---

Nikita leaned against the French doors of her balcony and shivered as she watched the falling snow pile up against them. It would be Christmas in three days and, as usual at this time of year, she was miserable.

In an apartment across the street she could see children happily decorating their tree with lights, while she stood in solemn darkness. She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt so alone.

"Enough, Nikita!" She told her self sternly. "Stop the pity party and DO something!"

'But what?' She wondered, turning away from the window.

Her inner voice poised the question: 'Go shopping?'

'Shopping is no fun if you go all alone!' She argued with herself, missing Carla.

'Decorate the apartment!' The inner voice offered.

'For whom? Myself? ' Nikita pouted back. Nikita picked up her coat, then tossed it angrily back on the couch again.

Another Christmas alone. Forever, alone.

The only decent Christmas Nikita had ever spent was at her friend Julie's house. The kindness of a friend had kept a ten-year-old Nikita from spending the holiday alone in an empty apartment while Nikita's mother took off to a ski resort for the holiday's with a male friend. Nikita's Christmas gift from her mother had been ten dollars to spend for food for the four days she'd be gone.

"Ah Julie," She whispered sadly, "If you only knew how much that Christmas meant to me."

* * *

"So, what are you doing for Christmas this year?" Julie asked as she carefully colored the angel on the window with tempura paint.

"Uh, nothing much." Nikita said quietly, sprinkling glitter on a construction-paper star.

"I thought you said you were going skiing." Julie said, wiping a wayward drop of paint off her hand.

"Mom's going skiing. I'm staying home."

"How come?"

"I hate skiing! Wouldn't be caught dead doing that!" Nikita lied; she'd never been invited to go.

"Do you think your Mom would mind if you came over to my house, then?"

"Your house?" Nikita was hopeful and afraid--afraid of seeming too desperate.

"Sure! Mom loves having guests on the holidays! My Uncle Don is coming home from the Navy with one of his friends. Think you can ask your Mom tonight?"

Nikita pondered the situation for only a moment. She loved going to Julie's house. She wished it could be her house too, with all her heart.

"Okay. I'll ask." Nikita lied again. She had no intention of telling her mother anything about the idea, for fear her mother would forbid it, as she always did, when Nikita wanted something badly.

Nikita's memories faded from her mind, disturbed by three short knocks on her door. Tugging her sweater down, she went to see who it was and found Michael on the other side.

Michael's hair curled angelically on his forehead and around his ears as his short hair was beginning to grow out again. Large flakes of snow clung to the curls, seeming to indicate he had been out walking in the weather for quite a while.

"May I come in?" He asked, tugging off his gloves.

"You're back, already?" Nikita said, smiling and pulling the door wide to let him enter.

"Operations scrubbed the mission an hour ago. No one's sure why yet, but the Agency was behind the recall."

"Are they going to reschedule?" Nikita asked, helping Michael off with his heavy black coat.

"Not for a few days--maybe not even until a few weeks." He watched her lay his coat over a chair.

"You look cold. Want something to drink? Coffee?" Nikita offered, as she turned toward the kitchen sink.

"Coffee would be fine." He said walking toward her, "But I need something from you first." He caught her wrist before she could step further into the kitchen.

Nikita turned to ask what that might be, only to find herself in his embrace. She smiled, then shrieked as Michael's cold hands stole up under her sweater and caressed her bare back.

"Michael! Your hands are like ice!" She grimaced comically and wiggled in his embrace.

He smiled subtly, "I know. But you're nice and warm. I thought you could help me out a little."

Nikita was surprised at his playfulness. This was a facet of Michael she'd never seen before. She gathered him close and they held each other for a long moment, before Michael kissed her cheek and released her.

Nikita was deliriously happy at their new relationship, yet sometimes a sense of foreboding nagged at her. It was as if she was afraid it was all a dream and couldn't last. She even sensed that Michael felt the same way--happy, but almost afraid to trust that happiness to last.

"I have a favor to ask," Michael began, as they seated themselves on the couch with their coffee in hand.

"What is it?" She asked, taking a tentative sip of the steaming brew.

"Madeline's found me another house and I was wondering if you'd help me put it in order."

"Why another house?" Nikita asked with some curiosity. "The one you have is wonderful."

"It's been compromised," he said simply. Michael let his concentration drift to the cup he held in his hand; his expression grew thoughtful, almost sad.

"Oh," was all Nikita thought to say. She knew it must be difficult for him, giving up the house with all its memories. She felt a little melancholy herself. That house held lovely memories for them both. But the move meant they could spend time together, she realized suddenly, and so she smiled.

"Sure! I'd love to! Does this mean we go shopping for curtains and stuff?"

"If you wish," he replied, with a slight smile at her eagerness.

"Now, you're going to be sorry! Did I ever tell you that I wanted to be an interior decorator when I grew up?" She laughed, which triggered him to smile a little wider.

"What kind of decoration was your Section quarters done in? Early or post-modern chaos?" He quipped with wry affection, remembering her graffiti adorned walls.

"Ah! Just for that, I'm decorating your bathroom in lime green!"

Nikita was awarded a point--Michael choked on his coffee at the thought!

* * *

"Michael! It's beautiful! Like a country cottage!"

The house sat at the rear of a large wooded lot in one of the city's oldest neighborhoods. Oak, blue spruce, and maple trees spread their sturdy arms against the leaden sky, catching the feathery flakes of heavy snow, as they continued to fall. Despite the fact that it was nearly dark, Nikita had insisted on seeing the house that evening.

"I need to know what needs to be done, before we go buy stuff you don't need," she had argued.

It wasn't a large house, although it had a basement and a second floor, but it was full of cozy amenities: Two fireplaces--one in the den, one in the bedroom upstairs, French doors into a small study, that had floor-to-ceiling oak shelves on one wall; a huge kitchen, with red brick floors and oak paneling; and a second set of French doors off the master bedroom onto a balcony.

Nikita recognized none of the furniture, and realized Madeline must have rented the house, or purchased it, already furnished. She was slightly disappointed, because the furniture was a perfect fit for the house--a kind of rustic, homey oak furniture, suited to a cottage or a farm house, with creams, browns, fern greens, and French blues throughout in the wall paper, carpeting and upholstery. No need for a decorator here!

"It looks perfect, Michael. I can't see that you need any help." She said in a puzzled voice.

"I have all this unpacking to do of my personal things," Michael said, opening a door into the garage. There were at least ten boxes stacked and awaiting attention.

Nikita smiled again. Did he say personal things?

"Do you want to start tonight?" She asked, hoping she didn't sound as excited as she felt.

"I thought we'd go out for supper first." Michael replied, closing the garage door.

"Anything you have on hand, here, will be fine with me." She said, starting to take off her coat and eager to get started.

Michael shook his head. "There's no food in the kitchen yet."

"Not a problem," she smiled warmly. "Call out for pizza!"

For the next few hours, Nikita felt very domesticated. She folded towels and blankets, made beds, washed and put away dishes, with Michael at her side.

They spoke very little, communicating on other levels, through touch and smiles, and the simple act of being together.

They felt almost normal! For a short time, there was no Section One, no assassins, no missions. There was just Michael, Nikita, and a home they were creating around themselves.

Nikita tugged a large box out of the corner of the garage and began to open it. Inside she saw the edges of several large picture frames. Reaching inside the box, she pulled out one of the frames and almost dropped it when she saw the painting.

It was of Simone and it was beautiful! She was lying nude, partially on her side, with her long, blue-black hair modestly covering most of her breasts. Instead of a bed, she was reclining on what looked like a floor of shiny, gray slate, which reflected her image. Her head was cradled against one arm as she looked at the artist with an expression caught somewhere between coy and passionate.

Nikita thought for a moment that Simone would breathe, it was so realistic. She leaned the painting against a nearby wall, and reached inside the box again to see what other treasures she could find.

She found a pencil sketch of Simone tenderly nursing her baby, and a second painting, in oils, like the first, of Simone asleep on a bed, her face captured in soft candlelight.

The last picture was a pastel of a sleeping baby on a fluffy white blanket--Michael's son. Nikita sat down on the floor of the garage and stared at it through tears. Captured were all the innocence of babyhood, and all the love that surrounded it.

She felt him standing behind her before she heard him say: "I'd forgotten about these."

Nikita looked up at him, "Did you paint them?"

"Yes." Came his soft answer.

"They're beautiful--wonderful. I didn't know you painted."

"I don't. Not any more." He reached over and picked up one of the oils and carefully placed it back into the box.

Nikita felt his withdrawal from her as if it was a physical one. She quickly caught his elbow as he reached for the other painting. "Michael. Please--don't."

He hesitated a moment, before looking down at her.

Nikita pulled herself up and faced him. "Simone's a part of you, a part of your life. There's no reason to hide her from me." To emphasize her sincerity, Nikita slipped her arms around him and drew him close. She felt the rigidity of his body slowly soften, then felt his arms wrap her closer still.

They stood together for a long moment before Michael said, "I wish you could have known her. She would have liked you."

Nikita felt a light kiss against her hair before he released her.

"Looking at these paintings, I feel like I do know her. I know I would have liked her as well." She answered truthfully.

It was late. Nikita sat on a barstool in Michael's kitchen and added a few more items to a shopping list. She sighed, knowing it was well past time for her to get back to her apartment. But she was reluctant to leave. For the first time in years, she felt normal--like a real person, not a puppet doing someone's bidding. And there was Michael--she looked into the den and saw him sitting in an easy chair watching the news. It was such a simple, common thing--Michael watching the news.

Nikita let herself pretend for a moment, that Michael was her husband; that this was their home; and their children slept peacefully in the next room. But it was only pretend. Some part of her knew that's all it would ever be, while another still clung to miracles. Surely, there were still miracles. Wasn't it almost Christmas?

Sighing, Nikita folded the shopping list and went into the den. She started to speak then noticed Michael was fast asleep. Asleep and at peace. She sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the fire to watch him.

She examined him minutely, from the long lashes that lightly touched his cheek, to the soft curls behind his ears, and ached with love for him. Michael. The Killer Angel. The Dark Angel. The feared, Angel of Death.

So many names, but in each, someone recognized the terrible beauty of this man.

***Michael Samuelle***. Even his name was poetry.

'Nikita Samuelle,' Nikita thought idly, then blushed. 'What a stupid, school girl thing to do,' she chastised herself silently and turned her head to watch the fire for a moment.

"I'm sorry." Michael's voice fell softly in the silence of the room.

Nikita turned her head, and raised her eyebrows. "For what?"

"For succumbing to jet lag," He sat up straighter in the chair and rubbed his eyes with one hand.

"That's okay. It's late." Nikita sat with her knees up and her arms wrapped about them, casually rocking back and forth in front of the fire.

"Thanks for the help," Michael said benignly.

"Thanks for asking," she returned with a shy smile.

"Are you tired?" He asked, getting to his feet.

Nikita's face fell a little, before she rocked forward and got to her feet, "Yeah, I guess it is late. I'd better go." She started to walk past him into the kitchen, but he gently snagged her arm and stopped her.

"Do you want to go?" He asked seriously.

Suddenly shy, she stammered, "Don't--don't you want me to?"

He stepped closer, drawing her to him, so close she could feel the warmth of his body through her jeans.

"We have so little time together, Kita." His voice was so soft it seemed he only breathed the words. He brushed his mouth with feather-lightness over her lips several times, before engulfing her mouth with a hunger that found answer in her response.

"Stay," he said. "Please stay."

**Touch me! Let me see your eyes go green--go gray--as you labor above me.** Nikita watched Michael's face in the light of the fire, his expression strained with passion, lost within himself and her. She saw desperation and sorrow mixed across his brow, as if he knew he raced against time and fate. As she knew, and blamed him not.

**Love me! I need you more than life, and I'll conquer death to keep you.** Michael looked down through half closed eyes, watching her face. Passion and tenderness; ivory and gold. Hope in her eyes as he kissed her. God help him, but he loved her! And God help her, because he could not give her up.

* * *

"Michael?" Nikita poured coffee into his cup.

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking. It's going to be Christmas in a couple of days, and you have a new house. . . ." She paused to pour herself a cup.

"Yes?" He asked again, before taking a sip.

"Well, I thought while we were out shopping for food and things--could we get a tree and decorate it?"

"A tree?" He frowned as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

"Uh-huh. Just a little one. It would look perfect over in that corner."

'A Christmas tree.' Michael glanced over at the corner that Nikita indicated and gave the idea a moment to soak in, before he looked at her again.

There was an expression of hopefulness and longing on her face. It was such a simple request, a tree. "Of course," he answered.

Michael's reward was the look of pure joy on her face. "Great! I'll add it to our list!"

'Our list'. Michael gazed out the window at the still falling snow and felt his worried heart plummet to his toes. That's how it had started with Simone--with the word 'our'.

For the past several weeks, Michael pondered Madeline's recent actions on his behalf. She had both ignored Nikita's recent attempt at freedom, and his own attempt on Operations' life.

'Why,' he wondered, 'when Madeline frequently canceled operatives for much less?'

Part of him wanted to believe that his service to Section had earned him some freedom to pursue some type of personal happiness, while another waited for the other shoe to drop. How long, he wondered, would he and Nikita be allowed to be with each other before Section demanded ungodly payment for the privilege?

As Michael watched Nikita clear the table, and start to French braid her hair, in her rush to get ready to go shopping, he let loose a mental sigh. Sooner, or later, Madeline would beg payment for her cooperation in sheltering them both, and he shuddered to think what that payment might be.

"Okay! Ready!" Nikita beamed at him. Her smile was as wide and as eager as a child's. Despite the countless compromises demanded of her soul because of the Section, there still remained a stubborn spark of innocence in her. It was what he loved about her the most. He stared at her, still amazed at the effect her beauty had upon him.

"Hey! If you keep looking at me like that, we'll never get out of here." She ruffled his hair playfully with both hands, her voice half-kidding, half-serious.

Michael reached out a hand and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

"Oh! Look!" Nikita skipped over to the store window and examined the Christmas decorations. Michael followed her, at a slightly more sedate pace, and looked beneath his raised sunglasses to give his full attention to Nikita's find--a tree decorated in lace, pearls, and assorted angels of all colors and sizes.

"They're old fashioned--perfect for your house!"

Michael nodded, less concerned for the appropriateness of the ornaments than he was in seeing the pleasure Nikita was getting from shopping for them.

"Okay?" She asked, wanting confirmation that he had accepted her choice.

He nodded with a faint smile when she took his hand in hers and led him inside.

It felt so strange to be touched in public, where everyone could see, that Michael was a little disconcerted. But Nikita was so happy, he made an attempt to relax and enjoy himself as well.

They entered the shop and Nikita led him over to the counter to inquire about the window display.

The woman behind the counter was in her sixties, had a jovial expression, white hair and vibrant, blue eyes that seem to twinkle on their own.

"Hi!" Nikita nearly gushed with enthusiastic happiness. "I was looking at the ornaments in the window. You know, the angels on the tree? Do you have them all in stock?"

The woman smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry. We're all out of those ornaments. They went so fast this year--the angel craze is still going strong."

Nikita sighed, her smile fading. She felt utterly disappointed, and ridiculously close to tears.

The woman glanced at Michael and back at Nikita, before asking sweetly, "Is this your first Christmas together?"

Michael surprised himself and Nikita by answering, "Yes."

The saleswoman's smiled widened and she gave Michael a conspiratorial wink.

"Well, in that case--if you really want those ornaments, and don't mind the fact they are ever-so-slightly used, I could go pull them off the tree in the window and box them for you."

Nikita's smile bloomed brighter than before. "It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Not at all!" The woman chuckled. "No point in having a display, if you don't have any more in stock, now, is there?"

"I can help, if you want?" Nikita offered, taking off her hat and gloves.

"If you'd like."

Michael watched the two women retire to the window to gather the ornaments and took a moment to scan the store, noting the number and locations of all points of egress. It was a habit and it shook him at how ingrained his training had become. It was difficult, even off duty, to behave like a normal person, when he wasn't even sure what 'normal' was anymore.

Pulling off his gloves, Michael walked down the isles of knickknacks, lights and keepsake ornaments, suddenly realizing that a Christmas tree's function was to shelter gifts beneath its boughs. What could he give Nikita? What would she like?

He glanced over at her, and caught her eye for a moment. She pursed her lips at him, blowing a playful kiss, before turning back to her task of boxing the ornaments. That simple act stirred something deep inside him--a sense of belonging, of hope.

What could he get her, he wondered, to show how much she meant to him?

Michael's eye suddenly caught sight of a keepsake ornament. It was of two small tots, dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus--both bent at the waist, with eyes closed, chastely kissing--with a banner at their feet that read, 'Our First Christmas' and the year. He picked it up and smiled a secret smile.

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

Nikita eyed the young girl on the street corner, as Michael busied himself with putting their groceries into the car. She was about fifteen, perhaps sixteen, already street wise with a hard expression on her face.

'God!' Nikita thought to herself, 'That's me, four years ago.'

It was cold. Nikita was shivering and had only been outside for a few moments. The girl was wearing a light cloth jacket, with a hood, but no gloves. Instead, the girl's sleeves were pulled tightly down over her fists, and her arms were folded tightly across her chest.

Nikita knew the sensation of cold, chapped hands--of a nose that ran continuously. She watched the girl and remembered. . .

'Oh, to be warm!' Nikita thought as she stood on the street corner staring into the well-lit grocery store. It was late and the owners of the small store were checking out the last of the evening's customers.

Nikita's fingers and toes had gone from numb to burning with the cold. Hoping to get warm, even for a moment, she slipped inside unnoticed and made her way to the produce department. There, food could be gobbled quickly, without drawing too much attention with noisy wrappers or bulky boxes.

She popped couple of grapes into her mouth, then shoved a couple of carrots, then a stalk of celery up the sleeves of her sweater. A small apple went in one bra cup, a medium potato went into the other.

That done, she slipped into the bathroom. The shelters were already full for the night and this might be her last chance to go until morning.

Just as she was about to flush, the lights suddenly went out and she was plunged into sudden darkness. By the time she felt her way to the door to leave, she found the entire store darkened. The only light came from the streetlight just outside. She'd been locked in!

A moment of panic was followed by the realization she was locked into a warm building, with nearly all the comforts of home! There was a large janitor's sink in the rest room, dirty, but deep enough in which to bathe and wash clothes; food and drink, of every description; even a small radio in the manager's office!

Squealing with her good fortune, Nikita's set about washing herself and her clothes. She dried herself using an entire roll of paper towels, and dried her 'cleaner' clothes, using a small space heater, she'd also found in the manager's office.

Supper consisted of several easy-open cans of beanie-weenies, heated over a small makeshift stove created from an empty coffee can and a box of matches; two cans of root beer, a bag of potato chips, and two packages of Twinkies.

She fell asleep in front of the space heater, atop a mattress created from ten packages of toilet paper, and a long piece of cardboard . . . .

"Nikita?"

Michael's voice jerked Nikita out of her memories. She blinked, suddenly noticing the girl had gone. She felt disappointed, having hoped to at least go over and offer the girl a few dollars.

"Yes?" She answered, still searching the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl.

"Are we finished?"

Nikita sighed. The girl was no where to be seen. "Yes," she answered him.

"Let's go home."

'Home.' Michael stole a glance at Nikita's pale face as they drove to his house. She seemed distracted and far from the bubbly self she had been earlier in the day.

"Is something wrong?" Michael asked. He drove with one hand, while he sought out her hand with the other. He found it and held it.

Nikita shook her head, but only because she had no words for what she was feeling. Depression for the young girl--and for her younger self, mixed with an incredible rush of appreciation for her life at the moment. She had everything she needed now, a home, food, warm clothes--and Michael. She wanted to wrap herself around him and never let go.

Michael poured red wine into Nikita's glass, as she put the finishing touches on the tree. He'd watched her for over an hour, fussing with the exact placement of ribbon, lights and angels, but it had been worth it. It was a beautiful tree, more so for the glow on Nikita's face, than anything else. It was such a strange and wonderful feeling. Michael's eyes dropped to the ruby color of the wine he clasped in his hand.

For so many years, Christmas had passed unnoticed, like every other holiday. Instead Michael's calendar had counted the days to and from assassinations and tactical assaults. He'd forgotten what it was like to notice the seasons changing--the scent of wood smoke and evergreen, the taste of spiced cider, roses in summer, daffodils in spring. . .

Simone had reminded him to live, but he had soon forgotten the lessons, when she was gone. It had hurt too much to remember, when there was no one to share it with.

He watched Nikita, seated at the foot of the tree, happily sniffing the crisp clean scent of evergreen, as she enjoyed the lights dancing in a choreographed circle around the tree. Like a child, like an angel--enjoying the simple moments of her life, and gifting him with the moments of her delight.

Michael sat his wine on the counter and knelt behind her. "It's beautiful," he said with pride. "You're beautiful."

Nikita leaned back against him, closed her eyes, and gave him a smoky, sensual smile of happiness.

Michael brushed her mouth with his. The odd angle of kissing her upside down made then both smile. They moved to lay face to face on the soft cream carpet.

They remained there, watching each other in silence, listening to Christmas carols on the radio, until Nikita shifted herself onto her back with a sigh. "Tired?" Michael asked seriously, leaning over her.

Nikita gave him a mischievous smile and grabbed his dark sweater with both hands and pulled him closer.

"Not on your life!" she said and kissed him through a smile.

Michael kissed back, savoring the moment and her happiness. 'If only it could last,' he thought fatalistically. 'If only. . . '

Nikita surprised him by pushing him over onto his back, and straddling his waist. Without a word, she reached down, grabbed the bottom of her sweater and peeled it over her head. Dropping it off to the side, she undid the clip that held her hair and shook it loose over her shoulders.

Where Simone's breasts had been almonds and honey, Nikita's were peaches and cream. Michael cupped his hands over them, then gently caressed the blushing tips with the edges of his thumbs. They peeked happily at the attention. He gazed up at her with rapt adoration in his green eyes.

"Noooo," She whispered with a smile, brushing a cinnamon curl off his forehead.

"Don't touch--not yet--" She gently pressed his hands away and began to tug his sweater up to take it off.

"Now what?" He asked, with some curiosity, but not resisting.

"Be patient." Nikita taunted him with his own words, but smiled when she said them. She wiggled down him, until she could comfortably kiss his navel---which she did--before her hands caressed and found him through his clothes.

Michael reacted with an intake of breath and closed his eyes as Nikita's hand touched him, then her mouth.

Nikita felt his body grow taut beneath her, straining at the pleasure and wanting more. And more she gave, until Michael was desperate for her, touching her, kissing her, tasting her.

Nikita panted as his mouth took her as intimately as she had done for him, gasping out his name when he brought her to the pinnacle of sweetness, before he pulled her atop himself and buried himself in her moist heat.

A moment later Michael cried out so loudly that Nikita looked down to see if he's been hurt, only to be pulled down into a kiss so tender she thought she would melt.

They lay, still entwined, sated and happy. Michael gently ran his fingers through Nikita's hair as she lay atop him.

"I'm glad you're here." He said, his voice as soft as his touch. He kissed her hair, just as she lifted her head to look at him.

"I'm glad too, Michael." She smiled and leaned on her elbows to look down at him. "And happy." She brushed his hair off his forehead.

That shy smile of happiness--the same she had given him at the restaurant, all those years ago. The smile that had faded when she had opened his "gift" and realized the date had only been a job. It had been like pulling the wings off of a butterfly; the guilt of it, ate at him still.

Michael suddenly sighed and looked away, causing Nikita to frown. "You're worried, aren't you?" She asked softly.

He looked back at her, surprised at her insight. "Yes."

"Me too. I'm too happy. I'm having trouble trusting that." She smiled wistfully.

Michael rolled over with her, balanced himself on one elbow, while he traced her jaw with his other hand.

"There are things about me. . . " He began. "There's so much you don't know."

"Shhh. It will keep until you're ready to tell me. Please trust me, Michael." Nikita looked up at him with sincerity in her vivid blue eyes.

She saw his eyes close, as if he were making an important decision and didn't want to be distracted.

"I love you, Michael. I always have. I always will, no matter what." She slipped her arms around his neck and wished he didn't look so sad.

"Nikita, I . . . "

The sudden shrill ringing of Michael's cell phone jarred them both. Michael rolled his face away in bitter disappointment as Nikita reluctantly moved to allow him to answer it.

Nikita remained on the floor, and admired Michael's beautifully sculptured body as he traversed the den and picked up the phone. "Yes?"

The phone call lasted all of a second or two, all of it evidently one-sided.

But Michael stood for several seconds unmoving and the long pause was alarming. Nikita sat up and wrapped her sweater around her shoulders and braced for the worst.

"What is it?" She asked, very concerned. Michael had his back to her and she couldn't see his expression. When he turned around however, he was smiling.

"A wrong number."

A wrong number. The relief of it was almost comical; Nikita let out the air she'd been holding in her lungs.

'It's almost Christmas,' she prayed, 'don't let anything spoil it, please.'

* * *

"Where are you going?" Michael asked, as Nikita put the finishing touches on her makeup.

"Shopping--it's Christmas Eve. I need a few more things for Christmas dinner."

"Can I come?" Michael wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck.

"No, you can't come!" She said in mock seriousness. "I also have a gift to buy and you can't be with me when I buy it."

"Why not?" He asked with a smile hidden in his voice.

"You know why not." Nikita turned in his arms. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Michael stroked a lock of gold off her brow. "Be careful." He gave her a quick kiss on the mouth.

Nikita's mind worked furiously as she drove off. She wanted to get Michael a gift, but had no idea what to get him. For all their recent closeness, she had to confess, she really didn't know that much about his likes and dislikes. 'What did you get an assassin for Christmas?'

She frowned at the thought. Michael did kill for a living, so did she--but was assassin the right word to describe their jobs? A shudder went through Nikita. Was it true? Was she an assassin? Was Michael?

Nikita pulled the car into a parking space and turned off the engine. She sat there for a long while, depressed by her thoughts.

'No!' a part of her argued, 'Michael kills to protect the innocent and so do I' Another part of her argued they had allowed the innocent to die as well. Memories of poison gas and a building full of people stood up to convict her.

"Oh, God." Nikita said aloud. "I don't want to do these things any more. I want a life. I want a home and family. I want some peace!"

Nikita looked across the street and spotted the young girl she'd seen on her most recent trip downtown. She watched as the girl paced in the frigid air, smoking a cigarette for the warmth it gave her thin face.

'If only,' Nikita thought, 'if only my life had been different. If only someone had helped me. . .' The thought gave her pause. A moment later, she got out of her car and trotted across the street towards the girl.

"Hi!" Nikita began cheerfully, then mentally kicked herself. She remembered being on the street. People who were too friendly, were that way for a reason, and often it wasn't in your best interest to trust them.

The girl stepped back warily--point well proven.

Nikita took a deep breath and began again. "It's cold out here, isn't it?"

Again a look of distrust, mixed with a sneer over her statement of the obvious.

"Look," Nikita started over. "I used to be in your shoes. I lived on the streets for nearly four years."

"So? Want a medal?" The girl snorted, blowing smoke through her nose.

"No, just want to help you, that's all."

"Yeah, right. You're a girl scout now." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"No. Not even close." Nikita smiled at the irony. She reached inside her purse and pulled out a handful of money. "Here. Take this and get yourself some food."

The girl didn't hesitate and reached for the cash. As she did so, Nikita saw the track marks on her arm, and snatched the money back again.

"You're using?" Nikita asked the girl, holding the money out of reach.

"And you said you'd been in my shoes--I knew you were shitting me! Nobody gives something for nothing! Nobody!" Without warning, the girl pulled a knife with a five-inch blade from a pocket inside her ragged coat.

"Okay, bitch, hand me the money and I won't hurt you!"

Nikita's eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed in anger. "You're being stupid," she told the girl unflinchingly, "I only want to help you."

"Shut up!" The girl took a moment to look around to see if they had been noticed. They hadn't, but she didn't want to take any chances. She motioned with the knife. "Down the alley. Now!"

Nikita shrugged and complied. When they got to the middle of the alley the girl ordered her to stop.

Nikita stopped and turned to face her. "Now what?"

"The money. Hand it over."

"No." Nikita folded her arms and smiled grimly.

"Do it! I'll cut you if you don't."

"You can try," Nikita replied, sounding bored.

The girl responded by attacking. Nikita parried by catching the blade in the voluminous folds of her winter coat, then caught the girl's wrist and broke her hold on the knife. A second later, the girl found her face forcefully pressed against the rough- textured brick wall of the adjacent building.

"Ow! Let go!"

"In a moment. I want you to hear something first." Nikita said quietly as she reached into her purse with one hand.

There was a soft click-click that followed.

"Did you hear that?" Nikita asked.

"Yeah, so what?" The girl continued to struggle, but Nikita had her left arm pinned in a painful position behind her back.

"Do you know what that sound is?"

"No."

"Does this, give you a hint?" Nikita pressed the barrel of her Ruger 9mm pistol to the girl's temple. "Now, I'm going to let go of you. When I do, I want you to turn around slowly. Do you understand me?"

Wide-eyed, the girl quickly nodded.

"Good." Nikita let her loose and stepped back with the pistol aimed and ready.

"Don't!" The girl pleaded, as she raised her trembling hands in the air.

"Give me one good reason, why not?" Nikita said coldly.

"Please! I don't want to die!" Brown eyes filled with terrified tears.

"Oh really? You could have fooled me. By the looks of your arms, I'd say you're half-way there already. I think I'll be doing you a favor by making your death nice and quick. One shot, right between the eyes--it's quite painless that way, I can assure you."

The girl's legs buckled and she slid down the wall and huddled there pleading.

"Don't! Please!" she wailed, covering her face with her arms.

"Get up." Nikita said, lowering her weapon.

The girl struggled on shaky legs to comply. Suddenly, she realized Nikita wasn't going to harm her.

"You a cop?" she spat out, the rebellion returning to her eyes.

Nikita raised the gun again and pressed it to the young woman's forehead.

"Cops have rules. I don't. If you want to live through the next few seconds, you'd better pay strict attention."

The fear returned and Nikita got a little nod.

"Good. Now that we understand each other . . . "

"What do you want from me?" The voice wavered, and Nikita felt suddenly ashamed and confused. 'What did she want, indeed?'

"Only to help you," Nikita sighed. It was the truth. She saw herself in the scraggly, blond waif. She wanted better for this young girl than the life she was forced to live. Sadly, Nikita also knew, the chances were slim the girl would take any help from her or anyone.

"Why?" The girl asked, suddenly quite puzzled.

Nikita shrugged, and put her weapon away. "I told you, I've been here." She gestured to their surroundings. "You're me, four years ago. Hungry, dirty, and cold."

"So, okay. Give me the money and I'll go buy some clean clothes and some food." The girl offered with a smile.

"No, you won't. You'll head right to your connection and buy drugs." Nikita retorted, unamused.

"Look, I'm cold! Make up your mind! You gonna help me, or not?"

"What's your name?" Nikita asked.

"Kim."

"Kim. You want a bath, some clothes and a meal? That's what I'm offering."

"In return for what?" Kim asked warily.

"I want you to get your head clear and think about what you are going to do with the rest of your life."

"That's all?"

"That's a lot, I promise you. Deal?"

"Yeah. Okay, deal."

"Fine. First-let's get you warm and fed. Want anything special to eat?"

"Yeah, a turkey dinner." Kim said sarcastically.

Nikita shrugged, "Why not? Let's go."

As Nikita watched Kim finish off her third piece of pumpkin pie, she felt torn between compassion and concern. If the Section could see her at this moment, she was sure she'd be in Madeline's office for one of her infamous mother-daughter chats. Signing inwardly, Nikita was sure she'd be in trouble with Michael as well. He'd warned her repeatedly about getting involved with civilians, with good reason.

To be fair, Nikita hadn't expected this turn of events. She had only intended to give the girl money for a hot meal and a warm bed on Christmas Eve, but when she saw the needle marks on Kim's arms, Nikita knew giving her money would have only invited her to shoot up for the holiday-perhaps fatally.

"So," Kim said, interrupting Nikita's thoughts, "what do you do for a living?"

"Had enough?" Nikita replied, ignoring the question.

"Yeah. You a social worker or something?"

"Or something. Let's go shopping."

"Are you for real?" Kim asked, cocking her head to one side.

"Nope. I'm just a figment of your imagination. Let's go."

Kim bounced on the end of the bed, and for the first time, awarded Nikita with a smile.

Nikita pulled a package of throw-away razors, shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and some make-up out of a small paper bag and placed them near the sink in the motel room.

"I've paid for the room for the rest of the week. I've also arranged for your meals to be brought to you during that time. Now, go take a hot shower and wash your hair. I have to go."

"I think I have this all figured out, now." Kim said, her face falling.

"What do you mean?" Nikita asked.

"I'm not stupid. You get me all cleaned up and farm me out to the johns, right?"

Nikita sighed. Of course the girl would think that; Nikita would have thought the same thing, four years ago.

"Kim, for what's it's worth, I give you my word. There are no strings attached. No johns-I promise. You'll just have to believe me. I have to go. Just promise me to think about your life. It's a big world out there-good and bad, and you only get one chance, one life. Don't waste it. Get straight. Find someone to love. Have babies. Grow old. Do it for me. Do it for yourself."

Nikita gathered her coat and purse, to hide the tears that had suddenly welded up. Part of her warned that Kim was probably not going to change, but she still hoped for it anyway.

Nikita reached for the door, then paused when Kim blurted out, "Hey-thanks."

Nikita turned and exchanged a long look with Kim.

"Merry Christmas," Nikita said at last.

"Yeah. You too." Kim replied quietly with a wistful note of hope in her voice. "And really-thanks again."

Nikita looked at the time. It was nearly five in the afternoon and she realized with a rush of horror that she only had an hour to find Michael a gift before the stores closed. Damn! Her problem was still the same-what could she get him?

She mentally cataloged all the facts she knew about Michael in hopes of getting an idea. When she finished, she was shocked at how very little she really knew. He wore black a lot, rode a motorcycle, was once married, and a father, painted---painted!

Nikita put the car in gear and made a sharp u-turn in the parking lot of the motel. Hopefully, she could get to a hobby store before it closed!

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

"I'm back!" Nikita called cheerfully, as she push open the door with an armful of packages.

There was no immediate answer, so she dropped all on the kitchen counter and trotted upstairs, merrily singing.

"Michael! I'm back."

Again, came silence.

"Michael?" A shiver went through Nikita as a quick search of the house found no one. She was alone.

The shrill ring of her cell phone, made her run back downstairs to answer it.

"Hullo?"

"Josephine." It was Michael.

"Yes?"

There was a brief pause, and almost a sigh, "Come in."

"Of course," Nikita answered, softly as she closed her phone. "So much for Christmas."

* * *

Operations paced irritably behind the conference table.

"Our target is Mahnmet Abu--an Islamic resistance fighter who made a name for himself by his propensity for mass murdering his enemies and their entire families under flags of truce or the guise of cease fires. Since war crimes were rampant on all sides of the recent Bosnian conflict, Abu is no better or worse than most of the combatants."

"Why is Section One being involved?" Michael asked quietly.

Operations smiled bitterly, "Because his life is the price of the negotiated peace. Markovic is one of the strongest leaders on the side of the Serbian faction and NATO believes his cooperation is vital to keeping the peace we brokered at the Wright-Patterson peace conference. Unfortunately for Abu, he had Markovic's entire family slaughtered, two weeks ago. Now Markovic is threatening to violate the negotiated peace unless his terms are met."

"And his terms are?" Nikita interjected.

"The immediate execution of Mahnmet Abu. If the assassination isn't forthcoming, Markovic will encourage his faction of the Serbians to retaliate on his behalf. That would start another round of an eye for an eye-and that would mean the end of the peace."

"Won't killing Abu create a similar need for retaliation on the side of the Muslims?" Michael asked.

"Not if we make it look as if one of his own allies did the killing."

"Do we have a man in place to take the fall?" Michael asked again.

"Yes." Operations clicked the holographic screen. "This is Saladin Koslin. He's an arms dealer who has a reputation for being ambitious. Abu has relied on him in the past for arms shipments from Afghanistan, though there is no love lost between the two. Both men are scheduled to meet in three days to conclude an arms deal. NATO wants the shipment stopped. Killing Abu and framing Koslin for the murder will make everyone happy: Markovic keeps the peace, we stop an illegal arms deal, and NATO remains an innocent bystander. Michael, I want a profile in my office in an hour."

"This should be a surgical-" Michael began.

"Agreed. This briefing's over. Michael I'll see in an hour, the rest of you are dismissed."

Everyone stood to leave, with Nikita rising the slowest. She waited to accompany Michael to his office. They walked there in silence, where both waited to speak until Michael could secure the room.

"Operations called a few hours after you left." Michael began in explanation.

Nikita nodded, and folded her arms. While it showed in her expression, she voiced no disappointment. She had long since learned not to count on anything, when working for Section-not even Christmas.

"Do you need any help with the profile." She offered.

"No. Thank you." Michael sat down at his desk and opened his lap-top. His demeanor had switched to machine-mode, out of necessity. With a small sigh,

Nikita nodded and got up to leave.

"I'll be in Section, if you need me."

"There's no need. I'll call you in, if I need you." Michael said, speaking over the top of his computer screen. He glanced at her briefly, nodded a goodbye then went back to work.

Nikita was vaguely hurt that he could shift gears so fast. 'But' she thought, 'that's Michael-take him or leave him.'

"Fine." Nikita said with a quick nod. "Later, then."

Michael nodded absently, already totally absorbed in this work.

Nikita returned to her apartment and exercised for the next several hours. It was after midnight when she finally decided she was exhausted enough to sleep. Even then, it took an hour to fall asleep because of thoughts of Michael. Lying there in her lonely bed, Nikita missed him terribly. Being with him, sleeping with him, had become a powerful addiction in a very short time.

* * *

"Morning, Birkoff!" Came a cheery voice from behind.

"Nikita?" What are you doing here?" Birkoff hardly looked up from his work station.

"It's almost Christmas! What are you doing working?" She teased, leaning over his console.

Birkoff flashed her a strange look, then gave out a huff and a shrug of his shoulders before going back to his keyboard.

There was a rattling of paper and Birkoff looked up once again. Nikita placed a small, beautifully wrapped package in his lap.

"What's this?" He looked at the package, then back at Nikita with a puzzled, half-pleased expression on his face.

"Well, . . . it's not a bomb. The rest you'll have to figure out for yourself, when you open it."

Birkoff's young face broke out into a grin as he started to tear the paper. Then he stopped and looked up with great concern on his face.

Nikita's expression asked what was wrong and Birkoff looked contrite, "I didn't get you anything, Nikita."

She laughed and ruffled his short hair with both hands. "I don't care. I didn't expect you to. Open it."

Birkoff, relieved of any guilt, tore the paper some more and revealed the latest, and most popular computer game on the market.

"Oh wow!" He stared at the box with total joy on his face. "How did you know? I mean, how'd you find one?"

Nikita laughed again, "It wasn't easy--but I do have some connections."

"Thanks, Nikita! Really!" He laughed as he eagerly scanned the box's contents.

She blew him a kiss and left to find Walter.

Nikita found him in his workroom, soldering.

"Hi, Walter."

"Sugar!" Walter grinned broadly. "Ah! Stop right about . . . there!"

"What? Nikita stopped just inside the doorway.

"Perfect!"

Nikita smiled, but wondered what in the world Walter was up to.

"It's Christmas Eve," Walter said in partial explanation.

"I know," Nikita said, "Here." She held out a book-sized, rectangular present.

"For me?"

"For you," Nikita answered, "and for the benefit of all the ladies in your life."

Walter quickly opened the box and found a gift set of cologne. He unscrewed the top of one of the bottles, took a whiff and liked what he smelled. "Oh, that's the good stuff, all right! Thanks, Sugar!"

"Merry Christmas, Walter." Nikita said, as she started to leave.

"Hold it! Don't move."

"What?"

"I have something for you, too." Walter said with a wide grin.

"Really? For me?" She asked as he handed her a small box.

"For you--sorry, I didn't get a chance to wrap it."

Nikita opened the box and found a set of lacy-silver earrings, set with colorful bead-work and tiny feathers.

"They're called dream-catchers. I made them for you."

"Oh, Walter! They're so beautiful!"

"Well, . . . " Walter said modestly.

"No, really, Walter--they're gorgeous!"

He smiled wickedly. "Oh, and one more thing."

"What's that?"

Walter pointed upwards to a small clump of white berries and green leaves.

"Mistletoe?" Nikita asked, slipping an arm around Walter's shoulders.

"Hey! It's traditional--and I've always been big on tradition." He gave her his widest, most lecherous grin.

Nikita took Walter's face in her hands and planted a wet kiss on his lips.

Walter playfully dipped her backwards, before a voice behind them broke it up.

"Uh, umm?" It was Birkoff, trying not to laugh, "Walter, if you're not too busy, Operations needs to see you in his office.

Walter righted Nikita, and released her. "Bah, Humbug! Okay," he added with a long-suffering sigh. "See you later, Sugar?"

"Sure."

Nikita and Birkoff watched Walter as he made his way toward Operations' office.

Nikita felt a quick tug on the sleeve of her sweater. She glanced at Birkoff, who was both smiling and pointing up at the hanging plant-life.

Nikita folded her arms and pretended to misunderstand. "Yes?"

"My turn?" Birkoff asked hopefully.

"Your turn?"

He nodded with a grin.

"Okay." Nikita placed her hands on Birkoff's cheeks and pulled him close. Birkoff shut his eyes and blushed a little with anticipation.

Nikita smiled, then kissed his forehead chastely. She received a disappointed, "Ahhh, Nikita!" for her trouble.

She laughed, then relented and kissed him gently on the mouth. "Better?"

Birkoff gave her a silly grin in return.

"Can you tell me where Michael is?" She asked softly.

Birkoff jumped backwards two steps and looked around. "Michael! Where?"

Nikita laughed briefly. "No Seymour, he's not here-- but I was hoping you could tell me where he might be."

Birkoff let out a little 'whew', and answered, "I'm not sure, but if you wait a few minutes, I'll find out."

"Thanks."

Several minutes later Birkoff reappeared. "He's already on his way to Bosnia. He flew out about two hours ago."

"What's the mission profile? Why wasn't the rest of the team alerted?"

Birkoff shrugged, "I don't know. Michael's gone solo--it's need to know, only."

Nikita's heart sank with disappointment. Bosnia meant there was no way he'd be back for Christmas. It was all she could do, not to start bawling.

"I'll call you, if I hear something," Birkoff said quietly, gently touching her arm. He looked concerned and Nikita realized, with a slight jolt of dismay, she had inadvertently allowed her feelings to show.

"S'okay," she said, attempting a smile. "Well, I'm off duty, so I guess I'll go enjoy what's left of the day. Got a ton of things to get done." She slipped her coat on and adjusted the collar. "Later?"

"Sure." Birkoff promised.

Nikita sat in her car on the street for an hour trying to decide what to do with herself. The streets were nearly deserted. Everyone was snug in their homes, with family and friends gathered around.

She leaned her head against the steering wheel. "Oh, Michael. You've been gone less than five hours and I miss you like you've been gone fifty." A tear escaped and Nikita wiped it away angrily.

"Stop it! Just stop it, Nikita!" She ordered herself. "You're not the only one spending Christmas alone--so stop it!"

There was a gentle tap on her side window, and Nikita turned her head sharply to see who it was. An elderly man, poorly dressed, and obviously homeless, was trying to get her attention. She rolled down her window to see what he wanted.

"You okay, lady?" He asked, his breath making a cloud that fogged her side mirror. He looked genuinely concerned.

She sniffed, wiped away a tear, and tried to smile. "Sure, I'm fine."

"Well, if you need a little cheering up--" he handed her a colored flier.

"We're serving up Christmas dinner over there on 4th Street. You're invited, if you'd like to come."

Nikita started to thank the man and politely refuse, then she thought of Kim and others like her. She had a smoked turkey sitting in Michael's refrigerator, and all the fixing's to go with it, and no one to eat it.

"Hey, thanks." Nikita looked at the address on the flier and folded it in half. "Thanks, I think I will."

"God Bless you then! See you there!"

Nikita walked into the 4th Street Mission and was nearly lost in the noisy crowd. She found someone that looked like they were in charge.

"Uh, hello?" Nikita gave the woman an uncertain smile.

"Hi. Can I help you?" A harried woman behind a counter struggled to balance a platter of sliced meat against her hip.

"Looks like you're the one who needs some help--here, let me get this side of the platter."

Together the two women carried the heavy platter into the dining hall and sat it on a serving table.

"Thanks! That was heavier than it looked." The woman gave a short laugh. "Now--can I help you?"

"Actually, I kind of thought I'd like to help--I have a car full of food--turkey, mashed potatoes, pie, and such. Can you use any more food?"

"Already cooked?"

"Yes--well, the turkey is smoked--if you have a microwave, it just needs to be warmed up." Nikita said, taking off her gloves.

"Honey, you're an angel sent from heaven! We are up to our ears in hungry families this year and I was beginning to worry we were going to have to turn some of them away. Yes, of course! By the way, I'm Nina--you're?" She leaned closer to hear over the noise and reached out a hand.

"Nikita." Nikita shook the pre-offered hand.

"Well, hang one and I'll get a few people rounded up and we'll unload your car for you."

Nina watched the young woman as she spooned mashed potatoes onto a little girl's plate and wondered who she was. She didn't have the attitude of the average Christmas volunteers, who felt they had done their duty for mankind and to God for providing their services on Christmas Day. (Not that their service wasn't welcome or important, it was--but it was only once a year, and hardly a sacrifice.) Usually they "braved" the dirt and the smells, the drunks and the addicts, to do their good deed for the year, but they did so, carefully. It was evident in their reluctance to actually talk to or touch anyone. They wanted no more involvement than the time it took to serve the food, feel good about themselves, and return home, where hunger and cold were only passing thoughts.

But Nina watched her latest volunteer with appreciation. Nikita chatted with each person, giving each one a smile. When a little girl's hair wouldn't stay out of her face, Nikita fashioned a pony-tail for the child using a barrette she'd taken out of her own hair. That the child's hair was unwashed and probably full of lice, hadn't fazed Nikita at all!

"How we doin'?" Nina asked, handing Nikita another large bowl of mashed potatoes.

"Fine--I think we're running out of gravy, though." Nikita pointed to an empty bowl.

"That happens every year--gravy and meat always run out first. I've got plenty of butter and margarine though, so we can hand that out instead. You going to stay through dessert? The shelter kids are going to put on a Christmas play."

"Sure. Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

Nina smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Oh, I'll be glad to stay after and help clean up, if you need me." Nikita offered.

"Thanks, that would be a great help--you'd be amazed at how many people have to 'rush off,' once the food's gone."

Nikita smiled with understanding and nodded. For herself it would be a blessing, not to have to return to an empty apartment, and besides, she was genuinely enjoying herself. She even felt oddly at home. The faces were different, but she recognized the stories behind them: the mildly retarded, the unwed mothers, the runaways, the alcoholics, the dopers. There were families too, down on their luck, or broken by divorce or abusive spouses. She looked for Kim, but realized she was probably still enjoying her motel room for the week. 'Perhaps, tomorrow,' she thought, 'I'll go see how she's doing.'

"Whew! Well, that's done!" Nina said, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"Want some coffee? There's a sliver of pie left too."

"Coffee would be fine." Nikita replied, putting away the last, large pot.

Nina gestured for Nikita to sit down, then filled two cups and brought them to the table.

"You do this every year?" Nikita asked, taking a sip.

"Yep--and year round as well. I work here full time."

"It must be a fulfilling job."

"Yes, sometimes--it can break your heart, too." Nina said thoughtfully.

There was a brief pause, then she continued. "Do you mind if I ask you something personal?"

"Like what?" Nikita took a quick sip to hide her discomfort over being asked a question.

"What made you decide to join us this evening?"

Nikita frowned at her coffee cup, then said, "Truth?"

"Yeah, truth."

"I came because I didn't want to spend Christmas alone."

"You have no family?"

"No, no family, except . . . for my husband. He was called away suddenly."

Even as she said it, Nikita wasn't sure why she'd said it. Maybe it was because she wanted it to be true; maybe she simply wanted a shoulder to cry on.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Will he be back soon?"

"I don't know. He has a dangerous job . . . " Mentally, she was screaming at herself for bringing the subject up, but the words continued to tumble out.

"Police officer?" Nina asked.

"Military." Nikita said softly.

"I'll be sure to remember him in my prayers. What's his name?"

"Michael."

Nina smiled, "You love him a lot."

Nikita couldn't swallow the lump in her throat, and had to respond with a nod.

"My husband spent twenty years in the Marines. You get used to the life, but you never stop missing them when they're gone. But you're off to a good start--keeping busy, keeps your mind off being alone."

"I guess I'd better go. It's almost midnight." Nikita said, softly, getting up to rinse out her cup. Nina got to her feet as well and offered her hand.

"Thanks again, for your help tonight. And feel free to come and visit anytime--we can always use another pair of hands."

"Thanks, I will." Nikita said. Then surprising herself, she hugged Nina, who smiled and patted her gently on the shoulder.

"Anytime." Nina repeated. "Merry Christmas."

* * *

Eastern Europe, 0230 hours, Zulu Time

"You the package?" The pilot asked, giving the man before him a curious once-over.

"Yes." Michael said, shouldering his equipment.

"You been briefed?"

"Yes."

"Then let's load up. This isn't going to be a picnic."

Michael sat down in the belly of the small cargo plane and rechecked his equipment. There had been two major glitches on this mission, both beyond anyone's control--the weather, which had delayed his flight, and problems with his com gear due to increased sunspot activity. So far, however, the mission had not been scrubbed.

Operations had been blunt, "Kill him and don't get caught." The short planning time that NATO had given them, and the difficulty of getting in and out of the country, had made sending in entire team too difficult, and in Michael's estimate, too dangerous. The odds of returning the entire team had been less than one in one hundred, so Michael had convinced Operations that he must go in alone.

"Sir, we're over the jump zone."

Michael's thoughts returned to the present. He nodded, hooked up and stood in the doorway. The wind was bitterly cold; it made his eyes water. He closed them and jumped into the frigid night air. Fifteen seconds later, the cargo plane exploded overhead, showering flaming pieces of shrapnel onto the nylon canopy of Michael's open parachute.

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

"Sir!" Birkoff bolted abruptly into Madeline's office. Operations turned in annoyance.

"What is it Birkoff?"

"We've lost Michael." Came the breathless answer.

"What?" Operations looked as shocked as he sounded.

"His drop aircraft was shot down last night." Birkoff said, his young face pale with the news.

"Has it been confirmed?"

"Yes sir. It was friendly fire--a French anti-aircraft battery mistook the plane as Serbian in the no-fly zone."

"Oh my god," Madeline said softly.

"Call everyone in." Operations ordered tersely. "Madeline--I've got to call George."

She nodded absently.

Operations pushed past Birkoff, who stood unsure of what he should do next.

"Birkoff, you can return to your station. I'll take care of the recall."

Madeline said quietly, picking up her phone. Birkoff thought of Nikita and was relieved that it would be Madeline and not himself that would have to break the news to her. He bobbed his head to acknowledge Madeline's order and left.

It seemed Nikita had barely closed her eyes when she awoke to the shrill ring of her cell phone. Bleary-eyed, she glanced over at the clock. It was a quarter to five.

With a groan, she tossed off the blankets and fumbled in the darkness for her phone.

"Yes?"

"Josephine, come in." It was Madeline's voice.

"In twenty minutes," Nikita promised sleepily. The conversation ended there as Madeline hung up and Nikita felt her way into the bathroom and turned on the light to get dressed.

Nikita was surprised to see Walter waiting for her as she entered the Section.

He looked exhausted.

"What's going on?" Nikita asked, covering a yawn with one hand.

"Operations called everyone in."

"We have another mission?"

"Sugar," Walter took Nikita by both arms. That, and his tone, sent a jolt of alarm through her.

"Michael?"

"Yes. His plane was shot down. We just found out half an hour ago."

"Where?" Her voice was barely audible.

"Somewhere over Bosnia."

"Any survivors?"

"We don't know."

"Walter!" Nikita's eyes weld up with tears as the old man pulled her close.

"I know, Sugar. I know. You gotta get a hold on yourself." He rubbed her back trying to comfort her.

"He can't be gone--he can't be. Not Michael."

"Listen, Michael's been missing before and turned up." Walter tried to sound optimistic, but the truth was he knew the chances were slim that he was alive. NATO had confirmed no survivors, and while Michael might not have been aboard when the plane went down, he hadn't contacted the Section either.

"Operations is going to brief what happened." Walter said, drawing away to look at Nikita's face. "You have to be strong, Sugar."

Nikita wiped the tears away, as the numbness of shock set in. She nodded and allowed Walter to lead her away.

The glare of the morning sun, reflecting off the snow, sent a shard of pain through Michael's head as he opened his eyes. He closed them again briefly, feeling each beat of his heart in the form of a throbbing ache behind his eyes and in his shoulder. He assessed the damage to himself, and concluded he had a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. He was also hung up in a tree.

At least he hadn't frozen to death overnight, thanks to Walter's ingenuity. Walter had expanded on the idea of the heated gloves and socks that hunter's used, creating winter battle gear that warmed the entire body. It seemed the battery pack that kept the suit working was intact-little else was.

Taking a deep breath, Michael forced himself to open his eyes and examine his surroundings more carefully. His com gear and weapon were gone, along with his GPS locator. He'd lost them when he cut himself free from the harness of his primary chute when it had caught fire and collapsed.

His backup chute had opened, but cutting himself free from the main had left him no time to avoid crashing into a line of trees. His left shoulder had taken the entire impact, and now his left arm dangled useless at his side. On Michael's short list of positive findings: he was alive, he still had his knife, and he was only a ten-foot drop from the ground.

After a painful hour of struggling, Michael finally reached the ground, landing in a heap, in eight inches of newly fallen snow. It was at least fifteen minutes before he could entertain the idea of moving again. When he could, he rechecked his equipment, hoping he might have been mistaken about his losses-he wasn't.

Being a realist, Michael didn't worry about the things he couldn't change and got up to do the things he could. The first order of business was to pop his shoulder back in place. Since hitting a tree had popped it out, Michael decided hitting another tree could pop it back again. The pain of doing so, caused him to black-out and drop to his knees.

When he was conscious of his surroundings and could move again, he took his belt and made a make-shift sling. One problem was partially solved.

Thankful for a sunny day, Michael stripped off his watch, pointed the hour hand in the direction of the sun, drew an imaginary line between the hour hand and 1200, and knew that line pointed south. It was an old infantryman's trick, crude but effective. His target was in a village to the north.

Barring a mishap in a minefield, he might make it there. Whether he could kill his target, and escape, depended now, solely on luck. Either way, his only avenue of escape depended on arriving in the village before Section gave up on him.

He had two days.

* * *

Nikita listened, but only to her heart breaking. Operations repeated all the intel they currently had on the situation in Bosnia. There was little time to send in a secondary team, but the Agency had insisted on it. Michael, or no Michael, the mission came first--as it always did.

"Are you listening, Nikita?" Operations snapped at her.

She nodded numbly, having no idea what he had said, nor cared.

She felt Walter's hand covering hers beneath the table. Without a word, he conveyed to her his support, and pleaded with her to hang on and reply to Operations' question.

"Yes, sir. I'm listening." She said finally. When the briefing was over, Walter would tell her what she was to do. She felt him pat her hand approvingly.

The briefing continued, with only partial attendance on Nikita's part. Her thoughts drifted from joyful memories, to the depths of painful loneliness. She wanted this to be a dream and she desperately wanted to wake up!

Nikita realized the ordeal had concluded when Walter patted her hand again and reached down to pull her to her feet.

"Sugar, Madeline wants to see you in her office."

Nikita looked over at where Madeline stood, her arms folded, her gaze piercing and grave. Too weary to fight, too discouraged to argue, Nikita nodded and followed Madeline out of the briefing room.

Upon their arrival in Madeline's office, Madeline closed her door and ordered Nikita to sit down.

"I'll be brief. I want you to take a week off and go home." Madeline folded her arms and leaned against her desk.

"The mission . . . " Nikita mumbled, "Michael . . . "

". . . are both irrelevant. You aren't capable of functional thought at the moment, and we both know it," Madeline finished for her.

Nikita's face crumpled with distress. She attempted to cover her face to hide the tears, to no avail. In doing so, she missed the almost sympathetic expression on Madeline's face.

Madeline watched briefly, before opening a drawer and obtaining two small tablets. She handed both to Nikita, along with a cup of tea.

"Take these, and drink the tea."

Nikita hoped they were poison and stared at them blindly.

"Do it." Madeline ordered again. Nikita complied without further questions or hesitation. Four minutes later, Nikita was asleep.

"Walter." Madeline spoke at him on her computer screen. "I need you in my office, immediately."

"Be right there," he replied.

Two minutes later, Walter appeared. He saw Nikita, prone on the couch and blanched.

"She's asleep." Madeline defended, in light of his look of horror. "I want her taken to her quarters for this evening and watched. We may have lost Michael. Let's not lose her too."

Walter looked at Madeline as if he'd never really seen her before. Kindness? From the Dragon Lady? "Sure. I'll get her moved--but what about the mission, Operations wants---"

"Operations can't always have what he wants." Madeline said firmly. "Nikita cannot function at the moment and I see no point in losing an entire team because she can't do the job."

* * *

It was dark, damp, and cold, but it was shelter from the wind. Michael stepped carefully down the staircase into the basement of a destroyed house. He stopped abruptly on the third step from the bottom. A sixth sense warned him; he wasn't alone.

There was a short, terrified scream, as a small, frantic body, fought to pass him on the staircase. Years of training made Michael react offensively. He pulled his injured arm free from its sling and forcefully tackled his opponent. Both tumbled painfully down the remaining three steps, with Michael atop a screaming mass of flailing arms and legs.

Michael's hand pulled the knife free from its scabbard, but stopped short of using it when the screams turned to sobs, then whimpers. It was a child, or a small woman, he realized. Resheathing his knife, Michael carefully released his captive.

"I won't hurt you." He said, quietly in Serbian. Pulling a toss-away lighter from his pocket, he flicked it. The faint light illuminated a frightened, dirty face. She was a schoolgirl, probably no older than fifteen or sixteen. She lay on her back, her chest heaving with sobs, her face streaked with tears.

"Are you alone?" Michael asked, as he scanned the room around them.

She lay there, wide-eyed, too afraid to answer or move.

Michael found some paper, shredded it onto the concrete floor and set it aflame. It gave him the light to investigate the room. There was a small bed in a corner, a desk or table next to it. From top to bottom, it was a room filled with odds and ends, the pitiable remains of a war torn present and a destroyed future.

"Are you all alone here?" Michael repeated.

The girl cried harder and tried to scoot away from him on the floor. Michael bent and dragged her to her feet. She screamed and he slapped her across the face. "Quiet--and I won't hurt you!"

The girl fainted.

"Damn." Michael said softly, dipping his body to catch her over his uninjured shoulder. He carried her to the bed, dumped her on it and covered her with the tattered blanket.

A quick search found some stale bread and cheese. Michael took a small piece of each and ate it before continuing his search of the room for anything he might be able to use to light or heat the room for the night.

He found a metal trashcan, a stack of old newspapers, and two candles. Twenty minutes later, he had a small fire burning in the trashcan. Venting the smoke out of the room had been accomplished by setting the fire near the broken basement window and allowing a cross-draft to do its work.

Having accomplished all he could, Michael sat on some newspapers, with his back against the far wall, so he could have a clear view of anyone who might enter using the staircase. He wondered if he dared sleep. Would the girl try to escape and bring others back? In the end, he decided it didn't matter. He had to sleep, if only for a while. Trusting in her fear to keep her silent, he closed his eyes.

When Michael opened them again, it was morning. He awoke alarmed at the brightness of the morning sun streaming into the room and quickly checked for the girl. She remained as he had put her, asleep on the bed. Relaxing, he studied her. She had a thin face, worn, as if exhausted by life. She reminded him of someone, and Michael was startled to realize it was Nikita. Though not as blonde, or as pretty, there was the air of a waif about both women.

Nikita. Not warm in bed, he was sure. Was she thinking of him?

He shook his head, as if he could shake loose his thoughts. He had no business thinking about anything but the mission, and yet, thoughts of Nikita remained. He missed her--so much.

Michael noticed the girl had awakened. She didn't move, only watched him carefully.

"Sorry, about slapping you." Michael offered, somewhat surprised that he actually meant it.

She lifted her head and nodded, then hesitantly pointed up the stairs. A few more subtle gestures, made him realize she needed to go to the bathroom.

He nodded and remained seated as she timidly left the bed.

Michael waited until she was safely out of sight to get to his feet. He'd wait for a few moments, then follow her outside. If she would give him information, so much the better--either way, he had to be on his way.

He heard her cry out before he saw her running helter-skelter down the stairs. She was being chased. Michael ducked into a shadowed corner, to keep from being seen.

Two men, both of them young, laughed as they ran down after her. One carried his belt in his hand. It was clear he had removed it as a prelude to rape, and Michael realized the source of the young girl's terror from the night before.

His training demanded he stay out of sight so as not to jeopardize the mission. War was war, his training reminded him, full of tragedies, large and small. Rape was an expected byproduct. He couldn't afford to get involved. But she had wide, blue eyes. As blue as cornflowers. As blue as Nikita's and filled with tears that silently pleaded.

And Michael the man, tossed Michael the Machine, to one side.

For Nikita's sake--for her love and faith in him, he could not stand by and allow what was surely to happen. As silent as death personified, Michael cut the throat of the nearest man, and broke the neck of the second, dropping them both at the feet of the terrified girl.

She ran into his arms and cleansed his soul with her tears, as Nikita would have done, if she'd been there.

Michael held her close while she cried, sitting with her on the bed, feeling ashamed, and proud, lost, and comforted by turns. He knew he had to do something with the bodies before anyone came looking, but for some reason, it didn't seem as important as comforting the girl.

"What's your name?" He asked, when she had calmed some.

"Monique."

It was his sister's name!

"Where is your family, Monique?" Michael said gently, his thoughts of his sister softening his words.

"All dead. All dead." She chanted through her grief.

"Who were those men?"

"Village men." She said, her voice bitter with loathing.

"Did they come here often?" He held her tighter, knowing the answer would be hard.

"Yes." There were fresh tears, but no hysterics.

"What is the name of the village?"

She bit out the word--"Kolonik".

Michael was relieved. The town was the location of the arms deal.

"How far is the village?"

"Five kilometers." The girl said wearily.

"Can you take me there?"

"What is your name?" She asked.

"Michael."

"Yes, Michael. I know the way."

"Then let's go. You can't stay here--there is no time to hide the blood or the bodies. You might be questioned for this, if you stay."

She nodded numbly and began to gather a few meager articles of clothing.

Michael stayed her hands, grasping her gently around the wrists. "Leave it. You won't need them. I promise."

Nikita awoke in her Section quarters feeling drugged and headachy from the medication Madeline had given her. She realized in a moment that she wasn't alone. Birkoff was seated on the foot of her bed regarding her with a serious expression.

She sat up, holding her head, and asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing, just seeing if you were going to be okay," he said nervously, popping off the bed and starting to leave.

"Birkoff, wait!" Nikita said quickly, through a groan. Her head was splitting.

Birkoff halted at the door but didn't turn around.

"Has there been any news?"

Birkoff lowered his head slightly, then turned to face her. "No," he said softly. "Operations is doing all he can--the secondary teams left two hours ago. He blames himself for sending Michael in alone."

"Who profiled the mission?" Nikita asked still groggy. She gestured to Birkoff to sit back down.

"Michael did." He said simply.

Nikita nodded remembering, her eyes suddenly flooding angry tears. Michael had left her behind to protect her again. No matter the danger to himself. Didn't he know she preferred a live man to a dead hero?

"You going to be okay?" Birkoff asked.

"Yeah." Nikita answered quickly, angrily wiping away the tears and swinging her legs off the bed to get to her feet. "I have to go see Madeline."

* * *

Monique clung to Michael's hand as they traversed the snowy, wooded landscape. For the first time in six months, she felt safe and almost happy. This stranger, this man with the beautiful eyes had saved her. But who was he? And how did he come to be there? She was too afraid to ask. He spoke so little, she was sure questions would annoy him.

They made their way into the village, careful to stay out of sight of the inhabitants. Instinctively, Monique understood that Michael didn't want to be discovered. She knew it was not out of fear--he seemed to fear nothing--and he seemed to be looking for something.

"Monique, is there a place in the village where you can go and be safe, for a little while?" Michael asked, as they stopped in the shadows behind a bombed out building.

Monique's hand tightened on Michael's, "Please, don't leave me here!" She begged.

"Monique, you must listen to me." Michael said softly, his voice calming her.

"I have something I must do and I can't take you with me. It's too dangerous. I want you to wait for me, somewhere safe. I promise, I won't leave you here." He touched her cheek, then kissed it, hating himself for manipulating her, even though he knew it was necessary to do so. She hugged him with gentle innocence. Trusting him, as Nikita had, to return. Because of it, he kissed Monique's forehead, pledging himself to them both.

"Is there a place?" Michael asked again.

"That building over there. It's empty. I can wait there."

"Then go. I'll be back before dark."

Monique waved to him from the upper-story window to indicate she was safe, then watched as he turned, slipped down the alleyway and disappeared around the corner of a building. Part of her cried out, as he was lost from view.

Trust was a hard thing for her to do, but another part of her knew, knew beyond doubt, that he would keep his word.

Suddenly, a man stood up in the alley. Until that moment, his presence had been concealed by large pieces of fallen debris. He trotted to the edge of the building, behind which Michael had just disappeared, peered around it, and hurried to follow.

With fear like a dagger in her heart, Monique bolted out of her hiding place to follow. Michael was in danger! She had to warn him!

* * *

"Madeline!" Nikita said, dispensing with a greeting.

Madeline turned in her chair and raised her dark eyes from her computer screen.

"Nikita, I've been expecting you."

"You kept me from going to Bosnia with the team!" Nikita began rebelliously.

"Yes, I did." Madeline returned sweetly.

"Why? What if Michael is still alive?"

"What if he's not?" Madeline folded her arms and stood up.

"I want to go!"

"No." Madeline said firmly.

"But. . ."

"Sit down, Nikita."

Fear that Madeline might be right, made Nikita's defiance waver. After a moment's hesitation, she sat down on Madeline's couch.

"If Michael's alive, he would have contacted us, if he could. One way or another, we won't know anything until after Abu and Koslin meet. Either Michael will make the hit, and we will both have our answer, or he won't, and the back-up team will have to take care of the problem at the secondary mark. You presence there won't change the outcome, and could make it worse."

"What do you mean, I'd make it worse?" Nikita snapped angrily.

Madeline moved to seat herself next to Nikita.

"It's no secret that you are close to Michael, as he is to you. When you were a prisoner of Red Cell for six months, we came close to losing Michael because he had allowed himself to be too attached to you. In his grief over your supposed death, he took risks that nearly got himself and his team killed. I'm not about to place another team into that situation! This assassination is the only thing that's stopping Markovic from breaking the peace agreement and restarting the war. You're not going to endanger the mission because of some irrational, romantic need to die at Michael's side!"

Nikita looked at the floor, feeling light-headed at the information Madeline had just given her. Michael had been reckless with a Section team? Michael the machine--out of kilter, because of his feelings for her? She hadn't known.

Smiling faintly, Nikita looked over at Madeline. "I don't think Michael's dead."

"I hope you're right. But either way, you aren't going, and that's final."

* * *

The house where the arms deal was to happen, was well guarded, making it easier for Michael to locate it. Hiding behind a destroyed truck, he watched and carefully timed the movement of Abu's guards. There were two avenues of approach to the building, but only one with any hope of success--an upper floor window an arm's length away from a heavy branch of a nearby oak tree. All Michael needed to do was climb the tree, open the window, and locate his target inside. It had begun to snow again-- heavily. He hoped the blinding whiteness would screen his attempt to scale the tree.

Michael checked to make sure his knife was secure, and watched for the moment when the guards shift changed. It would be his only chance to gain entrance to the house.

That he would kill Abu was a certainty. That he would survive to return as he had promised the girl--was doubtful. Michael looked over his shoulder, and thought of returning and settling Monique somewhere safe, but he had lost too much time. The mission had to come first.

Monique's breath clouded the air as she ran. She'd lost sight of the man she'd followed. Looking frantically around the debris-strewn streets, she prayed for any sight of him or Michael.

While Monique didn't know the man she followed, she knew what he was. He was one of the many who preyed on those left weak by the destruction of the war. Those that lived by stealing from others--and killing them, if that was what it took to survive. It had been obvious by Michael's dress that he was a stranger and Monique knew well, all strangers were fair game.

Michael checked the time. The posted guards were due to be changed in a few moments. His muscles tensed, as his body prepared itself to spring forward. Adrenaline rushed his heart along, while his mind focused on his mission. He was ready. It was now or never.

"Michael!" Monique's voice called out in warning.

Michael spun around, and unsheathing his knife as his body took an instinctive defensive stance. He was stunned to find Monique struggling with a knife- wielding attacker. Her thin arms wrapped themselves tightly around the man's neck from behind, while she kicked and bit him at every opportunity.

The huge assailant cursed and grabbed Monique's hands. He slashed the blade across her arm, drawing blood, and forcing her to cry out and lose her grip. A second later, he stabbed her in the side and flung her frail body to the ground.

Enraged, Michael tackled him, knocking him into the brick wall of a nearby abandoned building. In a microsecond, Michael cut his throat and stabbed him twice through the heart.

"Monique!" Michael dropped to his knees at her side, and quickly checked for a pulse in her neck. It was weak and thready, but she was still conscious. He left her side for a moment to strip the man of his coat, then wrapped her in it. She protested when he began to tear her dress.

"Lie still, Monique." Michael whispered, folding the torn material into a bandage. He pulled his belt loose and slipped it around her to hold the bandage in place.

That accomplished, Michael looked around to see if they'd been spotted. For a moment, he was relieved to know there had been no witnesses, but the guards were being changed, and he knew he would have to go now if he was to complete the mission. But he also knew that Monique would bleed to death long before he could return.

And there it was: the impossible choice. Who should he save? The life of the one, who looked up at him with trusting, pain-filled eyes, or the thousands of faceless, nameless strangers that were just as innocent and helpless as she was?

Michael searched her face for the answer, then stared helplessly over his shoulder at the changing of the guards. It was too late. Too late--and yet his heart felt only relief.

"Hold on," he whispered to her, as he carried her through the building snowstorm. "Hold on."

**********

There was no place to go except the Section safe house. It was his only hope of help for her, and his only way home.

His damaged shoulder burned with the girl's dead weight, but that was the least of Michael's problems. He had failed to carry out his mission, and had no explanation that would satisfy Section's expectations. For the first time since he had been in Section, he had failed in his mission--and he simply didn't care.

It was over an hour before Michael found the safe house. He had taken care not to be seen, and the storm had covered his tracks.

Monique had faded in and out of consciousness during the trip, but due to the cold and the constant pressure of the makeshift bandage, most of her bleeding had stopped.

Michael reached the door of the safe house and kicked it with the toe of one boot. It opened instantly. There was surprised look on the face of his Section contact, but the swung the door wide to admit him.

"I need a medic," Michael ordered, laying the girl down on a nearby couch. The house was cluttered with garish bric-a-brac and smelled of mold and neglect.

"I'm Thoren, I am a medic--she a civilian?"

"Yes. She's got a stab wound, lower left quadrant." Michael said, stepping back to let the man get closer to his patient.

"We just got the word--good job!"

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, peeling off his jacket and tossing the bloodstained garment to one side.

"Abu's dead--so's Koslin. I just got confirmation. Did you write the profile on this one? If you did, it went as perfect as I've ever seen." Thoren jabbered effusively, as he worked on the girl.

Michael's head was swirling in confusion. "Where's the confirmation?"

"Go check the laptop." Thoren nodded his chin in the direction of the kitchen table. "Besides Abu and Koslin, there are about eight dead. I don't know what you did to stir things up over there, but both sides literally wiped each other out."

Michael went to check out the data. The mission had been accomplished just as it had been planned--but how?

"Is she going to live?" Michael asked, watching the medic sew up her wound.

"Believe it or not, they missed everything vital. She'll be sore as hell for the next few days, but barring an infection, she should be fine. Who is she, anyway?"

"A good Samaritan--she saved my life."

"Were you compromised?" A frown wrinkled Thoren's brow. "I'd hate to think I just sewed her up so we could cancel her."

"No. She doesn't know anything--and she didn't witness the hit."

"What do you want to do with her now?"

"Take her out of the country. We were seen together, I'd rather not take the chance that she'll be questioned once I've gone."

"If you think you can sell that to Section, good luck. Still, if she hadn't saved your life, the mission would have been a bust." Thoren paused to tape gauze across Monique's wound with Michael's assistance.

"Thanks. . . . you know we almost wrote you off." Thoren continued, taking the girl's pulse. "Section thought you'd been killed. Damn French anti-aircraft battery thought your plane was a Serbian violating the no-fly zone."

"Was a second team sent in?" Michael asked, as he looked out the nearby window.

"There was, but as soon as I had confirmation that you had completed the hit, I contacted Section. They've been recalled."

"When is my exit scheduled?"

"Tonight, after midnight--if the weather doesn't get any worse." Thoren glanced out at the feathery flakes that continued to fall.

"Can she travel?" Michael asked softly, as he bent to pick her up.

"Sure. But where you going to take her?" Thoren waved Michael into a nearby bedroom where he placed Monique on the bed.

"I have a place in mind."

* * *

"Where am I?" Monique gazed sleepily at her surroundings. It was a large room, painted in pale yellow. There were lacy curtains over the wood frame windows.

"Somewhere safe." Michael assured her softly. He leaned over her and pushed a stray blonde hair off her forehead.

"Is this heaven?" The girl looked over at a nun, in a traditional white nurse's habit who stood nearby.

"No. A hospital." Michael rewarded her with a rare smile. "But you came close. Thanks, for saving my life."

"What happens now?" Monique asked, her eyes growing heavy.

"You get well. There's a family waiting for you to come live with them."

"Are you leaving?" She asked sadly, hearing the farewell in his voice.

"Yes."

"Will I see you again?" She asked, blinking back tears.

Michael shook his head, "Shhhh, go to sleep. I was only a dream. Just a dream."

When Monique's eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep, Michael gave her a final kiss goodbye. When she awoke again, he would indeed be, only a dream.

* * *

"Yes!" Birkoff jumped to his feet and tossed an Oreo into the air.

From his perch on the mezzanine above, Operations planted his hands atop the railing and growled, "What is it Birkoff?"

"Michael! He made the hit!"

"How do we know?" Operations forced himself to be calm.

"We got confirmation from the contact in Bosnia! Abu's confirmed dead and so is Koslin!"

Operations envied Birkoff's youthful exuberance, but experience was a bitter teacher. "Michael made the hit--but did he survive it? Have we heard from him yet?"

Birkoff's face fell in an instant. It hadn't occurred to him that Michael could survive a plane crash, take out his objective, then not live to come back.

"N-no, sir. Not yet." He sat back down at his console, completely deflated.

"Not yet." Operations muttered beneath his breath. He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Keep me posted." With that he left to consult with Madeline.

* * *

Nikita slipped inside Michael's house and quietly shut the door. It was late, but she had been unable to sleep at her apartment. Now, all she wanted was to be near her memories of Michael.

She lit a fire in the fireplace, then dropped listlessly in front of the darkened Christmas tree. A few needles had fallen upon the still unopened packages, a sad reminder of a Christmas they had not been allowed to share.

Michael had been missing for nearly three days. The time for the hit had come and gone, but so far there had been no word. She left the Section, wanting to be alone when the word finally did come--for good or ill. There would be no way to suppress her joy or grief in front of the others, and she was thoroughly weary of hiding her feelings.

With a tiny click, she turned on the tree's diminutive lights. They winked cheerfully as they encircled the tree. She inhaled the fresh smell of evergreen and tried to remember the happiness of only a few short days ago.

Picking up a tiny package, she played absently with the ribbon, then read the attached card. It read: To My Heart, Love Michael.

A corner of her mouth lifted. Not "to Kita" or "Nikita" lest someone else happen upon the card. Even here, his every thought was guarded--to keep her safe from Section.

She pulled off the ribbon and opened the small box. Inside she found an ornament and read the inscription through gathering tears: Our First Christmas.

"Oh, Michael." Nikita held the keepsake against her breast, curled her body around it and had a good hiccuping cry.

Michael stood in the shadows a long while, watching her sleep. Somehow, he had known Nikita would be here, waiting for him. He painfully peeled off his clothes and crawled onto bed.

Operations had delayed the debrief for later in the day when he saw how exhausted Michael had been on his return. But Michael had been more than exhausted, he had been desperate--desperate to see Nikita again.

She was warm and soft as he drew her against him.

"Kita," Michael kissed her name against the tender skin on the back of her neck.

"Michael!" Nikita came awake in a rush and turned to face him. She started to hug him then noticed his left arm was cradled in a sling. Instead, she eased him back upon the pillows and leaned over him. He sank into their soft warmth with a sigh of bone-weary relief.

"Are you all right?" She bent low and kissed him passionately before he could answer, turning his exhaustion into momentary exhilaration.

"I was so worried. I've missed you." Nikita whispered, brushing her fingers through his soft curls.

"Missed you too," he said, his voice wistful.

"What happened? We thought. . . " Nikita couldn't complete the sentence.

"Do you believe in miracles?" Michael asked, seriously as his fingers played in her hair.

"What do you mean?" She stroked his cheek, as if to reassure herself he was real and not a dream. His three-day growth of beard tickled her fingertips.

"The mission was a complete success, but I never made the hit."

"What?" Nikita's blue eyes went wide in surprise.

"It's a long story--but it seems Abu and Koslin took each other out without any help from Section."

"Does Operations know this?"

"Not yet. I told him I was too tired to debrief--I'll tell him in the morning," Michael whispered with half-closed eyes.

"Your shoulder?" She lightly stroked him there. "Are you all right?"

"I had a small encounter with a tree." Michael said absently, tracing her lips with the edge of this thumb. "I love you." 'I love you,' Michael thought. 'I love the worry in your face because it's for me. I love you warm in my bed. I love having someone to come home to.'

"Oh, Michael--I love you, too. I was so afraid. . . I've never been so afraid." Nikita buried her face against his chest and held him close.

"Sorry, I missed Christmas." He drew her face up to his and kissed her again, so tenderly that Nikita almost wept.

"Shhhh, Michael-you're exhausted . . . " Nikita ordered softly, as she gently brushed stray curls off his brow. "Go to sleep . . . "

She watched as his eyes drifted closed and was happy to know he could trust himself to her care.

"You're home safely, Michael. That beats Christmas any day." She whispered against the beat of his heart.

EPILOGUE

"Let me get this straight---you didn't make the hit?" Operations stood at the head of the conference table with actual surprise on his face.

"No. It seems Abu and Koslin had a serious disagreement before I arrived." Michael replied, with a trace of humor in his voice.

Operations smiled an evil, little smile. "Sometimes, . . . we get lucky. Too bad our intel couldn't have predicted this. It seems we risked you for nothing."

Michael thought of Monique and smiled faintly. 'For nothing? Hardly.' For once Michael had risked it all for someone important to him and not the Section.

"As long as we have closure." Michael replied diplomatically, "It doesn't matter."

Operations chuckled, as he lit a cigarette. "George is going to love this!" Michael nodded and stood to leave.

'Merry Christmas, Monique.' he thought with rare contentment. 'Merry Christmas.'

The End