat than politeness in his voice.

Nikita looked at the ladder that reached forty feet above them and cringed.

Nikita had her pride and Michael knew it was one of her "buttons". When all else failed, he pushed it. "Are you afraid?" He asked, knowingly.

She didn't answer. Instead she grabbed the nearest rung on the ladder and began to climb. Michael followed her a moment later.

Nikita looked down into the inky depths below, but was unable to see the surface of the water. She hung there--terrified--on a rope stretched between the two wooden towers, forty feet over the lake. Her hands beginning to cramp from the tight hold she had on the rope.

"Hang on, I'm coming out." Michael called to her.

Although she couldn't see him very well, she knew the exact moment he moved towards her. The vibrations threatened to shake her loose.

"I'm going to fall!" She screeched in panic. "Stop it!"

"Of course you're going to fall," Michael commented, suddenly at her side. "But only when I tell you to and only how I tell you to." He swung his body so that he was facing her, his hands holding on to the rope near hers. Nikita realized he was bare-chested and wearing only some type of long pants--jeans, most likely.

"Michael---please!" Nikita was regretting her earlier bravado.

"Shut up and listen!" He wrapped his legs around her waist to give her a little support.

"When I tell you, I want you to look up, cross your legs at your ankles, and let go of the rope. You will fall straight in the water--don't be tempted to look down--you'll seem to fall for a long time, but don't look down. If you do, you'll have a repeat of this afternoon. Do you understand?"

"Yes!" She hissed back.

"I'll be dropping with you, on the count of three. Drop before me--and I may land on you. Drop after me--and you'll hit me, and I won't be able to help you. We drop together--on three--understand?"

"I'm getting tired." She complained.

"Then we go now--" Michael said, removing his legs. "Head up, ankles crossed--one, two, three!"

Nikita fell and fell and fell. Just as she hit the surface of the lake, she felt Michael grab her wrist. He held on to her all the way to the sandy bottom of the lake, felt him push upwards, and pull her to the surface.

She coughed a little and Michael put one arm around her, while he swam to the shore with the other. "Are you all right?" His soft voice stood out against the silence of the summer evening.

"I've been better--" She said, but Michael could hear a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, just as they could touch bottom again. Standing in the shoulder deep water, Michael was a little disconcerted when Nikita also wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned into him. To keep himself from falling forward, he instinctively slipped his arms beneath her to hold her up.

"Mmm," She said coyly, "The water's nice, isn't it?"

"Nikita, the lesson is over." Michael continued walking towards shore.

"Then why don't you teach me something else then?" She whispered against his ear, before playfully nipping it.

Michael the machine was cooly indifferent; Michael the man was intrigued with the pebbled tips of her breasts grazing his chest through her wet t-shirt.

"We have to get back." He said stepping out of the water.

Nikita took that as her cue to release him, but not before she wiggled a little against his body as she slid ever-so-slowly down it.

Michael was shocked--not at Nikita's actions, but at his body's enthusiastic response. He was suddenly hard as stone, and what was worse, Nikita knew it and was doing her level best to capitalize on her advantage. . .

‘Like now. . .' Michael thought vaguely, still pressed to the door, while Nikita continued to storm his defenses with her body. With a tongue of warm velvet she caressed his mouth, teasing, then pleading for an response. And he gave himself up to her.

Michael cupped her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers, drinking her love for him like fine champagne. He kissed her, for all the times he'd wanted to and couldn't, and for all the times he needed to and wouldn't. For all the pain he'd caused her. For all the children he couldn't give her. For all the long years ahead that he would spend without her.

He kissed her while he scooped her up, while he carried her to bed, and while he laid her on it.

And again, with her name on his lips. "Nikita. . ." ‘Forgive me'.

And yet again, with the whispered words. . ."J'taime."

Nikita held him as he emptied out his passion and filled her with bliss, then wept at the only words in French she truly understood. Michael had finally said he loved her.

"Michael?" Nikita lifted her head in the dim light of the bedroom. She peered at the clock. It was nearly four. In another two hours they would both be back on call with the section. Nikita slumped back against the pillow, knowing how Cinderella must have felt at a quarter to twelve. She looked over at the bathroom door and noticed it was open and no one was inside. She fumbled against the dresser in the dark, then went to the bathroom and turned on the light. A few minutes of searching provided a t-shirt long enough to reach her knees. She pulled it on and went downstairs to find Michael.

‘Are you sure?" The words spread themselves across the blue screen of Michael's laptop.

He answered with a quickly keyed, ‘Yes', and pressed enter.

After a reluctant pause, came the response:‘Consider it done.'

Michael heard a sigh and turned. Nikita stood in the doorway of his study, her arms folded, her hair still entangled from his caresses. She had that playful twist to her lips, the kind she'd given him when she'd asked him out for coffee, and given him a cup of kindness instead. She was so beautiful, he thought sadly, both inside and out.

"You're already dressed,." she said, with a tinge of disappointment. The black was back. Nikita walked over to Michael as he clicked off his computer and put her arm around his shoulder as he sat at his desk. Michael wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, burying his face against her breast one last time.

"I guess I should gather up my clothes and go. I'll need time to change." Nikita said bending to kiss the top of his head. Then she ran her hands through his cinnamon hair and murmured, "God, I miss you already."

Her words stabbed at him and he hugged her tighter in response. If he looked at her, he knew that she would guess. With all the strength he had left, he carefully formed the words, "I miss you too."

"We are still going to have to be careful, aren't we?" She asked, worriedly.

He stood and quickly kissed her neck. "Yes." He turned away and tugged his jacket off the back of his chair. He slipped an arm in, then the other, then shrugged it over his shoulders and straightened it by tugging on the cuffs.

"Better get dressed. I'll follow you home on my bike."

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

Walter smiled knowingly when he saw Nikita on the way to the briefing room. She saw the smile and despite herself, blushed a deep red. She'd forgotten about Walter knowing where she'd been. For that matter, for the last three days, she'd nearly forgotten everything on the planet with the exception of Michael!

"Morning, Sugar."

Nikita gave him an embarrassed half-smile. "Morning, Walter."

Walter wagged his eyebrows suggestively, "Well?" He whispered for her alone.

She couldn't help herself. The happiness welded up and spilt over into a glorious smile.

Walter returned it with a mocking frown, "Damn! I'm jealous!" He accompanied her down the hallway until they reached the briefing room. Before they entered, he took her elbow and stopped her long enough to add, "Just be careful, sugar. Okay?"

Nikita nodded, then added, "Thanks, Walter. . . for everything."

Madeline led the morning meeting in lieu of Operations, who was still at the agency.

After regular business was discussed, a review of the last mission was begun. Each team member was asked for their evaluation of the operation, to elevate any problems that were encountered so they could be corrected in future missions.

When it was Walter's turn, he folded his arms and suggested, "Better bio-suits are in order. Those suits I issued to the team were defective, in my opinion. From the reports I've read so far, they tore too easily."

Madeline sat with her laced-fingers resting atop the black-glazed conference table. After a short pause, she turned, looked Walter right in the eye and calmly commented, "If they hadn't, they wouldn't have met the mission profile."

Walter was stunned. "You mean. . . you mean they were supposed to tear?"

Madeline ignored his question, "Do you have anything else to add, Walter?"

Walter's expression went from appalled, to hostile, as he shot a look in Michael's direction. Earlier, Madeline had said that Michael had written the mission profile!

Michael returned Walter's expression passively. He looked at each Red Team member in turn, and saw in their faces shock and betrayal. All but Nikita's. He couldn't look at Nikita.

Madeline shot a covert look in Michael's direction and tried to soften the animosity a little by adding with some emphasis, "We had our instructions from the agency and we did the job. Quite successfully, I might add. The agency and Operations are very pleased." She smoothly changed the subject by asking Birkoff for his evaluation of the mission.

It took Birkoff a second to respond, and when he did it was in monotone. He couldn't take his eyes off Michael's face. No one could--except Nikita.

Walter turned to look at Nikita seated next to him. She sat in silence, staring wide-eyed at a spot on the wall across from her. Walter recognized that she had been completely crushed by the revelation about the suits and was hanging onto her composure by her fingernails. He reached under the table with his hand to offer comfort, but she yanked her hand out from under his attempt and knotted it into a fist. He patted her knee instead, letting her know he understood, and left it at that.

The meeting adjourned and Michael and Madeline stood and left together; the others lingered, giving each other speaking glances. They kept their comments to themselves, aware that everything spoken in the conference room was monitored and recorded, but the general consensus was anger, confusion, and disbelief.

Walter pulled out Nikita's chair. She stood like a zombie, not speaking. He followed her out into the hallway.

"Sugar. . . we don't know the whole story." Walter began, trying to excuse Michael's actions, for Nikita's sake. "You know how Section works. Sometimes, we aren't given a choice."

She nodded stoically, before bursting into tears. Covering her mouth with one hand to hold in her sobs, Nikita pushed past him. Then breaking into a run, she headed to her standby quarter's in section.

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

"Michael." Madeline sighed as she looked at him, then seated herself behind her desk. "I hope I haven't seriously undermined your command and control of Red Team, but the opening was there, and I took it."

Michael had his back to her. "Is it true? Were the suits purposely designed to fail?"

She sighed again, resigned to tell him the truth. "Yes."

He turned to face her, his expression dark and forbidding. "Why wasn't I told?"

"It was Operation's decision not to tell you. We knew it might distract you from the mission and it wasn't necessary for you to know."

"In the long run, it serves my purpose," Michael said with resignation. He had asked Madeline's help in cooling Nikita's interest earlier that morning, and she had promised to do so.

Michael's plan had been to let Nikita think he had torn her suit on purpose, and he had worked out a scenario to fit the facts of what happened on site in Iraq.

However, Walter's comment about the suits had presented another plausible scenario and Madeline quickly capitalized on the situation using a truth that until that moment, only she and Operations knew. In her mind, it was less damaging to Michael than Michael's plan had been.

At least part of the blame could be shifted to the agency, and she banked on the Red Team members realizing that fact once they had time to think about it. At one time or another, Michael had saved the lives of all of Red Team--including Nikita's. The team would eventually forgive him. Everyone, of course, except Nikita. Her's was the only heart that had been broken.

"All of this for Nikita." Madeline said, looking at him with sympathy.

"For the Section." Michael returned, firmly. "Her feelings for me are interfering with her focus on assignments."

"Of course," Madeline answered, letting his lie go unchallenged. She knew the real reasons well enough. She knew Michael was doing it to protect Nikita, and she agreed with him on several levels. Michael and Nikita had become too close. Sooner or later, Madeline knew it would have proven disastrous, just as Michael did. On the other hand, she worried that Michael might not be strong enough to cope with his decision.

"Would you like some more time off?" She offered.

"No." Michael said, then turned to leave.

Madeline nodded, knowing that would be his answer. She turned her attention to her computer screen.

"Madeline?"

Madeline looked up at Michael as he stood near the door.

"Thanks for your help," he said.

She gave him a sad smile, and nodded.

Michael walked to his office, passing team members and staff. He got looks of various types, both hostile and reflective. He ignored them all. He didn't have to see Nikita to know how she felt. He saw her emotions reflected in Walter's eyes at the meeting.

He locked his door, then walked over and closed the blinds over the window. He went to his desk, unbuttoned his coat and seated himself behind his lap-top. He hadn't bothered to turn on the office lights, so the only light source in the room was the blue screen of his computer.

For two hours, Michael stared at the empty screen, thinking of eyes nearly the same color. He had succeeded. He'd saved his love, and lost his reason for living.

For Michael, it had been more than an even exchange.

The End