---

"All done?" Nikita asked, wrapping the thin, medical dressing gown tighter against her body.

"Looks that way." The woman doctor made a few more notes.

"See, I told you. Just a few cuts and bruises." Nikita yawned, and started to scoot off the exam table.

"When was your last menstrual cycle?" Came another question.

"My last what?" The question caught Nikita off guard.

"Your last period."

Nikita stopped to think about it, and flushed red. She couldn't remember. "I--I'm not sure," she stammered. "My periods are never regular--I can go home and look on my calendar."

"Is there any chance you might be pregnant?" The woman asked calmly.

"Pregnant?" Every drop of blood suddenly pooled in Nikita's feet. She swayed to one side and the doctor grabbed her by the arm and made her sit back on the exam table.

"You feeling faint?"

"I--I--can't be pregnant!" Nikita said with growing horror.

"Well, you have all the signs. I've ordered a pregnancy test to be sure."

Nikita looked at the Section doctor with one question on her mind and lips, "And if I am?"

The woman looked sympathetic, "I don't make the decisions around here." She said quietly, pocketing her stethoscope, as if to leave.

"Wait! Please wait. Look, . . . could you not say anything to anyone. . . "

"You know I can't do that. . ."

"Just. . . just for a day. Just until tomorrow." Nikita pleaded.

The woman sighed. "All right. I can delay my report until tomorrow afternoon, but I don't see how that will change anything for you."

"I just need time to think--t-to deal with it."

"Do you know who the father is? By guessing, I'd say you're at least two months, probably closer to three."

‘Michael.' Nikita nodded slowly. "Can I get dressed now?"

"Sure." The woman reached over to open the door, then turned and said, "I'm so sorry." Nikita nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

She sat, stunned at the revelation for several minutes, trying to regain control over the tears that rolled steadily down her face. She slipped off the exam table and went into the adjoining bathroom to get dressed. She caught her reflection in the mirror and studied herself for a moment. "Well, at least now you know why you've been so weepy lately, Nikita"

She told herself ironically, before bursting into sobs.

A full hour later, Nikita slipped out of the exam room. Stone-faced she headed for the recovery area to see Michael.

"He's still unconscious," commented a medic as Nikita entered Michael's room. She nodded, and went over to his bed. She still wasn't used to the short hair, Nikita told herself as she gazed down at him. Maybe that's why he looked so thin and so ill. There were dark smudges under both eyes, to go along with his two-day growth of beard.

"How's he doing?" She asked aloud.

"Well. . . we don't know yet." The medic stepped over and adjusted the drip on an IV line, before hanging another bag of whole blood and starting that dripping as well. "He had a lot of internal bleeding and trauma. We think we've got the bleeding stopped, but he's just not coming along as well as we expected him to, by this time."

"Will he live?" Nikita asked in a small voice.

The medic smiled, "Hey, this is Michael. I've seen him much worse than this, and he pulled through. He's strong. Tough. I wouldn't worry. Ninety-nine percent of getting better is the will to live and Michael has the strongest will I've ever seen." Finished with his duties, the medic left the room.

"Michael? Can you hear me?" Nikita slipped her hand over his as it lay so still on the bed. It felt cold and she absently stroked it back and forth as if to bring it some warmth.

"Please Michael---wake up. Wake up and tell me what to do--" Her voice broke and she covered her mouth with her other hand to cover the sound of it.

‘Lost. . . lost . . .' Michael searched for her. He could hear her voice but couldn't call out. He looked through all the rooms, all dark and sad, following the sound of her voice like a silver thread, pulling him desperately through the fabric of the night.

He was so tired. So very tired, but he continued the search. What did anything mean, if he couldn't find her. . . have her. . .?

‘Nikita. . . wait for me'

He could see her face! Close enough to touch but he couldn't move. He felt like ice-- first frozen, then melting away. She looked at him but couldn't see him and he was powerless to speak or move or plead.

Nikita kissed him goodbye. She had a day to plan her life. She left the Section for the last time. Left Michael. Left all, for the life most precious to her now.

***********

Her apartment was as she had left it days before. A lonely cup of tea sat unfinished on the counter; a mold floated in the center of the remaining liquid. ‘An island of life'--Nikita felt guilty when she up-ended it into the sink.

Nikita began to pace the floor, wondering where she could go to be safe--at least until the baby was born. After that, she had no plans. After that, they could cancel her all they wanted! She started thinking through the sequencing, as Michael had taught her. Where would Section expect her to go? On the streets? Nikita'd been there before and knew the ropes. They would first look there, she was sure. She had to find the least likely scenario--the last place in the world they would expect her to go to. She sat down on the ledge that led to the door to the balcony and stared out the window, then looked down at her hand. Brandon's ring was still on her finger.

She twisted it around and around while she thought. Then suddenly, she got an idea. She needed isolation--to be where no one would think to look, like a cabin in the woods of Colorado!

* * *

"Michael."

Michael slowly opened his eyes. Madeline stood over him, her expression grim.

"Yes?" His voice was hoarse.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"Nikita's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?" Michael tried to lift his head but was still too weak.

"Gone as in, she's escaped."

"No. No she wouldn't."

"She has."

"No! She wouldn't--not without good reason."

"Michael," Madeline's voice got softer, "Nikita's pregnant."

"Ohmygod. . . " Michael barely breathed the words. "How?"

"How?" Madeline almost laughed. "Michael--the doctor said when Nikita was so ill, no one thought it important to give her birth control pills. She was off the pill for over a week."

Still dazed by the information, Michael caught Madeline's wrist, "How pregnant is she?"

"Three months."

Michael's eyes closed with despair; the baby was his. "Does Operations know yet?"

"No. Officially, Nikita's on two weeks leave. He was so pleased with Nikita's composure during this last mission that Ops approved it himself. But we have to locate her, and soon. If not, it will be out of my hands. Operations will have no choice but cancellation. So if you have any ideas where she may have gone, I suggest you tell me."

"I don't know." Michael struggled, to sit up.

"Michael, you're in no shape. . ."

"I'm fine." He said, his voice shaky.

"Michael, you aren't going anywhere. If you don't stay still, I will have you sedated."

"Why? Why tell me these things when you know I have to go find her?"

"Time for that tomorrow. For now, I'll settle for any hunches."

***********

Michael felt the room spinning and knew Madeline was right. He'd be of no help in this condition.

"She,. . . " he collapsed back on the pillow, "she knows the streets. . . but. . ."

"But?"

"She'd realize it would be the first place we would look."

"My thoughts exactly, so?"

"I don't know--do we have her mother's address?"

"Her mother? She can be found, but would Nikita endanger her mother?"

"You're right. Even if she wasn't much of a mother, Nikita loves her. Then she'd go somewhere with few people. She'd have to find a job."

"I've got Walter over at her apartment looking for clues."

"Tell him to check the surveillance video." Michael replied.

"I thought we no longer had Nikita under surveillance."

"I put her back under, several months ago," Michael admitted wearily.

"Why?"

"When we had the incident with Red Cell and the loss of the directory, I thought it would be safer to put her back under. There are three movement-tracking, micro-transmitters, one in the living room, one in the bedroom and one monitoring the balcony."

"Fine. I'll tell him to get on it."

"Madeline?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why do I do anything, Michael? For the Section. You're a good operative, perhaps the best that Operations has. We need your special talents. But I've come to realize that Nikita has value as well. She proved that in Colorado. She kept her head and she did the job. And she serves another purpose--she keeps you alive, Michael. That's good for Section and for Operations. I can appreciate why she left--that surprises you?"

Michael was puzzled, "Yes, a little."

Madeline shrugged, "Funny, it does me too. No matter. It will all be a moot point if we can't locate her within the next two weeks."

"And when we do. What about the baby?"

Madeline's expression became inscrutable. "One crisis at a time, Michael. Let's find Nikita first."

Colorado---

The cabin showed no sign of the carnage that had happened around it only a week before. Nikita peeked inside the window to assure herself it was deserted, then expertly picked the lock and let herself inside.

Though not large, the cabin seemed comfortable enough. There were a total of three rooms--the living area, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The living area had a tiny kitchen that Nikita was relieved to find was stocked with some food. Whichever Aryan Brother owned the cabin was most likely dead and his family was too busy grieving to worry about a piece of mountain property--at least for a while, Nikita hoped.

Nikita dumped her backpack inside the door and set about making her new home livable. By that evening, snow had begun to fall and Nikita stood shivering at the bedroom window to watch it. The only source of heat was the fireplace, but Nikita was afraid someone might see or smell the smoke and investigate. She'd been cold before many times on the street, at least here, she had a roof over her head.

"It's not a bad little cabin," she said, talking to her unborn child. "It's got food, and water from a well, even electricity--if I get brave enough to start up the generator. It has everything, except your father." She sighed, wondering how Michael was doing. Was he alive? Dead?

She watched the feathery snow as it sifted down through the trees. It was both beautiful and lonely. Nikita felt as if she were the only living thing remaining on the planet.

"Tomorrow, we buy us a radio," she said, rubbing her hand over her still flat belly. "And we look for a job."

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

"What's she doing?" Michael asked over Walter's shoulder.

"Wait--I'll freeze that and enhance." Walter squinted at the screen in concentration.

"Well?"

Walter looked over at Michael out of the corner of his eye and frowned. Michael seemed worried. He hadn't stopped pacing for the past hour. Realizing he hadn't responded yet, Walter muttered, "Hang onto your shorts a sec. It's one of the yellow pages in the phone book."

"Can you get a shot of the page?"

"Maybe. . .if you'd give me some time . . ." Walter's voice had an edge to it.

"Just do it!" Michael snapped.

"Look Michael," Walter said grimly, "First of all, I don't like spying on Nikita. Can you at least tell me what you're looking for? Where it concerns Nikita, you know you can trust me."

Michael looked pained and rubbed the bridge of his nose in agitation. "She went on a two-week vacation, but she didn't report to Section where she was going. It looks bad, when you fail to report those kinds of things."

"And you think, she's split the scene?" Walter asked point blank.

Michael didn't answer, although his silence spoke volumes.

"Oh, geez--" Walter said, with great concern. "Why would she? Why now? She aced this last assignment--hell, even Operations is bragging on her!"

"Just find her, Walter. I have no answers for your questions."

"After I find her, then what? You cancel her?" Walter asked angrily.

"No. I bring her back. Alive." Michael's voice was as soft and wistful as his expression. Walter nodded, realizing that Michael was telling him the truth.

"All right. This is as good as it gets." The photograph was fuzzy from being enlarged. "I suggest we go to her house, get her yellow pages and compare it with the picture on the screen. Who knows, maybe she wrote something down, dog-eared a page, or tore one out."

"Make a hard copy and let's go." Michael was already out the door, before Walter could move.

The yellow page that Nikita had been looking at had been a listing for travel agencies. It took time, but Michael systematically checked each company cited on that page. After five unsuccessful visits, he found the one that recalled seeing Nikita.

"And you're sure this is the woman you saw?" Michael asked the man behind the desk as he held up Nikita's photo.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure. She's drop dead gorgeous, isn't she?" The young man said, with a wide smile.

Michael pulled out his fake FBI identification, "She also wanted for bank robbery."

The smile slid off the man's face, "Bank robbery? Her?"

"Yes. Can you tell me where she was traveling to?"

"Ah, well, I think so. I-I'll have to check my records. . . "

"Did she pay with cash?"

"Well, yeah. Now that you mention it--I thought it was odd. Most people pay by credit card. Do you mean, she paid us with stolen money?"

"It's possible."

"It's already been deposited in our accounts."

"Don't worry about it. If the information you provide us leads to an arrest, you will be eligible for a reward offered by the bank."

"Really? How much?" The man's silly grin was back.

Michael could see dollar signs in the man's eyes, and it irritated him. "It all depends on her arrest and if the money is recovered or not. You'll be contacted as soon as we find her."

"Great! Well, I'll be back in a few minutes!"

"She's in Colorado." Michael said into his cell phone, on his way to the airport.

"Good. Contact me when you find her." Madeline answered.

"Of course." Michael said before clicking off the phone.

***********

Nikita crawled back into bed after her third trip to the bathroom that morning. Whether she had morning sickness or the flu she didn't know--either way, she was miserable. She tried to get back to sleep, but was so cold, and achy, she couldn't rest. Finally, after watching the blowing snow from the bedroom window for several hours, Nikita concluded that no one in their right mind would be out in such a storm and it should be safe to build a fire. She dressed quickly, and ventured outside to get some firewood.

Michael landed the small jet on an isolated mountain airstrip frequented by NSA and FBI pilots in their pursuit of drug smugglers and terrorists. A four by four truck sat near the runway with his gear already inside.

"Looks like you got here just in time," commented his local contact, "we just shut down the runway. Too much snow coming down to keep the runway clear. If you need a quick exit, you're going to be limited to ground transport, probably for the next 36 to 48 hours. We've got a strong cold front stalled out over the mountains and up slope conditions. Gonna get a lot of white stuff out of this one."

Michael nodded, and took the keys of the vehicle from the man's outstretched hand.

"Okay---that's got it." Nikita muttered to herself, her breath still condensing into clouds of white mist as she spoke. Flames licked tentatively at the dry wood, crackling, and smoking just before suddenly roaring upwards, filling the room with heat and light.

For a long while Nikita sat in her coat and boots, in front of the warmth of her fire. She was tired and still feverish, but the fire was such a comfort, she debated on whether to return to bed, or sleep on the floor in front of it.

"What do you think?" Nikita said, her eyes heavy with sleep, as she absently rubbed her belly. "You warm enough in there?" She yawned, then made her decision. Taking off her boots and jacket, Nikita retreated to the bedroom to strip the bed of it's sheets, blankets and pillows. The fire would need stoking during the night, she thought; might as well be close enough to do it quickly and lose less sleep.

The snow continued falling all night, with the wind blowing it into drifts several feet high. Having left his vehicle stalled a mile back, Michael's chest felt on fire; his broken ribs, only taped, ached with the cold, but he kept walking. He was playing a hunch, the only one he had. If Nikita wasn't where he thought, he had no other leads, or hope for any, without Section's "help". But he had no intention of having Section help him find a corpse, because if he couldn't find Nikita on his own, within the next few days, they were both as good as dead.

He spotted the cabin and took out his night vision binoculars and searched the area. There was no sign of occupancy, no lights, but he could smell wood burning and it was nearby. He tried to see if there was any smoke coming out of the chimney, but the snow was falling so heavily he couldn't see any.

Michael approached the cabin with care. If Nikita was there, it was no assurance she wouldn't kill him on sight. If she wasn't, well the cabin had recently witnessed a firefight in which its owner was killed. Whoever was in the cabin might not be exactly friendly towards strangers.

Wincing at the stress to his broken ribs by the simple act of chambering a round, Michael moved carefully through the trees towards the side of the cabin that had no windows. His fingers and toes burned with the cold and he shouldered his way against the wind as it whipped around the corner of the cabin.

There were two entrances to the small house. Michael tried the rear exit first, with no success. It seemed to be bolted from the inside. He moved stealthily around the cabin until he got to the front porch and door. The door had a regular locking doorknob; Michael tried to turn it, but found it locked as well.

Quickly disabling the lock and tightening his grip on his gun, Michael carefully inched the door open. An instant later, he saw something catch the light as it fell, and instinctively grabbed for it. He caught the glass in inch before it impacted with the floor. It was Nikita's homemade burglar alarm--a glass she'd balanced on the doorknob. But the save caused him to land chest first on the floor, and although he made only a slight thud on the heavy carpet, an incredible pain exploded through him, knocking the breath from his lungs.

While he was still struggling to catch his breath, Michael opened his eyes into the beam of a flashlight. He put up his hand to block the light and saw Nikita standing over him in the glare--with one shaking hand holding the light, the other holding a gun.

**********

Nikita stared down into Michael's face, half in terror, half in despair. She hadn't been gone five days, and already Section had tracked her down. She kept the gun on him, as she inched her way towards the door to see if Michael was alone or not.

He made no attempt to move, or speak. Instead he lowered his arm, then his head to the floor.

Waving him away from the door with the gun, still held in front of her. Nikita pushed it closed as Michael weakly shoved himself away from it.

"Your weapon! Drop it!?" Nikita shouted.

Michael's gloved hand, placed it on safety, laid it carefully on the floor and tried to push it to her. The carpet kept it from moving very far.

Nikita reached down and swiftly knocked it out of Michael's reach.

"Get up!" She stepped away from him to allow him plenty of room.

Michael tried to lift his head, and failed. His ears began to ring and he managed only to roll his head to one side.

"Are you . . . all right?" He asked, his voice a bare whisper. His eyes slid shut and he made no other sound.

"I'm not buying it Michael, so you can give it up. I said get up!"

He didn't move.

"Damn it, Michael! I mean it! Stop playing games with me! Get! Up!"

Still, he didn't move.

Nikita stood in the darkness of the cabin, for nearly ten minutes, unsure whether to trust Michael being conscious or not. Finally, she touched him with one hand. When he didn't react, she felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready and she put down the gun.

"Michael?" She carefully searched him for wounds, and found the heavy tape wrapped around his chest and waist.

"Damn it, Michael! Please!" Nikita stood up and paced into the kitchen, then back again. Section knew where she was--she had to leave! But Michael! She started to cry in frustration. She had to leave, but had no where to go. She HAD to leave, but couldn't in the storm--and even if she could, she couldn't leave Michael like this!

Nikita went into the bathroom and snatched some tissue off the roll to blow her nose.

"Damn you!" She said aloud, addressing anyone who might be able to hear. She returned to the livingroom and carefully dragged Michael closer to the fire.

***********

Nikita was startled awake by the soft caress of Michael's fingertips against her cheek. She had fallen asleep along side him after hours of keeping a vigil. It was dark outside once again. Nikita's watch told her it was either five in the evening, or five in the morning. She was too disoriented to know which.

"How long have you been awake?" She asked, feeling his forehead; it cool, almost cold.

"Not long." His raspy voice was almost unrecognizable and Nikita knew he spoke each word in pain.

"Michael, we have to get you to a hospital."

"No." He struggled to sit up, but was so weak he couldn't raise his head. Seeing that only made Nikita more insistent.

"Michael! Shut up and listen!" She leaned over him and looked him squarely in the eye. She almost broke a smile at his look of mild indignation; for once she would have the last word.

"How did you get here? A car? A truck?"

"Truck."

"Where is it?"

"Too far. . ."

"Where?" She insisted.

"Stalled out."

She flashed him an exasperated look before carefully searching him. "Where's your cell phone?"

"Left in truck." He whispered.

"Why are you here, anyway?" She asked giving up the search. "I'm not going back." There was an edge of steel to her words.

"I know." Michael returned, looking over at her, his face pasty-white with pain.

"You came to cancel me then?" She asked, her blue eyes half-hurt, half-reproachful.

"No." He replied.

"Then why?" She got up and went to where she kept a thermos of hot tea.

"To go with you." He finished, his gray-green eyes, dipped half-closed.

"Go with me?" Nikita's voice was full of disbelief.

"You'll never make it alone. . ."

"I did before!" She reminded angrily.

Michael opened his eyes and pinned her with them. He didn't need words to say that she hadn't made it alone for long. She dropped her eyes in silent acknowledgment.

"I found you," Michael said. "They will find you, too."

"That's what you keep saying--so, we both run and we have a better chance? I don't think so." She got to her feet and walked into the kitchen for a cup. She carefully poured some of the still-hot tea, spooned in some lemon juice and honey and, stirring as she walked, brought it back to where Michael lay.

"Here, try to get some of this down. It should help to break up the congestion a little. I don't like the way you sound." She knelt down, bent over him, and gently lifted his head so he could take a sip of the tea.

"I'm fine," he whispered hoarsely, catching her hand before she could move away.

"You're NOT fine, Michael! You're white as a ghost and your skin is cold and clammy! You should be in a hospital!"

He ignored her, and painfully reached out with one hand to gently touch her abdomen. "Have you felt it yet?"

Nikita felt her entire body melt at his touch. Her hand covered his and held it against her for a moment, before she could answer, "No, not yet. The baby book says you can start feeling it at four months. I've got at least a week, maybe two. . . " She stopped speaking, her eyes filling with tears, realizing there might not be another week for her, much less two.

"Oh, Michael. . ." Her voice was barely a whisper, "I want this baby so much. . .so much!"

Michael wanted to tell her it would be all right--but that would be another lie, so he told her nothing. Instead he held her hand in his. He had no answers, no way out, no hope. The most he could do was give her a little more time to adjust to the inevitable. He couldn't-wouldn't allow her to destroy herself, not even to save his child. Somehow, he had to protect her from this calamity he had brought upon her.

"I'm sorry." Michael finally said aloud.

"For what?" Nikita asked, moving away from his touch.

"For everything. For what I've done to you." Michael said, ‘and what I still must do. . .' his heart whispered sadly.

"Sorry?" Nikita sat back on her heels and looked down at him. "I'm not. Of all the things that have happened to me, since I got into Section, this is the only good thing--" Nikita froze. "How did you know--about the baby?"

"Madeline told me."

"She sent you, didn't she? To bring me back!" Her blue eyes flared with her accusation.

Michael told her the truth, because it suited his purpose, "Yes."

"Why?" Nikita demanded. "Why, when it's evident she knows I've gone AWOL?"

"She hasn't told Operations."

"Why not? What's going on that you haven't told me about?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing is always something with you, Michael. What are you hiding?"

He closed his eyes and didn't answer. She couldn't handle the truth, and he was weary of lies.

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

Nikita felt him close up and knew further questions would be useless. "It doesn't matter anyway, I'm NOT going back."

"I know." He replied softly, turning his head away.

"I mean it, Michael! Section has stolen my life--it's not going to get this child's as well. It didn't do anything to get into Section! It's innocent--isn't that the entire purpose of Section? Protecting the innocent?" She got up, not expecting an answer and began to gather up her things. Dragging her backpack out of the corner of the room where she had tossed it upon her arrival, she quickly began to stuff it with her belongings.

"I don't know what Madeline is up to, and I don't bloody care!" She started to cry again, out of exhaustion, and disappointment. "Is it so much to ask--just this one thing?"

"Nikita."

"Don't you care? Even a little?" She stopped packing and crawled over to where he still lay on the floor in front of the fire. "It's your baby too, Michael!"

He cared. He cared and could do nothing! The emotional anguish was ten times more painful than what he was suffering physically. Just watching Nikita mourn a loss, she now could only visualize, would be nothing to seeing her mourn for real. He knew it from experience. He knew it from watching Simone. She was such a tiny thing; petite and dark and full of fight. So different than Nikita and yet so alike in many ways. . .

Slender as a child, wiry as a seasoned veteran, Simone stood in Madeline's office awaiting her new assignment: Michael.

"This?" Simone asked with a short laugh, when Madeline introduced them. She tossed a handful of her past-the-waist, straight, black hair over one shoulder, as she spoke.

Michael regarded the tiny Asian woman with some irritation and no little embarrassment. Madeline had just finished explaining the next phase of his training and he was more than a little uncomfortable with the idea. He much preferred the combat and tactical part of his Section duties to this new task of seduction. He had a few experiences with women, not many. Most were disappointing and he'd never been in love. He'd been too busy with school and working for his father.

"Is he a virgin?" Simone asked, with a wicked smile, "he's blushing like one."

"Simone. Please?" Madeline asked firmly.

Simone capitulated with a wry grin and sat down, crossing her legs at the knee. Michael sat as well, at the opposite end of the couch, frowning, and refusing to look at his tiny antagonist.

Madeline sighed, shooting Simone with a disapproving look before returning to seat herself at her desk. It didn't seem to faze Simone at all, she sat completely undaunted by the whole situation. She bounced her one leg constantly, as it was balanced on the other. Like a ball of kinetic energy, she seemed ready to ping off the walls if given half a chance. And she smiled too much, Michael thought disdainfully, wondering who in their right mind could smile that much, and be in Section.

"Michael, I realize this type of duty isn't exactly your cup of tea, but you know it's part of the day to day job of many of our agents, and you'll just have to grin and bear it like the rest of them." There was a slight edge of humor to Madeline's words when she added, "Uh, no pun intended."

Simone roared with laughter, while Michael flushed redder, with anger. He hated this!

"All right--Simone this is all your fault!" Madeline chuckled despite trying not to. She turned to Michael, with her lips twitching, and apologized. "I'm sorry Michael--she's an imp! Sometimes, she's infectious!"

"I am not! I've had my shots!" Simone retorted with comic smugness and folded her arms.

Madeline's hand rose to smother a laugh, even as she ordered, "Get out of here, Simone! Now! And don't forget Michael!"

Feeling like excess baggage, Michael followed a near prancing Simone into the hallway.

"Okay," she quipped, turning to look up at him with dark brown eyes, "My place or yours?"

Michael rolled his eyes, and lifted his arms in silent supplication, as if to plead with the Deity, "Why me?" Simone took that as an answer and grabbed him by one of them.

"Okay, mine. At least I know the sheets are clean."

She led him down to her section quarters. "Home sweet home--it isn't, but it is private." She said, closing the door and locking it.

"So! Have a seat. Want a Coke? Some milk?" She left him standing in the middle of the room while she peeked into the small refrigerator in the kitchenette.

Michael looked around for the seat she mentioned and saw only the bed. Reluctantly, he walked over and sat on the corner of it.

"Can you talk?" Simone asked suddenly.

"What?" The question took Michael by surprise.

"Guess you can. Or at least you have one word in your vocabulary."

"What?" Michael was growing confused.

"Yep! That's the word!" She shook her head. "Would-you-like-to-have-a Coke?" She spoke slowly, as if speaking to a not-so-bright child, then paused with a raised eyebrow for an answer.

"Milk." Michael retorted.

"Milk, it is." Her head disappeared into the refrigerator again while she retrieved the requested item. With a milk carton in one hand, and two glasses in the other, she kicked off her shoes and sauntered over to the bed.

Silently, she held out the glasses until Michael took them. He held them, while she poured. Then Simone skipped back over the to the refrigerator, replaced the milk, and skipped back to the bed.

"Thanks!" She said happily, taking one of the glasses of milk from Michael's hand.

They sat side by side drinking their milk for several minutes, without uttering a word to each other, until Simone bounced off the bed and went over to her small stereo.

"What kind of music do you like?"

Michael shrugged with disinterest.

"I like everything--can you dance?" She asked brightly.

"No"

"No problem. I can teach you." She opened a jewel-case and slipped a CD into the machine. Almost immediately a soft, moody sax filled the air.

"Slow dancing is your first lesson." Simone said, suddenly standing before him with her hands held out to him.

Michael blinked. She seemed to be in constant motion, darting about like a hummingbird and just as fast.

**********

"You shy, as well as quiet?" Simone asked, her hands still waiting for him to take one of them.

"Is this part of the assignment?" He asked, setting his empty glass on the floor and taking her hands.

"Only if you want it to be." She answered, with a one-shouldered shrug. "If you don't want it to be, then I charge ten dollars a dance--it's your choice."

Michael's lips lifted at the corners and Simone looked aghast. "Oh, my God! His face is cracking!" She leaned closer on inspection, "Or is that a smile?"

The crack got wider until it was readily a smile. Simone smiled back, and Michael noticed two tiny dimples in her cheeks that he had overlooked earlier.

"Okay, you're bigger than me--rule number one--don't step on me! Rule number two, move with the music, not against it."

Michael immediately broke rule number one.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry." He was instantly contrite.

"That's okay. I only use that foot half the time." She said hopping around on the other.

Michael was beginning to wonder if she was on springs!

"Okay, I think the circulations back." Simone said, "But now I get to step on your feet awhile." She stepped up on top of his black-booted feet, but was so light Michael hardly noticed, except that she was almost eye-to-eye with him.

"O-Kay," she said brightly, "That's better--the view is too! My, my, what big green eyes you have--or are they gray?" She leaned closer in and Michael laughed as her almond eyes seemed to meld into one.

"Is this part of the training too?" Michael asked.

"Ohhh, no. I charge for this." Simone said with a wag of her eyebrows.

"You're supposed to say, ‘okay'" Michael returned.

For once he had caught her off guard, "Why?"

"You've used that word in just about every sentence in the last five minutes."

Her forehead puckered in thought for a moment, "Could be. It was the first American word I learned when I was little--that and "G.I."

Now Michael frowned, and for the first time, Simone seemed a tiny bit subdued.

"Is English your second language?"

She brightened instantly, "Third, actually. French was second."

"Oui? Vraiment?" Michael asked with a smile.

"Oui, mon brave!" Dimples peeped out again. She looked down at their feet, "Hey! You can dance, you liar!"

Michael looked down as well, at her tiny feet atop his seemingly huge one's by comparison. He grinned as they were moving well with the music. "I had a good teacher." He replied at last, only in French.

"Flattery will get you anywhere you want to go!" She replied in the same language.

"Oh, speak again bright angel!" Michael quoted with a wistful smile, "I haven't had anyone to speak French with, for such a long time."

"Me either--I might be a little rusty."

"What's was your first language?"

"Vietnamese."

Michael grinned and replied to her in Vietnamese, "Really, it's my third language."

Simone's jaw dropped in surprised admiration, "You speak perfectly! Where did you learn?"

"My trainer, Jurgen. And Operations--he speaks it fluently as well."

"Ah!" Simone's head bobbed back and forth, "Operations, " she added cryptically. Then with a short sigh, she said, "I guess we'd better get back to the business at hand."

At the mention of Operations name, it seemed a cloud had passed over the sun of Simone's soul for a moment. For several minutes, neither said a word, letting the music guide their bodies around the room. In that time, Michael noticed a few more things about her.

She had slender hands, with long, French manicured nails, and her blue-black hair carried the scent of sandalwood. It was her one real beauty, that hair, Michael thought. So straight and glossy, it almost looked unreal. Each strand of hair remained smugly separate from all the others, except when they all moved together in a dusky waterfall over her shoulder. It begged to be touched and before he realized it, he was fingering a handful of it, rubbing it across his palm.

Simone leaned closer and rested her head against his shoulder as the slow music continued. She had slipped her hands out of his a moment before and linked her tiny arms around his neck, and Michael had responded almost instinctively by wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

She was so tiny, he thought, delicate, like a bird--like a hummingbird, he thought again, and smiled. He must have chuckled, because Simone suddenly pulled back to look at him.

"What's got you laughing?" She asked with a wry smile.

Michael shook his head as if he had no answer, and he hadn't. In the past half hour Simone had made him smile more than he had in the past two years. He thought back to Madeline, laughing --actually cracking jokes! He shook his head again and laughed.

"Oh, private joke, eh?" Simone tugged playfully on his earlobe.

"No. Just thinking of Madeline."

"Madeline? I'm jealous! Rule number three, never talk about other women when dancing cheek to cheek." Simone reached down and pinched Michael on the butt.

It so surprised him that he stopped dancing, and Simone's feet slipped off his boots and onto the floor.

Oh, did that hurt?" She teased, looking up at him with those dimples showing again. "Such a nice butt too! Come on--let's go wash it!" She grabbed him by the hand and started to lead him across the room.

"W-what? Where are we going?" Michael asked, suddenly bewildered.

"Back to work." She chirped as she skipped towards the bathroom with him in tow.

"Work?"

***********

"Sit!" Simone ordered, pointing at the closed toilet seat. Michael did as she told him.

"Take off your boots."

He sighed, pulled them off, and chucked them in the corner.

"Socks too."

Michael continued pulling. They joined his boots quietly.

"Now what?" He asked, feeling foolish and uncomfortable. For the first time, he had to look up to her.

Simone lifted her arms, "Undress me."

"Undress. . . " Michael began to rub his hand across his jaw. "All right . . ." He reached out, grabbed a handful of Simone's jade-colored blouse, and jerked it upwards.

"No. Not like that!" Simone chastised comically, and jerked it back down again. "Look," she straddled him where he sat, "Look-into-my-eyes!" She chanted like a hypnotist and pointed to her eyes with the ‘V' formed by her first two fingers.

Michael smiled again; he couldn't help himself.

"Like this," she said softly. Her slender hands, connected to sinuous arms, slid over his shoulders and across his chest where they lingered for a brief moment to massage. Next her fingers moved up the back of his neck and into his scalp. They massaged there a while as well.

It felt good. Michael closed his eyes and started to relax. After a while he relaxed so much that his head tilted forward against her shoulder.

"Mi-chael?"She asked in a sing-songy voice.

"Hmmmm?"

"You aren't going to sleep are you?"

"Huh?" He lifted his head and looked at her in wide-eyed innocence.

"You know, you can sure break a girl's heart." She smiled at him, then ever so gently slipped her hands underneath his black t-shirt, and feathered her long, perfectly manicured nails along his rib cage, on both sides.

A shudder went through Michael, like electricity, and Simone leaned over and plugged herself into him, covering his mouth with hers.

Michael's hands moved everywhere at once, as if he didn't know where to put them. Simone caught them both and gently slid them inside her blouse. She cupped them over her breasts, and never moved her mouth from his. She taught his hands to rub across her firm nipples, the friction of which delighted them both.

When Simone finally moved her mouth from his, it immediately moved to his ear and whispered, "Undress me, Michael. Slow-ly." She kissed his earlobe, then eased off his lap to stand in front of him.

Slowly, with a side-to-side seesaw movement, Michael lifted Simone's blouse. She raised her arms to allow him to ease it over her head. He stared at her breasts and dropped the blouse on the floor. They were small, but perfect, with rigid peaks of light brown at their centers.

Simone let out an apologetic little sigh, "More than a mouthful is a waste, or so I've been told."

Michael smiled, his eyes stealing shut for a brief moment, "Is that an invitation?"

"Yes, you rogue!"

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer and took one nipple in his mouth, gently nipping at the tip.

"Ow! No biting! That comes later!" She swatted at his head playfully.

"So, okay--what does comes next?" Michael laughed, grabbing both her arms to stop his mock beating.

"Are you sure, you're French?" She taunted saucily, throwing down the gauntlet.

"I'll show you French!" Michael retorted. He peeled off his shirt, drop-tossed it into the sink, engulfed her in his arms, then kissed her "a la Francais".

It started playfully, and slowly became more erotic, with Simone's wonderful nails slipping down his bare back and beneath the waistband of his jeans. By mutual consent, Michael got to his feet, enabling Simone to finish undressing him. He did the same for her. Neither wore underwear, they both discovered.

Michael sat back down and eagerly pulling Simone astride him again. He reached between them to guide himself inside, when she unobligingly, slipped off his lap again.

His look of complete dismay was precious. Simone shook her head. "A girl likes a little romance first--and a bath. Come here." She crooked a finger at him.

Michael groaned, combed his fingers through his hair, then held his head as if in pain, "Let me guess, lesson number four."

"You got it, G.I.! You washy my back--I'll washy yours," she offered sweetly in pigeon-English. She leaned forward, letting the heavy silk of her hair cover her breasts. It made her look mysterious and modestly innocent at the same time. Michael was intrigued.

*********

Michael stepped into the steamy stall of the shower with a sense of expectation he'd never felt before. He'd known Simone barely an hour and yet he couldn't shake the feeling he'd known her forever.

Simone stepped inside after him, "Okay--yeah, I know, there's that word again--assume the position." She pushed him deeper into the shower stall and back into the spray of the water. "Get wet--hair too." He complied without comment.

"Okay--"

He grinned at the word and got slapped on the hip for it.

"Now, turn around."

"What for?"

Simone showed him the bar of soap in her one hand and a natural sponge in the other, "Three guesses what I'm going to do with these," she quipped sarcastically.

He couldn't help the come-back, "Can I watch?"

"Around! Nature-boy!" She insisted, gesturing with her forefinger on which direction to go. "And the rule is, you can't move from that position unless I tell you, you can."

Michael turned around and placed his hands flat against the wet tile wall. "Is this the position you had in mind?"

She didn't answer, but Michael felt her hands kneading the soapy sponge into his lower back. It felt wonderful, and he marveled at the strength in those tiny hands of hers.

The sponge, rinsed, and began again, this time, swirling foamy suds across Michael's back and shoulders--then her arms came around him and soothed their way across his chest in large circles.

She played there for a short while, before dipping lower across his abdomen, and then lower still--teasingly light, before retreating again. It was enough to arouse him and he closed his eyes at the sensation. When he opened them again, Michael blew out the lungful of air he'd been holding. "Simone. . ."

Simone responded with a whispered, "Shhhhhh, don't speak--just feel. Close your eyes and think of doing this to me. Your hands----here," she stroked his chest as she rubbed her slender body, slick with soap against his back. "See it, now, in your mind. . . "

He could "see" it and feel it, her nipples raking a trail down his back and up again.

Michael felt her hands start to slip down, then around him. "Now, here. . . " She dragged the soapy sponge down his back, over and around his buttocks, then between his legs-- and up. She followed, slipping through the arch of his legs with the agility of a gymnast.

She toyed with him, bringing him to the brink of fulfillment, with the stoke of her hands and the silk of her mouth, only to stop and give her attention to another part of his anatomy that was less sensitive, at that crucial moment when he thought he might just die, if she didn't continue.

After the third time, he arched his face to the ceiling and begged in a wretched whisper, "Please, Simone--please."

Simone stopped anyway, and pressed her self-full against him. Standing on tip-toe, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He kissed her back, so hungry for her if she had been candy, he would have swallowed her whole.

Simone smiled. He was rock hard and fever-hot against her abdomen

"Michael--open your eyes and look at me." Simone said releasing his mouth.

He obeyed, while holding her close and trying to press and rub her slippery body against his, where it was most desperate for the friction.

"Make me ready for you, Michael. Show me what you've learned." She whispered against his neck.

He wanted to cry--he wanted to die-- and be buried inside her! God, it had been so long!

"Show me," she continued seductively, "make me want you, Michael."

With one last long look at him, she turned and planted herself, in the same spot and position as he had occupied moments before.

With a deep breath, Michael gathered up the sponge and soap and gave it a half-hearted try. He managed to soap her breasts while standing behind her, but got frustrated because he wanted to see them. And taste them. And feel them. He tossed the sponge away and used his hands to massage the soap into them instead. It wasn't enough so he pulled her against him and held her there, full against him, his arms forming an "X" across her breasts.

"Simone. . ." He kissed her neck. She sighed and squirmed against him.

One hand reached down, exploring at will, while he held her close with the other. It found treasure and went to seek it further---Simone's breath came out in a rush, "Yesss!"

Michael was relieved to hear it!

"Don't stop, Michael," she begged. "Don't stop. . ." she panted.

‘God! I'm going to die!' He thought to himself, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He was inside her, but not in the way he desperately wanted to be.

"Oh Michael, I'm so close," she moaned and arched against his hand.

That was the final straw! "Oh no, you don't, not without me." He spun her in his arms, picked her up and buried himself to the hilt inside her in one fluid movement. He pressed her against the tiled wall of the shower and held her there for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath.

Simone started to wiggle and Michael gasped and tightened his hold on her, "For God's sake, don't move yet!" He groaned, trying not to come. But Simone was insistent, wrapping her legs around his waist and forcing the issue. "Michael, please!"

He bit his lip, trying to oblige her and started moving, pumping into her until he was afraid he'd hurt her. But just as he thought it, Michael felt her come, her tiny body milking his until he groaned with exquisite relief and sagged against her.

Simone rested her head on Michael's shoulder, and wondered how he was still standing when she felt limp enough to go down the drain. She could hear his heart pounding against hers; and his breathing still ragged and fast against her breasts. She wanted to tell him how incredibly good he was, but couldn't say the words for exhaustion and a sudden shyness. What was Madeline thinking? There was nothing wrong with his man's sexual prowess. Nothing at all!

When she could finally find the energy to lift her head, Simone smiled against Michael's ear and whispered, "Ooh la la, he's French all right."

Michael hugged her and laughed--then yelled--as did Simone, when the water suddenly turned from comfortably warm to icy cold. Laughing and shrieking, both fumbled their way out of the shower stall. Michael managed to turn it off while Simone dug a couple of towels out of the closet.

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

"Well!" Simone said, squeezing the excess water out of her hair with the towel. "Aren't you glad that's over?"

Michael was puzzled and paused at drying his own hair.

"What do you mean?"

"Lesson one."

"That--" Michael gestured to the shower, "was lesson one?"

"Yeah." Her dimples peeped out again, a sure sign she was up to something, Michael had already learned to recognize. "I have a checklist to complete--you get an "x" in the block where it says "can do it in the shower". Question is, can you do it in a bed?"

Michael kept a straight face and stepped closer, "Well, that depends. . ."

"Does it? On what?"

"Do I get time and a half for overtime?" He made a quick attempt to grab her but she ducked under his arm.

"Only when you can do it on Operation's desk-- while he's sitting at it!" She squealed and ran from the room.

* * *

Crashing, falling glass. Fire and blood. There was blood every where! Fountains of it, spraying everything.

"Etienne! "No! No! Etienne!"

"Michael!" Simone sat on Michael's chest, her slender body struggling to hold him down. Michael thrashed around, screaming, crying, until Simone slapped him hard across the face.

With a final burst of strength, Michael flung Simone off the bed and against the bedroom wall and sat up. It took several seconds for Michael to realize where he was, seconds more to realize what he'd done.

"Simone!" Michael was on his knees at her side, his hands cupping her face.

"It's okay. I'm all right." She said in a quiet voice, as she sat up painfully.

"Simone, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He was weeping and simply folded up on himself on the floor.

"Shhh, It's all right." Simone scooted across the floor to him, and gently coaxed him to put his head in her lap. "What is it Michael? What hurts you so?" She combed her slender fingers through his cinnamon tangles. He shook his head. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't.

"Come back to bed, Michael. Come." Simone stroked his cheek when he had calmed some. "Come on--it's December and this is a cotton nightgown and my butt's freezing." She kissed him on the cheek, putting a touch of seriousness to her comedic comments.

Michael eased out of her lap, but before she could get up, he caught her hand and kissed the palm of it. Then he scooped her up and reverently placed her back on the bed.

Simone was quite sure how to take his action. It scared her, more than the dreams had.

"You okay?" She asked. Michael nodded, then climbed into the bed next to her. Next he lay his head on her breast and wrapped an arm around her waist. She stroked his hair some more.

"It's what you did to land in Section, isn't it?" Simone asked quietly.

Michael didn't answer, but Simone knew she had guessed correctly when Michael turned and buried his face deeper against her.

"Whatever it was, Michel," she spoke to him in French, "You have done your penance. You are forgiven. Everyone has forgiven you, except yourself. Let it go, mon brave."

"I killed my brother." He said in a whisper.

"But you didn't mean to." Simone said with assurance, if not knowledge, that she was correct..

"I built a bomb. I killed him. I killed so many."

"I have killed men. Do you hate me?" Simone asked, scooting down to look in his face.

"No" Michael answered.

"Why not?" She asked stoking his face.

"You do it because we have to."

"Not the first time." She said. "You think I'm in Section by accident?"

Michael didn't answer.

"I will tell you what I did, then you can tell me what you did, and we can forgive each other, oui?"

Michael still didn't answer, but Simone continued anyway. "I killed the man who raped my sister."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry, Simone."

"Ah well, so was he." Simone said with a dark chuckle. "Marie was the eldest, very pretty. But she was a child, you know, in here." Simone tapped her forehead.

"Retarded?" Michael asked.

"Ugly word, but yes. The man that did this--who raped her, was a very important man in the local government in Viet Nam. He was, for a time, my mother's lover--"her protector", as he liked to call himself.

"Where was your father?" Michael turned on his side to face her. He pushed several strands of her dark hair behind her ear.

"My father." She tossed her long hair over her shoulder and paused in her narrative. "You want all the dirty linen at once--well, why not? I never knew my father. He was an American G.I. stationed in Saigon during the war. He promised my mother--his mistress, to take her to the States. He left one night and never returned and my mother was left with her shame-- my sister and me."

"So sorry, Simone." Michael kissed her gently.

"When Saigon fell, my mother desperately tried to find my father. She had American children and she was terrified for us. She showed the American soldier's my father's picture and brought us to Saigon airport during the evacuation, but she was refused. No marriage, no evacuation."

"What happened then?"

"Saigon fell." Simone said simply. "Mother feared a bloodbath, but things didn't get that bad. But my sister and I--we were living proof that mother collaborated with the Americans--the enemy. To feed us, she prostituted herself."

The words, "like mother, like daughter" crossed Michael's mind, knowing Simone was thinking them. He kissed her forehead, as if to tell her he understood what it cost her, to tell him these things.

**********

"And the man?" Michael asked.

"Yes, "the man". A very important man in Saigon after the war--many political connections with China and Cambodia. He had a wife, a woman he hated, but married for her position. Her father was a leader in the Communist government. He said, he loved my mother." Simone paused and smiled at the obvious joke.

"At first, my sister and I loved him. He always brought us things when he visited Mama. We were too young to understand who and what he was at first. He was just the nice man who brought presents and made Mama smile."

Michael saw a tear fall in the pale light of their bedroom and knew Simone was about the tell him the worse. He wanted to stop her, to tell her it wasn't important to know, but knew she needed to speak about it and stayed silent.

"It happened when Marie was sixteen. He came to visit. Brought gifts. Marie was so pretty. Mama had done her hair, with roses. Marie was excited. He'd brought her a doll. She loved dolls." Simone smiled briefly at the memory, then her expression hardened.

"That night, when we were asleep. He came into our room. It was Marie crying that woke me up. He was on her, trying to keep her quiet--but she wouldn't be quiet. How could she? He was hurting her!"

"Simone, don't," Michael heard the pain in her voice, and took her hand. But it was if Simone no longer had control over her words. They tumbled out in all directions.

"I guess he figured because Marie wasn't "all right", that she wouldn't be able to tell anyone. But he forgot she could cry. I watched. I watched. I didn't know what he was doing to her except that he was hurting her. He was afraid someone would hear so he covered her face and held her down until she was quiet again. Then he left. The next morning Marie was dead."

Simone moved off the bed and began to pace the floor.

"He smothered her and went back to bed with my mother as if nothing had happened."

"You mother knew?"

"No. She loved him. Trusted him. I was fourteen and afraid. Afraid he'd do to me, what he did to Marie, so I said nothing."

"That was the last time he came to see Mama. They said Marie died naturally--that because she wasn't "right", she died. But I knew the truth."

"Two years later, Mama died. Then he came. He came for me, to "take care of me". What he did was make me his mistress. He was now a very, very important man in the government. He traveled to the West and he took me with him. I killed him in Paris."

‘I killed him in Paris.' Michael felt every word although she said them almost as an after thought. She stood at the foot of the bed staring at it, her head bowed, her long hair shielding her face.

He slipped off the bed and went to her, pulling her tiny body against his, holding her close. "I love you, Simone." He said. And she wept.

Michael wasn't sure exactly--when it had happened, his falling in love with Simone. For months, they had trained together, and slept together, all with the blessing of the Section. While Michael wondered about it, he had been too happy to question things too closely. It was enough, seeing Simone everyday--getting to hold her every night.

She softened the pain of his nightmares, holding him when he cried after them, never judging him for the monstrous things he did to stay alive, just as he never judged her, for those dark things she had to do. They shut those unspoken things in a box and put them away, when they were together.

She laughed all the time--always with a wise comeback, afraid of nothing and no one, except Operations. There was something between them, something dark that Simone wouldn't talk about. It made her upset if she was asked about it, and so Michael learned not to speak of it, even though it hurt some part of him deeply, that she couldn't confide in him as he had been able to in her.

When he finally told her about Etienne, she wept with him. Michael never told her how much that meant to him, because it was beyond his capacity to explain it, but on some level he knew she understood how very grateful he was.

The physical part of their relationship was intense, but Michael found it was Simone's company he craved more than her body. She kept him alive, and made him glad he was living.

"Michael?" Simone turned on her side towards him.

"Hmmm." He grinned and tried to tickle her.

"Hold me?"

Simone's request took Michael by surprise, "Of course." He wrapped his arms around her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, but. . . " She pressed her lips together, "I'm pregnant."

"Oh, Simone," Michael barely breathed the words.

"Don't look so serious--it's yours," she quipped, before biting her lip and looking away..

"I'll be okay," he said kissing her cheek, then her forehead. But both of them knew it would not be okay.

"Marry me, Simone." Michael said, kissing her mouth tenderly.

"Michael, this is Section. You don't want to marry me."

"I love you, Simone. Please, marry me." He had tears in his eyes.

"You don't have to cry about it," she teased him, then began to cry herself.

"I love you, Simone. Please say yes."

* * *

"Michael, drink this." Nikita coaxed him to take a sip. He stared past her, with an odd expression on his face. She turned and looked over her shoulder to see what it was that he was gazing at, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

"S-simone?" He said, his voice barely a whisper.

Nikita closed her eyes, "No, Michael. It's Nikita."

"Simone!" He lifted one arm and reached past Nikita. "Please, don't go!"

Nikita felt hurt, then chilled as Michael seemed to be carrying on a conversation with his dead wife.

"I know," he said softly, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. He smiled faintly for a moment. "Is he there with you?" He nodded as if to respond to someone's positive answer.

"Wait, for me." He said, suddenly agitated, "Simone!"

Nikita couldn't stand it, "Go away Simone!" She sobbed into the room, "You can't have him! He's alive and you're not! Go away!"

**********

Nikita paced, watching the weather worsen and Michael fade in and out of consciousness. His breathing became more and more labored by the hour, and for the first time, she realized his life was in real danger.

She had searched him as throughly as she could, looking for comm devices or trackers and found none. Perhaps he had been telling her the truth--that he was going with her. Why else, she wondered, would he have left his cell phone and come in without a tracker on him?

"Damn it Michael! Why now? The one time we really need a phone and you leave yours in the car!"

She added a few more logs on the fire then bent to feel Michael's forehead. In the past hour he had begun to run a fever, his skin going from clammy to hot and dry. Very hot!

Nikita weighed her options. The nearest well-traveled road was at least a half-mile away, but even well-traveled, few people would be out in such terrible weather. She could leave Michael and hope to find help and return, or she could bundle him up and take him with her.

The idea that he might die here alone, if she left him, terrified her. Taking him on a hike through the snow in his condition wasn't going to be a picnic, but it was her only viable option. She couldn't stand around and do nothing.

The radio reports indicated the snow would be ending soon, so Nikita set about preparing Michael for evacuation. She found a toboggan in the generator shed and brought it inside. She lined it with a canvas ground cloth and a sleeping bag she had brought with her. After Michael was bundled securely into the sleeping bag tied to the toboggan, she dressed as warmly as she could and pulled the sled out onto the porch.

The cold air woke Michael briefly and he stirred. Nikita knelt to speak to him.

"Michael. Lie still." She said, stroking his face as it peeked out from the small opening in the mummy bag..

"Where are we going?" He asked, wincing with the pain of speaking.

"For help, Michael. I have to get you to a hospital."

"No." He groaned and tossed his head, trying to move.

"Yes!" Nikita answered sternly, pressing him to be still.

"Section will find you. Leave now. Only chance. . ." He drifted back into silence.

Nikita covered his face lightly with the blanket from her bed, to protect his face from the wind.

"Good." She said, looking at her surroundings and getting her bearing, "Sleep."

* * *

For two hours, Nikita trudged through a forest that was still as death. The only sounds that Nikita could hear were those that she made--the sound of her breath, harsh and labored as she pulled the heavy sled through the deep snow, and the crunch of her boots in icy areas. It was dark as well, but she could see, briefly through the trees, a glow on the horizon--reflected lights from the highway, she hoped.

Thankfully, as the storm slowed, the wind died down as well. Even so, the temperature was colder than she had expected. Her calves burned as she struggled to pull Michael up a slope, and she nearly lost her grip on the rope several times, before cresting the hill that intersected with the highway. Although deserted and snow-covered, there were street lights illuminating the road bed. They glowed like golden balls of dandelion fluff against the night.

"All right!" She said, stopping to rest a moment and catch her breath. "Civilization!"

Dropping to her knees by the sled, she pulled back the blanket to check on her patient.

"Michael?" She kissed his forehead, he was still warm and still asleep.

He looked so young and so vulnerable, and so very ill.

Nikita got to her feet and looked at the road wondering which way to go that would bring her the quickest to finding help. With a prayer that she would choose correctly, she turned right and began to follow the road.

* * *

"Hey!--what's that over there?" Will Owen's spoke to his partner over his service radio.

"Good grief--sledding in this weather? Are they nuts?" Replied Zimmerman from inside his snow plow.

"Maybe they're in trouble," Will said, turning off the engine to his mini-dozer. He saw the person pulling the sled fall to their knees.

Nikita dropped where she stood in exhausted relief when she saw the flashing yellow lights of the snow removal crew. She'd lost track of time and had no idea how long she had been walking. She leaned over and checked on Michael. He was still as death, and her lips were so numb from the cold, she could no longer tell if he was still feverish or not, or even if he was still breathing. From her knees she watched the figures as one of them walked towards her. She tried to get up again, but her muscles had frozen into position from fatigue, and she remained where she was, on all fours, as the man approached.

"Hey, you okay?" Owen's flashlight caught the look of red-eyed fatigue in the woman's face, and quickened his last few steps to get to her.

"Can you get us to a hospital," Nikita gasped. "He's hurt bad." She gestured to Michael and Owen cast his light in the direction she pointed.

"Hey Zee! We have an emergency! Call control and tell them we need an ambulance ASAP!" Owen shouted into his radio before placing a comforting hand on Nikita's shoulder.

"It's okay now. We'll get you out of here. Can you tell me what's wrong with your friend?"

"Broken ribs, I think." She said, feeling her arms shaking with exhaustion.

"What about you?" The man asked, looking at her closely. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Just tired." Her voice told him she'd passed tired several hours ago.

"How long have you been out in this?" He asked, looking over his shoulder and waving his partner over.

"I don't know--hours." Even talking was an effort and Nikita felt herself start to blackout.

"Come on, let's get you warmed up." Owen grabbed one of Nikita's arms and pulled it around his shoulder, then pulled her to her feet, with his other arm around her waist.

"Michael!" She cried out in alarm, her knees nearly buckling.

"I'll be back for him in a second, don't worry. Come on, you can go sit in Zee's snowplow--it's nice and cosy inside.

"Here, give her to me." Said Zee arriving at their side. He was a short man, but muscular and barrel-chested. He picked Nikita up in his arms like a child and began the trek back to his equipment. Owens followed with the sled in tow.

***********

"Here, drink some of this--hope you like it black," Zimmerman said kindly, pouring the dark liquid into thermos cup clutched in Nikita's two hands.

Nikita nodded wearily, and tried to take a sip. It was scalding, but she held the coffee close, letting the steam warm her face and the warmth of the cup begin to thaw her near frozen fingers. She dozed, sitting up in the heated cab of the snowplow, while her rescuers attended to Michael.

It was nearly 45 minutes later before the ambulance arrived. The two good Samaritans gave Nikita a gentle pat on her back and shoulder, wishing her well, before the medic closed the ambulance and the trek to the hospital began.

The emergency technician gently forced Nikita to lie down on one of the two gurneys. She didn't want to lay down. She knew if she did, she'd go to sleep and she was afraid to sleep.

"Sorry, them's the rules." The tech said, when she struggled against him. It wasn't much of a struggle and the tech knew she was hardly aware of her surroundings. But he had to secure her, before he could help his partner attend to the other patient.

"It's okay," he assured her, strapping her down. "Just relax. I'm Robert. Can you tell me your name?" He looked over at his partner's progress, asking with his eyes on the condition of the man.

The other tech gave him a non-verbal sign that things were not good, and mouthed the words "Bee Pee" and a number that was so low, it was a miracle the patient was even alive.

"Get an IV in him while I get one in her. " Robert said over his shoulder. He addressed the woman again, repeating his question. "Stay with me--can you tell me what your name is?"

The woman looked at him wearily and muttered, "Nikita."

"Ok, Nikita. What is your friend's name?"

"Michael."

"Good. Michael. . ." He paused to rub her hand with an alcohol prep and expertly plugged an IV needle into her hand. Adjusting the drip from the IV bag, he continued the conversation. "Can you tell me what happened to your friend? How long has he been like this?"

Nikita shook her head, barely comprehending the words he was saying.

"Can you tell me how he was hurt?"

"Cave in. Fire fight." She muttered, her eyes sliding shut.

Robert frowned, "He's a firefighter?"

But Nikita had fainted.

It was just as well, Robert thought. He heard his partner swear and the heart monitor alarm as the other patient went flat-line.

* * *

"Again! Damn it!" Madeline leaned over Walter's shoulder.

"There's nothing! Looking for the fiftieth time isn't going to change anything!"

Madeline gave out an angry huff and folded her arms, "I have a report sitting on my desk from our contact in Colorado Springs. Michael arrived as planned, and picked up his vehicle as planned. There must be something wrong or--" Madeline let the words hang in the air as she pondered the possibilities.

"If you're thinking, what I THINK you're thinking, you're wrong! Michael wouldn't run!" Walter swivelled in his chair to face her.

"If this was any other scenario, I might agree with you but--" Madeline held her chin and looked at the screen again, hoping against hope for some answer to her questions.

"But? What IS the scenario? Even if Nikita was taking a hike--and I don't think she is-- Michael might help her, but he would never go with her. And knowing Michael, he won't help her because he knows it's suicide. He'd shoot her himself and drag her back first!"

"She's pregnant, Walter. Does THAT change the scenario for you any?"

"Oh geez!" All the color drained out of Walter's face. "And you're telling me it's Michael's?"

"Are there other candidates?" Madeline looked over at Walter with an arched eyebrow.

"Then I believe Nikita might run--but Michael still wouldn't. He knows the score. He'll bring her back if he can, even if it means choosing." Walter left it at that, not wanting to say what Michael would have to choose between. They both knew the answer well enough.

"Well, in three days, Nikita will be AWOL and so will Michael. Book me on a flight out tonight to Colorado Springs. If Operations questions my absence--tell him I took a few days off to visit my mother."

* * *

"Simone."

Michael held his son's tiny body in his arms. Every ounce of strength left him in a rush and he sat where he stood, by the crib.

"Simone!" Michael curled himself over the baby protectively. He was unable to think what to do next. There had to be something he could do!

"Simone!" He pleaded with her, "Help me."

Simone watched Michael with empty eyes. Her dreams were over now. There was nothing left now. Nothing to do. Nothing to say.

After a long while, she stood and walked to Michael's side, knelt and took Etienne's tiny body from him. She laid him back in his crib and covered him, as if he were only asleep. Then she sat down on the hard wooden floor next to her sobbing husband and held him until he fell silent from exhaustion.

"I'm sorry, Michael." Simone said. She felt so old, so tired, so numb, so hopeless.

There was quiet sympathy from some members of Section. Walter was especially distraught, having adopted the little boy as a foster grand-child. From others came an under-current of sinister speculation. Crib-death had been the ruling of the Section physician, but there were other theories as well.

Michael never showed his feelings to anyone except Simone. And while she never showed any outward grief to anyone, including Michael, Simone never smiled again. They clung to one another, silent and stoic in their shared grief, both trying to be strong for the sake of the other.

Once, a few days after the baby's death, Operations approached Simone. They stood in the center of the conference room, looking at each other, eye to eye, but neither spoke. It was Operations who finally broke off the silent duel. He nodded to Simone once, dropping his eyes almost apologetically. Then he slipped his hands into his pockets and quietly walked away. Only Madeline had been witness to the exchange and she wondered at it.

***********

"Michael." Jurgen stuck his head inside Michael's office.

"Yes?" Michael looked up from his computer.

"This cold op tomorrow, Simone's asking for a back up team. Did you authorize it?"

"Back up? No. Did she say why?"

"No. I thought maybe she had already cleared it with you. I just wanted to know who you were pulling to do it."

"I'll take care of it." Michael said, getting to his feet.

Jurgen nodded, and stepped back to let Michael pass. It was odd for Simone to ask for a back up team. Unusual. But then, since her son's death, she had become more protective of Michael. Jurgen shook his head, and walked back to his office.

"Simone."

"Yes, Michael?"

"Jurgen told me you requested a backup team. Why?"

"I think you'll need it. I'll be in the van doing ops--I won't be there to back you up, if there's trouble." Simone, answered, carefully packing some com gear into a metal carrying case.

Michael looked to see they were alone before gently touching his wife's face. "I'll be fine. We're just going in on a intel gathering mission, not a fire fight. Jurgen will be there-- Section's pulled pretty thin right now. I can't justify a backup team for this."

Simone dropped her eyes and continued to pack. Michael knew she wasn't happy with the decision, but he knew she would support him anyway.

"I'll be careful." He promised.

She nodded, and closed the case.

* * *

"Michael, time of entry in 45 seconds." Simone sat in the van with two members of the comm team. She stood watching Michael on a small overhead screen as he entered the nearby building.

"It looks quiet." Michael checked a locked door, before continuing down the hallway.

"Same here, " Jurgen's voice broke over the comm-net. He watched the building Michael was searching with binoculars from across the street.

"Are we still getting the signal?" Michael asked softly, as he peered around a darkened corner.

"It's steady on," replied one of the comm techs.

"Standby, I hear something. . . " Jurgen's voice interrupted.

Shots rang out in all directions.

"Michael! We've got shooters! They've spotted the van!" Jurgen shouted.

Michael pulled his gun and sprinted back the way he had come. "Simone! Report!" He called out to her as he ran.

"Michael!" Was the last word he heard from her. Fifteen seconds later Michael arrived outside and saw the van explode in a ball of fire. The concussion threw him backwards into the side of the brick building, dislocating his shoulder and knocking him unconscious.

* * *

"Clear!" Robert pressed the paddles against the young man's bruised chest for the second time and watched hopefully as the cardiac monitor recorded a couple of beats.

He watched as the rhythm became erratic and ceased again.

"Come on! Damn it! All right, again!" He pressed the paddles once more to the man's chest and waited for the tone that told him they were charged and ready. "Clear!"

The young man's body jerked again as the charge lifted his body. The heart beat steady for a few seconds and stopped again.

"Shoot him up! While I recharge." Robert ordered, waiting for his assistant to inject the patient's heart muscle with adrenaline.

"Come on! Come on! Don't make me have to tell her, you quit! Clear!"

The heart beat skipped a second or two, then fell into rhythm.

"What's his BP?" Robert asked hopefully.

The assistant listened intently for several seconds to his stethoscope, gave a "thumbs up" and said, "It's rising."

"Thank God. Start a second IV in his other arm. We have to keep that blood pressure up."

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

"Miss?"

Nikita opened her eyes and flinched at the brightness of the overhead light.

"What?"

A woman in a nurses outfit was bending over her.

"I'm here from admitting. I need your name and the name of your husband."

"My husband?"

"The man they brought in with you."

"Michael?" Nikita lifted her head and tried to focus her eyes.

"Where is he?"

"In surgery."

"Is he all right?" Nikita started to sit up, but became so dizzy the nurse had to keep her from falling off the bed.

"I don't know. I'm just here to admit you. Do you have any insurance?"

"No." Nikita looked around trying to get her bearings.

"Credit cards?"

"Yes--but not with me." She murmured, laying back down.

"Your husband?" The nurse walked over to a counter and returned with Michael's wallet. "We found this on your husband. All I need to get you admitted is your credit card number." She held the wallet out to Nikita.

Nikita took it and stared at it for a long moment. The instant she used a credit card, Section would know where she was within minutes.

"Can you please tell me how he is?" She asked again.

"As soon as I get you admitted and in a room, I'll be glad to find out for you." The nurse replied, holding out her hand for the card.

With resignation, Nikita handed her Michael's card.

"I'm sorry," she said softly to her unborn child, once the nurse had gone.

* * *

"Nikita."

Nikita opened her eyes to see Madeline standing in the doorway. She stood there, silently, for a long while before reaching carefully into the handbag hanging on her shoulder.

Madeline screwed on the silencer as Nikita watched from her bed.

"You were warned, Nikita." Madeline said, leveling the pistol at her.

"I know." Nikita answered. She lay still. There was no where to go, and no way to prevent the inevitable. In some ways she welcomed what Madeline was going to do.

The silencer popped softly twice and Nikita looked down at her blood, as it ran, warm and bright red over the pristine sheets.

* * *

"My god! What's she doing?" The desk nurse stood up and leaned over it. "Becky! Call the resident! Hurry!"

Shoving out of her chair the nurse started down the hall.

"Michael?" Nikita felt her way down the wall of the hallway, fighting the growing darkness. "Have to find him. Where is he?" She murmured, taking another staggering step.

"Sweetie, you're bleeding." The Nurse grabbed Nikita's arm.

"Where's Michael?" Nikita slipped in the pool of blood at her feet, and caught herself from falling by grabbing onto the nearest door frame.

"Honey we have to get to into bed. You're hemorrhaging."

Nikita grunted and doubled over, knocking the shorter woman against the wall as she tried to catch her. Both women slipped in the blood and ended up on the floor.

The nurse looked up to see Becky and the young resident running down the hallway towards her and her now semiconscious patient.

"Linda! How long has she been bleeding like this?" The resident asked, picking up the patient and carrying her to a nearby room.

"I don't know--"

"Never mind--call surgery and get them to set up the OR. Becky!" The doctor elevated Nikita's feet and legs.

"Yes?" The young candy-striper looked eager to help.

"Help me get a blood pressure on her. Linda, get her prepped--we'll need a blood type and cross-match--and hurry!"

Nikita watched the frantic actions around her and started to giggle. "Hey, It's okay. I've been shot before." Then her blue eyes rolled back into her head and she fell silent.

The doctor and nurse exchanged glances for a moment, but there was no time for comments. "Let's get her into OR. Did you say her husband was in here too?"

"Yes. He was in surgery for nearly five hours last night. Broken ribs, a punctured lung-- he's been upgraded to serious."

"Is he conscious?"

"I don't know."

"Go see. If he is, get his permission for surgery, if he isn't--to hell with it, she'll die without it. I can't wait for a decision. Just go let him know what's happening, if he's in shape to understand. If he doesn't like it--he can sue me later! Let's go!"

***********

"Sir? Sir!"

Michael opened his eyes and tried to focus in the dim light.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but it's about your wife." A woman in a nurse's uniform bent over him.

"My wife?" Michael looked confused.

"Yes. She started hemorrhaging and we've had to take her to surgery. The doctor wanted me to tell you--well, he didn't feel he could wait for your permission to operate."

Michael began to push at the bed clothes. "Where is she?"

"No! It's all right. She's in OR. You have to stay in bed, sir."

"Where is OR?" Michael wrapped an arm around his chest and sat up.

"Michael, please, listen to your nurse." A quiet voice of authority ordered sweetly.

Michael glanced up. Madeline stood in the doorway, dressed in a heavy cloth coat.

Michael closed his eyes at the sight and felt his ears ringing. The nurse forced him back upon the pillows and he went without a fight.

"It's all right, nurse. I'm Michael's sister, Madeline. I've been searching the hospital's in the area for several days looking for him and my sister-in-law." Madeline calmly slipped off her coat and gloves and laid them in a nearby chair, along with her shoulder bag.

The nurse looked immensely relieved. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here! Your sister-in-law was admitted for exhaustion last night, when your brother was brought in for surgery. Then half an hour ago I found her wandering down the hallway, doubled over in pain and bleeding profusely. We've had to rush her to surgery. I was asked to inform your brother."

"How are you Michael?" Madeline asked like a consoling sister, her hand lightly caressing his cheek.

"What's wrong with Nikita?" Michael asked the nurse, but his eyes watched Madeline.

The nurse let out a huff of a sigh. "She had us all scared to death--kept talking about being shot!"

Michael never took his eyes from Madeline's face. His expression went from disbelief to rage in an instant.

Madeline returned his gaze without wavering, then asked aloud," Was she shot?"

"No, but--I'm sorry." The nurse looked over at Michael with real sympathy, "I think she's had a miscarriage."

With the awful words said, the nurse excused herself and left.

Michael turned his face towards the wall and away from Madeline. He wanted to scream and cry out it hurt so much, but he didn't. Letting Madeline know how much the baby had meant would mean letting her know just how weak he really was. For an instant, for a fleeting moment he had wanted to die, but as long as Nikita lived, he knew he could never leave her.

Getting his emotions under control, Michael turned to face Madeline. She looked tired as she seated herself in the chair near his bed.

"Care to tell me what happened?" She asked at last.

"I had a relapse and Nikita brought me to the hospital."

"I see. You couldn't have called me?"

Michael shook his head. "I've been out of it for days. Nikita had no phone."

"What about your cell phone?"

"Dropped out of my pocket, probably in the truck."

Madeline's expression was benign and Michael didn't know if she believed him or not.

"All right." She said with a deep sigh. "I've made arrangements to medevac both of you back to Section this evening. I'll have Walter meet us. He can stay with Nikita for a day or so, while she recovers in her apartment. If there are questions--we can say she had a skiing accident or a bad case of the flu. Both are common with winter vacations. You, I'm taking back to Section. I can see I'll have to put the fear of cancellation back into the medical team--they should never have let you leave in the condition you were in."

* * * *

Ni-ki-ta. . .

Nikita gradually opened her eyes. "Yes?" She whispered.

Dark brown eyes stared kindly down. Black hair fell in glossy lengths over the tiny Oriental woman's shoulders.

Love Michael, Nikita. Love him.

"I've tried. He won't let me." Nikita began to cry.

Michael needs you, Nikita. He loves you too, more than you know.

"No. He loves you, Simone." Nikita's tears continued.

Simone looked sad for a brief moment, then reached around her neck and unhooked a slender, golden chain.

I give him into your keeping, Nikita. Love him for me. Love him, for yourself.

Nikita felt Simone drape the chain across her open palm; felt lips touch her forehead, and smelled the scent of sandalwood.

Be at peace.

* * * * *

"Oh, Becky! Where's your necklace?"

"Well, you're going to think this is stupid, but I gave it to that poor woman who lost her baby." The little candy-striper smiled with mild embarrassment.

"Why?'

"She kept calling for Michael. And since he's my patron saint, I just thought, well, maybe he was her's too."

Linda put her arm around Becky's waist. "Oh, honey! She was just calling for her husband--his name was Michael. That was such a beautiful necklace, too!"

"That's all right. I think I was meant to give it to her. You should have seen the smile on her face when I put it in her hand. She was so beautiful and radiant. Just like an angel herself."

The End