This is written in something of an atypical style. It's first person, with alternation points of view. All of the odd-numbered chapters are from Nikita's POV, evens are from Michael's. The events in this story take place roughly 3-4 weeks after the conclusion of "End Game". No season 3 spoilers.

This story has been strengthened considerably by the efforts of my beta readers: Frances, Sonja, and Cynaera. I can't thank them enough for their hard work.

There's no time to think. Just empty the clip, drop it out, slap in a fresh one. They're coming at us so fast, though, and too damn many of them are wearing body armor. Michael notices at the same time that I do, and we both start aiming at the unprotected legs. His next shot hits home and the front man drops screaming, clutching at his thigh. Scarlet arterial blood fountains through his fingers.

My shot takes the man behind him through the front of his knee. I can imagine the bullet fragmenting inside the fragile joint, pushing bits of metal and bone through to exit from the other side. It'll be a miracle if he doesn't lose the leg. Michael fires again and a third man falls to his knees, his face contorted with agony.

I'm tired of the screams, and the noise of rapid gunfire, and the coppery stink of fresh blood. Blood that I've spilled a great deal of, not just here, but on many of the other missions that I've been on. But the Section's trained me well. I will myself to become an automaton, pulling the trigger over and over again, with only one thought in my mind: Do unto others before they do unto you. My gun dry-fires.

"This is my last clip," I murmur as I slam it home.

"Save it," he says softly. "We're getting out of here." There's a lull in the gunfire as they drag away the wounded, not from any sense of loyalty, but simply because their blood is getting all over the floor of the hallway and making it too slick to run across.

He grabs my arm, and I squeeze off a final shot as we leave the shelter of the bank of filing cabinets. We're almost to the door at the far end of the office when a round takes me in the calf. Michael hears my hiss of pain and quickly jerks me through the door before slamming it behind us. There's another filing cabinet beside the door on this side and he takes the time to topple it in front of the door. It might hold them for a few precious seconds.

I breathe deeply and try to block out the pain, but it feels like someone's laid a hot poker across my skin. I can feel a warm, tickling sensation in the back of my leg, and the warmth spreads across my foot as the blood begins to seep into my boot. Michael is relentless as he pulls me through the building. "Where are we going?" I whisper urgently at him.

"We can't go back to Section until the mission's complete. And we can't leave the building now, because we'll never be able to get back in."

Birkoff's voice comes back through our links, "Our microphones picked up gunfire, Michael. What's your status?"

"We didn't get the intel. We're exposed," Michael answers. "Maintain position for three minutes. Then drive past the north loading dock on your way out. Continue to scramble surveillance cameras for as long as you can maintain the link."

"How long should we wait for you?" Birkoff asks.

"We didn't get the intel," Michael repeats harshly. "You know what that means."

I hear the catch in Birkoff's voice as he replies, "Understood."

As we pass through the shipping and receiving area, Michael grabs a roll of packaging tape and tucks it into the front of his coveralls. Then we're at the loading dock. There are two guards there, neither armored, and Michael drops them both. As he walks through the building's exit, he deliberately steps through their blood, which is rapidly pooling around the bodies. He holds my arm for support as I follow him, almost slipping in the process.

We quickly scramble out to the parking lot, leaving two sets of bloody footprints behind us. I can see the van's taillights as it pulls out of the far side of the lot. By the time we reach the street outside the building, our footprints have faded almost completely. Michael kneels before me, ripping off a wide swath of the tape and wrapping it repeatedly around my lower leg. "Can't have you leaving a trail," he says in a softly apologetic tone as he tightens the makeshift bandage. While he's working, I strip off my comm gear. As soon as he's done, he removes his own and tosses the equipment through a nearby sewer grating.

Careful to avoid stepping in any more blood, we re-enter the building and quickly find a washroom. Michael pulls at the grille covering the air duct over the sink, and the hinged cover comes down with a faint squeal. He boosts me up into the hole and carefully scrutinizes the bathroom for evidence before hoisting himself up and in. He refastens the cover in place, and we finally stretch out in the duct, breathing deeply, head to head. As we lay in the faint lighting, a single overwhelming truth comes to me: mandatory refusal sucks.

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

I roll my shoulders back and inch a little further down the duct, until the top of my head rests against her shoulder and her golden locks brush against mine. "How's the leg?" I whisper.

"I'll live," she says quietly.

"Good." We turn our heads slightly so that we're face to face. It would take just the slightest motion of my head to brush my lips across her forehead. I successfully resist the temptation. "Move back. We need to find a place to stretch out so that I can dress it."

Using only the palms of our hands for leverage, we slide through the duct, our passage virtually soundless. Within thirty feet, we come to a junction that is just wide enough for us to lie in side by side. A cool breeze bathes our heads and shoulders, and there's a grille a few feet away that lets in some light. It should be fine for my purpose.

I take her foot in my hand and, as gently as I can, I remove her boot. There are no replacements available, so, instead of cutting through the leg of her coveralls to get at the wound, I cut through the tape that's holding it in place. After I remove the sticky strips, I gingerly push the material up and away, exposing not one, but two ugly holes in her pale skin. There's not as much blood as I thought there might be.

"It went through," I tell her softly. She nods and bites her lip. I see the sweat that beads up on her brow as I gently examine both the entry and exit wounds for fragments of bone. There aren't any. She was lucky. Before I can reach for mine, she pulls her emergency medkit from a pocket and slides it over to me. I tear open the small packet of antibacterial ointment and empty it into the wound. Her body jerks reflexively at the sting, but she relaxes a moment later and nods at me to continue.

The kits are meant to provide things that can't be found in the field, but bandages can always be scavenged. Moving slowly and carefully, I ease my upper body out of the coveralls and strip off my cotton T-shirt. I slide back into the uniform and cut a few strips from the shirt with my knife. I carefully fold two of the strips into pads and place one on each wound. The final piece wraps around her leg, securing the compresses in place. She allows herself a tiny grunt as I pull it tight before tying the final knot.

"All right?"

"Yeah," she says softly. "Thanks."

I hand her one of the painkillers and one of the antibiotic tablets before tucking the kit into my pocket. With some difficulty, she manages to dry-swallow them.

"Sleep. Let your body recuperate. I'm going to go explore." I see the flicker of indecision in her eyes. She wants to go with me, but she knows she's not up to it yet, and she refuses to handicap me with her presence. "I'll be back," I reassure her. She nods and closes her eyes as I slide past her.

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

It's so hard to let him go. I know he'll be back, but I can't seem to help worrying about him. He and I both know that our situation isn't too good right now. Since I'm out of commission for a little while, he's going to have to be the one to improve it. The only thing that I can do is to take his advice and use this time to rest. I pull my pistol from its holster and check the clip. Nine rounds left. Could be worse. I set the pistol down beside my head and try not to think about my thirst as I lay my head on my arm.

I awake suddenly and completely, reaching for my automatic in the subdued lighting.

"It's me," he murmurs as he slides toward me. He's still about thirty feet down the shaft. As he makes his way closer, I can see that he's pulling something with him, a bag of some sort. I check my watch. The light that the luminescent green dial gives off is sort of comforting. He's only been gone for about an hour. I stretch experimentally. The leg's stiff and sore, but the bleeding's stopped and the pain's better than it was before. He stops a couple of feet short of me and rests his upper body on his forearms before reaching behind him.

"I found the cafeteria." He pulls a bottle of water and another of juice from a canvas sack that looks as though vegetables might have arrived in it. He also pulls out a couple of sandwiches, covered tightly with plastic wrap, an apple, and a small bunch of grapes.

I can't resist teasing him. "What? No candles? No tablecloth?"

"This isn't a picnic, Nikita."

I sigh softly. "You're such a killjoy, Michael."

He raises an eyebrow and reaches back into the bag for a roll of paper towels. Quietly and carefully, he pulls off a couple and lays them between us before setting the food on top of the makeshift tablecloth.

"Maybe, but I'm a live killjoy."

That's the Michael I know best: practical to a fault. Still, for a second there, I thought I saw an unfamiliar glimmer in his eyes: a flash of dark humor, quickly suppressed. I reach for the water and twist the cap off before draining about a third of it in one long pull. I look at the level almost guiltily before offering it to him.

He shakes his head. "Keep it. There's more." He nods at the few vague lumps still hidden in the sack. "More food as well. Enough to last through the day, anyway."

I nod and take another long drink before finally recapping the bottle and setting it to the side. We each take a sandwich and quietly unwrap it, eating in silence. I pull my boot knife and slice the apple in two, pushing one of the halves his way. He nods his thanks and picks it up, taking small, quiet, careful bites from it. I don't try to hide the enjoyment that I'm getting just from watching him. His body movements are so meticulous, so precise. Even when he's eating, it seems like there's never any wasted motion on his part.

I pluck a few grapes from the bunch, taking the time to savor the way that their juices flood my mouth. There's nothing else to watch, so we watch each other. He takes a few as well, eating them with obvious enjoyment. Our fingers brush as we reach for the last one simultaneously. He doesn't let go, and neither do I. Our eyes challenge each other, and he allows the corner of his mouth to curve upward, just a bit, before releasing his grip. I pick up the small globe of fruit and offer it to him. His head dips down and, as his mouth plucks the fruit from my hand, his lips graze against the backs of my fingers.

It never ceases to amaze me what a simple touch from him can do to me. But the moment passes in an instant, and his face quickly assumes the mask that I've come to know and hate.

"Sleep. I'll take the first watch."

He pushes himself away from me, literally and figuratively, and takes up a station near the vent so that he can watch for any movement below. I am left alone yet again. It takes a long time for me to go to sleep.

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

I don't think she has ever fully realized what she does to me. Nikita is one of the fiercest operatives I've ever known, more than adept at killing by gun, garrote, knife, even her bare hands, if needed. Yet, somehow, I still feel like I have to protect her from the world, from the Section. From myself.

Her injury is not the cause for my concern. I know that it's not that serious. The problem is that I now know what it is to live without her, and it is agony. I died a little each time that I sent her a message that went unanswered. When I saw her in Lyons, I told myself that it was enough just to know that she was alive; it was enough just to see her again. I'm a good liar, maybe even a superlative one, but I couldn't fool myself.

I had to find her, to hold her, to make love to her. I had to. For a few precious hours, I forgot about the Section, about Simone, about the simplicity of my life before I met Rene. Instead, I knew only the sweet sensation of her full lips pressed firmly against my own. I reveled in the way that her legs tightened around my back as I thrust myself into her. I marveled at the fact that she seemed to need me as much as I needed her. And I nearly wept when she whispered my name as she came, her fingers wrapped firmly in the hair at the nape of my neck.

As I watch, her breathing slows and begins to become more regular. I've only seen her features relaxed in sleep a few times, but she looks absolutely beautiful in the soft lighting. Beautiful, but vulnerable. She doesn't like for anyone else to see this side of her. I study the shape of her mouth, the sweep of her cheekbones, and a vivid flash of memory comes to me: The shock of bone hitting bone as I smash my clenched fist into that lovely face.

I bite my lip softly and wish for the thousandth time that it hadn't been necessary. As it turned out, it didn't keep Operations from becoming suspicious. It didn't keep him from having my office and my home searched. They didn't even bother to try to disguise the fact that they'd been through my things. He wanted me to know that he was watching.

Of course, he's always watching; him, or Madeline, or both of them together. When he asked me if Nikita had stolen the Gemstone file, I told him the truth only because, on some instinctive level, I felt that he already knew. My rationale at the time was that I'd be unable to help her if I was dead. And I might as well have been, for all the good I did her.

She recaptures my attention by sighing softly and burrowing her face a little further into the remains of my shirt, now a makeshift pillow. The gesture is blatantly sensuous, yet simultaneously endearing in an almost child-like way. I consider it a minor miracle that she's not yet been cancelled outright, or even placed in abeyance, for that matter. Her mission frequency's been increased, and I can only hope that Operations will let it rest there, because the alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

I told myself after Lyons that she would never have survived if I hadn't brought her back into Section. Some days, I even believe it. But the simple truth is that I wouldn't have survived if she hadn't come back. And now, I will lie, steal, kill, or seduce in order to keep her safe. I will do whatever is necessary, as many times as necessary. So I'm a liar, a thief, a murderer, a whore. Who cares? Self-respect is a luxury, one that I can no longer afford.

I will not lose her again.

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

I wake a few hours later and slide myself toward him. He's watching that vent with the same intensity that he showed a few hours ago, even though the building seems to be deserted. They must have fallen for his plan, because there's definitely been no sign of any interior search for us. It'll be dawn soon, and then the building will start to fill up with employees going about their daily routines.

"How long are we going to be here, Michael?"

He raises his eyes to mine and whispers, "Three days, maybe only two if your leg continues to do well."

I hiss softly between my teeth. "That's too long. You should get the intel tonight and leave as soon as you can. I'll follow later."

"No," he says sharply, turning his head away from me. "That's not an option."

"So we're supposed to live in here for three days?"

"Unless you have a better idea."

Damn straight I have a better idea. "According to the duty schedule we got from the cleaning service, there are three corporate apartments on the third floor. That's not too far from here."

"It's too risky," he says grimly.

"The hell it is, Michael. It's no riskier than staying here, wondering if at some point one of us is going to sneeze at the worst possible time and bring security swarming all over us. We'll be able to sleep on a real bed, take a shower, stand up, for God's sake. They've got to lock from the inside, so I don't think that anyone will be sneaking up on us."

He looks like his resistance is fading. I try one last time. "Besides, I remember that the apartments were scheduled for light cleaning only on Tuesdays, unless occupied. That gives us up to five days for me to heal up, and for us to figure out what to do."

He checks his watch and makes a sudden decision. "All right. We should be able to reach them before people start arriving. We'll rest through the days to avoid being heard, and move at night."

I help him gather up our few belongings. A moment later, we're sliding through the ducts on our way to our new temporary lodgings.

When we get to the guest wing, we check out all three of the apartments through the ceiling vents. We agree on the smallest of the lot, which looks almost like it was added as an afterthought. The other two are almost twice its size, with much nicer furniture. If anyone comes to stay here, they'll be used first. Michael drops into the room first and helps me down. After making sure that we're alone, I help him to slide a heavy desk in front of the only door.

The room is plainly furnished, but it beats the hell out of an air duct. Besides the desk, there's a queen-sized bed with nightstands, a low, sturdy coffee table, a chest of drawers, and a large, comfortably stuffed armchair. No television, but we wouldn't turn it on anyway. The kitchen area is small, but it's got a pantry fully stocked with canned goods and bottled juice and water.

I gesture toward the bed. "All right, Michael, your turn."

"My turn for what?" His voice is barely above a whisper as he turns his red-rimmed eyes toward mine.

"Your turn to get some sleep, that's what. You've been awake for over twenty-four hours, and I'm sure you know that a person's judgment is affected by fatigue."

His gaze is almost mournful. "Don't you trust my judgment?"

"Of course I do," I tell him softly, "but even you need to sleep, Michael. We can't do anything until tonight, anyway."

Reluctantly, he kicks off his boots and puts his gun on the nightstand. Finally, he stretches his lean body across the mattress. "Wake me after three hours. No more than that."

"All right," I agree. "Three hours, then."

He closes his eyes and begins to breathe slowly and deeply, willing himself to sleep. If he's not awake already, I'll wake him in five hours, and to hell with the consequences.

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

I shouldn't have slept more than a couple of hours, but the angle of the sunlight coming in through the window looks wrong. I glance at my watch. Almost four and a half hours have passed. Nikita's sitting on top of the desk, her back resting against the locked door, with the knee of her uninjured leg pulled up to her chin. Her posture is reminiscent of that of a little girl, but the illusion is destroyed by both the bloodstains on her uniform and the presence of the automatic that rests on the desktop, only inches away from her hip.

She appraises me coolly, and her gaze is level and unrepentant. There's no point in arguing with her, and, obviously, nothing came up that she needed my help for. As if to punctuate her nonchalance, she picks up the bottle of water at her side, her throat working busily as she drinks deeply.

I roll out of bed and stretch my body before retrieving the remains of the food from my raid on the cafeteria early this morning. This time, after I hand her another sandwich and more fruit, I reach into the bag again and show her dessert: a package of animal crackers. The humor is not lost on her. She smiles and slides off the desk toward me. Without saying a word, we sit together on the bed; elite anti-terrorist operatives, sharing a meal that our enemy has provided, even while we hide in his stronghold. I'm genuinely hungry, and the irony ends up being delicious, in more ways than one.

Once we're finished with the main course, I tear open the bag of cookies and hand it to her. She abruptly upends it and pours them out onto the bedspread, separating them into two equal stacks.

"Found these in the desk drawer while you were sleeping," she whispers as she pulls a deck of cards from her pocket. "Poker, five card draw. Nothing wild." As she surveys her stack of her crackers, she begins to sort them into separate piles. "Okay, mammals are worth one, birds are worth five, reptiles are worth ten, and insects are worth twenty. Any questions?"

"Just one," I say softly, as I sort mine out appropriately and hold out one of the pieces. "I've got a platypus. They lay eggs, but I think they're still mammals. What's it worth?"

"Nothing." She takes it from me, pops it into her mouth, and crunches it up with relish. "Worthless, but tasty. Any other questions?"

I shake my head and pull the deck from its box before shuffling and dealing it. I win the first few hands easily, but my luck turns and she calls my next bluff, beating my pair of sixes with three nines. She's now got a slight advantage over me. It's her deal, and I'm dealt two jacks, a ten, and two threes. I toss in a grasshopper to open. She not only matches my grasshopper with a butterfly, but she also raises me a turtle, a monkey, a giraffe, and a horse.

Not to be deterred, I toss in a snake, an elephant, another monkey, and a walrus. I discard the ten, and draw another three. I've got a full house. Nikita draws two cards and motions at me to continue. Careful to keep my expression neutral, I push my entire stack of crackers toward her: a cricket, a crocodile, a kangaroo, and a broken half of something that looks like it might have been a koala bear. She calls again, and raises me four more mammals, all that she's got remaining.

"Looks like you're a little short, Michael."

My eyes never leave hers. "I'm good for it."

"I'm sure you are," she says dryly, "but you're going to have to put up something else."

Unwilling to back down from the challenge in her eyes, I say, "What did you have in mind?"

"The truth."

"About what?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll decide before we leave here."

"That's fairly vague, Nikita."

She shrugs noncommittally. "Take it or leave it, Michael."

"Okay. I call."

I show her my full house, and she shows me her hand: a three, a four, a five, a six, and a seven. All red. All hearts. Her straight flush wins. She grabs a horse and munches it thoughtfully as she returns the other assorted shapes to the bag.

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

You never notice how long the day is until you're held captive by it. The sun seems to set by inches, and the shadows in the room get longer and longer until the only source of light in the room comes from the artificial lights in the parking lot below us. After sunset, we wait another three hours, just to be sure that we're alone.

I nod my head toward the bathroom. "I guess we can get cleaned up now. Do you mind if I go first?"

"Of course not. Take your time."

Once inside, I kick off the dusty, bloody uniform and check the contents of the linen closet, finding sheets, towels, shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and more. Very considerate of our host. I grab the shampoo and the soap and turn on the water, adjusting the temperature until it's just short of scalding. Sighing with pleasure, I wash off the grime accumulated over the last 24 hours. Finally, freshly shampooed and scrubbed, I turn off the water. Just as I pull back the curtain, the lights suddenly go off.

"It's all right," he says softly. I hear the door click shut, and then the lights come back on. "I didn't want the lights to be visible from outside." He's standing just a couple of feet away from me, with a thick terrycloth bathrobe in his hands.

"I found a couple of these in one of the bureau drawers," he says, holding it open for me.

"Uh, thanks," I murmur as I turn away from him and let him drape it over my shoulders before sliding my arms in and fumbling with the belt around my waist. I'm not really sure why I'm suddenly so self-conscious about my nudity. Not only have I been naked in front of him before now, I've also been naked beneath him, deliciously pinned beneath the warm weight of his body. Still, it feels strange to be in this position on a mission, without the approving eyes of Section on us.

If he notices my awkwardness, he doesn't mention it. As I reach for the door handle, he murmurs, "Don't forget the lights."

I turn back to say something, and the words get stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth. He's already stepped out of his coveralls. I'd forgotten that he stripped off his shirt to use as a bandage for my leg earlier. It's strange that I never noticed it before now, but the bright lights reveal a pattern of very faint scars, no doubt souvenirs from his years in Section, scattered over his chest, his arms, and his legs. His torso alone sports thin lines from knife slashes, the puckered circles of bullet wounds, and an assortment of burns and abrasions. They do absolutely nothing to detract from his beauty.

He watches my reaction intently as I take him in. I'm reminded of the sculpted perfection of Michelangelo's "David". But David never wore black briefs that contrasted sharply with the creamy paleness of his skin. David doesn't possess startlingly green eyes, capable of revealing everything, or nothing at all. And although he's tried to convince me otherwise on more than one occasion, Michael isn't made of stone.

I may be the only one that fully realizes that at least a part of him is still alive, buried deep below that imposing, icy calm. Outwardly, he shows nothing but strength and determination and sheer force of will, but I know that somewhere beneath that mechanical exterior lies frail flesh, blood, and bone.

I've seen desire in his gaze, heard anguish in his voice, felt his heart beat in sympathy with my own. I know that he feels pain and passion, fear and rage and lust as much as any one of us, but he equates his emotions with weakness, and who's to say he's not right? He can accept the things that we do on behalf of Section much more easily than I can. He's survived, if you can call it that, for far longer than most.

For some reason that I just can't quite put my finger on, I desperately want to break through that granite reserve tonight. No, that's not right. I don't just want Michael. I need him.

I take a step toward him, forgetting about my wound. As I grimace in pain, he's beside me in an instant, guiding me to sit on the edge of the bathtub. He kneels before me, his touch light and sure as he removes the soaked bandage from my leg.

After briefly examining the wound, he proclaims, "It looks fine, but it has to be rebandaged."

"I can do it," I start, but he's already picked up his boot, taken the knife from the sheath sewn into the leather, and started cutting a sheet from the linen closet into strips. After a few minutes, he kneels again. His fingers are warm against me as he ties the bandage in place, making sure that it's not too tight. When he's done, his hands linger, seemingly reluctant to leave my skin. Then, slowly, he smoothes his palm over my leg, from ankle to thigh. The caress sends a shiver throughout my entire body, and my need for him comes to the forefront once again, overcoming the dull pain in my leg. I remain still under his touch, waiting to see what he'll do.

His head still down, he takes a deep breath before standing abruptly. He takes my arm, and gently, but firmly, pushes me toward the door. I try to turn to see the expression in his eyes but, just as I touch his jaw and force him to look at me, he gropes for the light switch again, and we are plunged into darkness. As he opens the door and nudges me out, he says softly, "I found something else for you as well. We'll have to share it, though. You'll know what I mean."

And, with that, he closes the door in my face. Exasperated, I go to see what he's left me. Something's lying on the bed, shimmering slightly in the faint light. I pick up the soft cloth, smiling as I touch it to my face. It's a pair of men's pajamas; silk, no less. It's impossible to tell if they're navy or black, but I pull the top around my shoulders and button it, leaving the pants for him. It would serve him right if they're a size too small.

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

Icy needles embed themselves in the skin of my chest, my face, my stomach. My teeth are chattering, but I refuse to move, staying under the spray solely to quench my instinctive reaction to her. When I begin to feel a little more in control of myself again, I turn the temperature up to lukewarm and begin to wash myself.

That was too close. God, the way that she looked at me, almost like a lioness sizing up her prey. I wanted to lay her down on the hard tile of the bathroom floor and have her right there, and I'm fairly sure that she would have let me. It's fortunate that I managed to get her out of here before she could see that naked hunger reflected in my own eyes. The thought of sliding into her heat, losing myself in her, brings on another surge of warmth. I turn the water back to its coldest setting.

I can't remember the last time that I was so unfocused on a mission. Everything is falling apart around me, and I don't know what to do to stop it. The fault is mine. Her performance was superb, as it's been so often over the last several weeks.

Even assuming that we do get back to the Section, I still don't know what I'm going to tell Operations. It should have been a simple assignment. Our goal was to gather intel from the offices of Christian Tate, a seemingly respectable import/export wholesaler. However, his name came up as the supplier when we interrogated the captain of a vessel caught smuggling arms into Somalia. The captain didn't give up the information easily. Madeline had to work on him for nearly a whole day.

But Tate was but a single snake, and Operations wanted the entire head of the Medusa. An analysis showed that the only weak link in his office building's security was in the company that he contracted to perform cleaning services. It was simple enough to arrange matters such that two members of the regular nightly janitorial crew simply didn't show up for work one day. Nikita and I wandered into the cleaning service's office and, after a brief check of our assumed identities, we were hired on the spot.

We quickly established a routine. While I cleaned Tate's inner office, Nikita took care of the outer reception area. A security guard was always present while we were in the private offices. After Nikita had worked on our watchdog for a couple of nights, he followed her around like a puppy, not even bothering to keep an eye on me. Nikita teased and flirted with him and kept him out of the way so that I could look for the intel.

On our third night there, I gained access to Tate's computer. It took another night of searching before I found a set of encrypted files. I had just started to download them to disk when I heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked from the next room.

I ducked my head around the corner and saw that the bastard had her up against the desk, pinning her there with the lower half of his body. One of his hands held a revolver. The other was inside the front of Nikita's uniform. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and I saw the muscles in his forearm bunch as he squeezed what he found there.

His back was to me. I don't remember making a conscious decision to move. I recall only the way that her eyes widened as I came toward them. I'll never know what she saw on my face, but she yelled, "No!" as I reached for him. He whipped his head around toward me, and I simply grabbed his face between my palms and turned it around a few inches further. The ugly cracking noises brought me back to my senses again, and I dropped his body just as a faint beeping noise began to emit from a band on the man's wrist.

"Ten more seconds," Nikita hissed furiously, as she zipped her coveralls back up. "I had everything under control. I could have put up with him groping me for that long."

I glanced up at the wall clock: 1 a.m. All security personnel in the building were required to perform a check-in every hour. "How long do we have?"

"He told me that they'll come looking for him if he's more than a minute late."

I ran back to check on the download. Time estimated until completion: 01:46. I aborted the download and shoved the disk into a pocket before shutting down the computer and rushing back out again.

She was busily taking apart the vacuum cleaner. In sealed bags, it contained two pistols and extra clips of ammunition. We quickly pulled the weapons free of the plastic and hefted them as we heard footsteps in the adjoining corridor.

And so it began.

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

He comes out of the bathroom about ten minutes later, wearing the twin to the robe that's now lying across the bed. I've moved the desk chair over to the window, and I'm surveying the grounds outside, watching for anything out of the ordinary. So far, everything seems quiet. As I watch him from my perch atop the chair, he crosses to the bed, pulls on the pants, and then discards the robe before seating himself in the easy chair.

For the first time since we've been here, the silence between us grows awkward. Unable to stand it any longer, I finally say, "Talk to me, Michael."

"About what?"

"Tell me about yourself. You know so much more about me than I do about you. It doesn't seem fair. Do you have any hobbies? Read any good books lately? Where do you go when you leave Section?"

For some reason, he looks particularly anxious at my last question. His voice hoarse, he murmurs, "If you knew any more about me, you wouldn't want to know me at all."

I ponder his statement for a moment, giving careful thought to my reply. "I really can't imagine that, Michael. I mean, I know that you feel a duty to the Section; that you feel that you have to atone for the deaths of those that were killed in the bombing. But what could you possibly have done that's so heinous that you think it will completely alienate me from you?"

"I don't want to talk about that." His voice is strained. "Choose something else, anything else. Please?"

I'm tempted to press him further, but I'm afraid that he'll end up shutting himself off from me completely. "All right, then. If you won't share your present life with me, tell me about what things were like when you were younger. I'd like to hear about some fond childhood memories, because I never had any of my own."

The relief in his voice is obvious as he tells me about his early childhood. He seems to gain strength as he confesses his feelings of confusion when his baby sister was born, and about his brief horror when he found out that his parents were actually planning on keeping this squirming, screaming little infant.

I am torn between laughter and tears at his varied recollections as he tells me about how he taught her to read, and how to ride a bicycle, and how he fought other boys for picking on her. He turns his head slightly, and his profile is illuminated by the glow of the streetlights below. I can see traces of a half-smile on his lips as he relives the memories. Finally, he tells me about how he still sees her, now and again. He's an uncle as well. His sister has a son, with their mother's eyes.

When he finishes, I add softly, "It sounds like you were a good brother to her."

"Was I?" His voice sounds pained. "After our parents died, I did the best I could for her, at least for a time, but I never considered what might happen to her if something were to happen to me. She was thirteen when I was imprisoned, Nikita. She received the news of my 'death' on her fourteenth birthday. It wasn't enough that she lost her parents. Because of my foolishness, she lost her brother as well."

I wish that I could say something, anything, to help ease his mind. Sometimes, I wonder what he must have been like when he was young; a rebel, an idealist, confident that he could change the world. And now, he does exactly that. It's not always easy to tell whether the changes are for the better, though. And for him, more than most of us, the cost has been unbearably high.

When I was taken into Section, I had nothing, so I had nothing to lose. Michael had friends, a family, a home. He lost everything that ever meant anything to him. I'm grateful for the veil of darkness that surrounds us. I hope that it's enough to conceal the pity in my eyes.

After a few moments, I venture hesitantly, "Is there some kind of problem, Michael?"

"What do you mean?" he asks.

I smother my irritation at the question and force myself to keep my tone even as I try again, "I'm talking about the way you've been acting over the last few weeks, Michael. You haven't been yourself. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He meets my stare for only a moment before glancing away again.

Typical Michael answer. I don't know why I expected anything else. But if he thinks I'm willing to drop the subject, he's mistaken. "I think it's time."

"For what?"

"The truth, Michael. Tell me what's going on. I think you owe me that much, at least."

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

She's right. I do owe her the truth; that, and so much more. I think the only reason I agreed to that absurd bet to begin with was because, in a way, I really do want her to know how I feel.

"After the incident with Adrian, I was certain that they were going to cancel you." I smile in spite of myself. 'Cancel'. It's such a clinically neat term. I wonder briefly who first coined it before I start over. "I was certain that they were going to kill you. And I just stood by and waited for it to happen."

She turns her head to survey the parking lot again. "Yeah, well, it's not as though they asked for your opinion, Michael."

"But they did, Nikita."

"Did what?" she asks softly.

"Operations asked me if I thought you were responsible for the theft of the Gemstone file."

"And you told him...?" She turns back toward me and arches her eyebrows.

"That you were," I confess, refusing to give in to my instinct to tear my eyes away from hers.

She accepts the revelation calmly. "It's not important, Michael. It's what you did afterward that mattered to me."

What do I have to do to make her understand? "I did nothing afterward, Nikita. Nothing. I should have at least tried to intercede with Operations, or Madeline, or even Oversight, for that matter."

She leaves her perch at the window and walks toward me. I stand to meet her as she looks at me sadly. "You really don't know, do you?" She takes a moment to confirm the confusion in my eyes before continuing, "You kissed me, Michael. You kissed me in the middle of Section, where anyone could have seen you. Where anyone could have seen us." Her hand reaches for mine and squeezes it softly. "Besides, if you had tried to interfere, you would have just made yourself a target for cancellation."

I pull away from her touch, knowing that I don't deserve her sympathy. "Better that than face another day knowing that my inaction may have cost you your life."

"I think I'm beginning to understand now," she says, placing her hands on her hips and nodding. "Ever since I was put back in the field, you've been checking up on me constantly, looking over my shoulder on missions, taking every possible precaution to guarantee my safety. You're making sure I'm protected now, because you still feel guilty for not doing something earlier."

She's quickly gaining proficiency in reading people. I wonder if she's been taking lessons from Madeline, or if all women are born with this talent and it just takes some of them a little more time to learn how to best utilize it. She seems to expect some sort of answer from me, so I finally whisper, "Yes."

I'm not sure what reaction I expected, but I certainly didn't anticipate the cold fury in her eyes. She hisses, "Get over it, Michael! I'm not some fragile flower that needs to be nurtured and watched over. If I need your help, rest assured, I'll ask for it. Besides, my continued survival is a direct result of your training ability."

I correct her gently, "Nikita, you were a survivor long before you met me."

"You might be right about that." Her expression softens as she cups my cheek with her hand, smoothing her palm over the stubble of my beard. "But surely there's more to life than just survival?"

Gritting my teeth with effort, I take her wrist and pull her hand away from my face, saying evenly, "Maybe our quality of life isn't what we'd like, but, it's preferable to the alternative."

She pulls her hand from my grip and raises an eyebrow. "So, then, you're saying that you don't want me. Is that right?"

"Yes." She's standing only inches away from me, but I can't make myself meet her gaze.

She unfastens the buttons on her shirt and lets it drop to the floor as she takes a step back. I avert my eyes, but the sudden tug in my groin quickly makes it apparent that I saw more than enough.

She takes my hand in hers and presses my palm between her breasts as she closes the distance between us once more. My skin is still cool from the shower and she shivers lightly at the contact. Heat seems to pour off of her in waves, and I can just make out the rosy flush coloring her pale skin in the subdued lighting. Her heart beats firmly, steadily, beneath my palm.

"Feel that, Michael? I'm still alive. I'm alive, and I know that I wouldn't be if not for you. I won't pretend that I don't need you in my life, but things can't go on like this. The guilt stops right here, right now. Agreed?"

The warmth of her body, in such close proximity to mine, is rapidly suffusing through me. Helpless to refuse her, I nod, whispering, "Agreed."

"All right, then." She gives me a slow, seductive smile. "Now, in the spirit of reopened communications, I'll ask you again. Do you want me?"

It's getting harder to separate the sensation of her heart beating against my skin from the feeling of my own pulse pounding in my temples. I know that she's well aware of my body's betrayal of its intentions. "You know that I do."

"Good. I like knowing where I stand." And with that, she retrieves her top, puts it back on, and slides beneath the covers on the bed. Her voice comes back, slightly muffled, "Good night, Michael. Wake me in four hours."

I settle myself into the chair, my automatic at my side. "Good night, Nikita."

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

Our second day here starts out a lot like the first. We take turns sleeping and occasionally raid the pantry for snacks. I've known Michael for years, but I've never spent this much time in his constant company. As a result of our confinement, his usual calm attitude is rapidly being replaced by anxiety. He paces restlessly around the room, scowls periodically, and checks our weapons again and again. Finally, just when he seems on the verge of exploding with nervous energy, he begins to stretch his lean body.

Sensing that he's in no mood to talk, I watch him casually as he does a series of exercises to loosen up tight muscles, starting with legs, then going on to chest, arms, and finally his back. When he's limbered up, he begins to practice kicks against an imaginary enemy. At first, he keeps them low, but after a few minutes, the sweeping arcs of his legs go higher and higher. Eventually, he combines the head-high kicks with swift thrusts and strikes of his fists.

Although the Section demands proficiency in hand-to-hand combat, new recruits are taught from a variety of disciplines, including Aikido, tai chi, and tae kwon do. We're not encouraged to become expert in any one method, but rather to be able to defend ourselves adequately using whatever technique is most appropriate, given the skill level and size of our opponent. Some of his advanced movements are new to me, and he is a perfect picture of grace and control as he performs them.

His hair now in damp ringlets, he pushes himself harder and harder until his chest is covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. Eventually, his breathing begins to grow heavier, and he begins to punctuate his highest kicks with a small grunt of effort. He works out longer than I would have thought possible, but he inevitably slows his motions as he begins to let his body cool down. When he reaches the stage of performing slow stretches to ease his tired muscles, I finally work up the nerve to speak to him.

"That was beautiful, Michael."

He lifts his face from the towel that he was using to mop it dry and rewards me with a slow, sweet, genuine smile. "Thank you."

"What was it? I didn't recognize some of the movements."

His body straightens with pride. "Savate. A very old form of kick-boxing, developed in France."

"Teach me someday?"

He seems pleased at my interest. "After your leg heals, if you like."

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

He continues to dry himself off, but his attention is focused solely on me now, and on the way that I'm watching him, mesmerized by his sinewy grace. "What are we going to tell them?"

The good humor and desire that I saw in his eyes a moment ago vanish instantly, to be replaced by anxiety and uncertainty. "Don't worry about it, Nikita. It's not your problem."

"The hell it's not," I retort angrily. "We're in this together, Michael. At the very least, we have to come up with some kind of cover story to explain why the mission was blown. I mean, we can't exactly tell Madeline and Operations that you broke a man's neck for trying to cop a feel. Did you really think that I was incapable of stopping that moron any time that I wanted to?"

He looks away for a moment, and if I didn't know better, I'd swear that he was embarrassed. "There was a gun at your head. I didn't think at all, Nikita."

I release an exasperated sigh. "You know, Michael, all the time that he was doing that, I was trying to decide how many of his fingers I was going to break while he was still conscious. I was counting the seconds until his check-in. And then you came in, like some avenging angel."

"It was a foolish mistake, and you were hurt because of it." The look in his eyes is haunted.

"It doesn't matter." I give him a wide smile as I caress his chin with my fingertips before cupping it in my palm and forcing him to look into my eyes. "I'll admit that I was more than a little irritated with you yesterday. In fact, I was absolutely furious, but, in a way, I think congratulations are in order. The jury was out for some time, but it appears that the verdict's finally in. In spite of the years that you've spent in Section, you're still human."

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

I pause for a moment, desperately trying to find a reason to accept her declaration, to embrace it, but the effort is fruitless. Finally, I admit, "Even if you're right, it's hardly cause for celebration. Emotions have a way of crippling me, of affecting my judgment. I can't afford to be with you, Nikita."

A corner of her mouth lifts up and, for just a moment, her eyes assume a faraway look, as though she's savoring a fond memory. "On the contrary, Michael. At this point, I'm not sure if you can afford to not be with me."

"What do you mean?"

She settles herself on the bedspread, carefully easing her body into a cross-legged position. "Let me tell you a story from my childhood. My mother had a, well, I'll call him a boyfriend, for lack of a better term, who was a psychology student. Sometimes, when he had a lot of money, or drugs, or both, he'd stay at our place for a couple of weeks."

A fleeting look of disgust crosses her face before she continues, "I was probably seven, maybe eight the last time that he came over. He took two pieces of candy from a pocket. He ate one in front of me, telling me how delicious it was. He left the other one sitting on the kitchen counter and told me that I was forbidden to eat it, and that I would get a spanking if I did. He wanted to see how long I'd be able to resist taking it."

"And were you able to resist?" I ask gently.

"Yes, but it wasn't easy, Michael. For some reason, I became almost obsessed with the candy. I constantly imagined how it would taste. I sat and stared at it for hours. I dreamed about it." As she speaks, she idly traces the pattern woven into the bedspread with an index finger. "I guess Madeline would rationalize it as a subconscious desire for 'forbidden fruit' or some such thing, but, over a period of several days, I longed for that single piece of candy more than I would have dreamed was possible."

I prompt her again. "So what did you do?"

She lifts her head to face me, her expression one of smug satisfaction. "I found a piece of modeling clay, and rolled it into the same shape as the candy. One day, when he and my mother were both gone, I took the candy, took the wrapper off carefully, and then twisted the wrapper around the piece of clay. I hid the candy in my room and waited to see if he'd notice the switch when they got home."

"Did he?"

"No. No, he didn't," she chuckles. "When I went to bed that night, I pulled the covers up over my head and ate the candy."

I can't help but smile at her ingenuity. She must have been quite a child. "How was it?"

"It was sweet, Michael. It was very, very sweet." She smiles delightedly now. "And the dreams stopped that same night."

"And he never found out what you did?"

She shakes her head gently. "I took great pains to let him see me staring at it at it at least once a day, and he never suspected anything. He left again a week later, and, at some point, my mother finally threw it away. The point I'm trying to make here is that resisting a temptation isn't always the only solution."

I whisper, "You're telling me that you're capable of resorting to guile and deception in order to gain something important to you."

"Yes," she says simply, getting up from the bed and moving to rest her hands on my chest. "I am. Are you?"

Without conscious volition, my hands reach for her, first caressing the smooth silk draped over her arms before moving to stroke her back and sides. Emboldened by her calm acceptance, I cup the weight of a firm breast in my palm. The nipple contracts automatically as I rub my thumb over its surface. "I was once afraid that you would become my weakness."

She waits silently, azure eyes gazing intently at my own.

"I've been blind to how much you've grown, Nikita. I'm beginning to believe that you possess enough strength for both of us."

She nods, her eyelids fluttering shut as I gently tighten my grip on her warm flesh. She twines her arms around my neck and pulls me down to her. I joyously press my lips against hers, her kiss hot, wet, and full of promise. Breaking the embrace, I murmur breathlessly, "You're not going to break my fingers, are you?"

She sighs and leans into my touch. "Only if you stop."

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

How could I have forgotten how incredibly soft his hair is? I run my fingers through the short locks, pulling him closer for another kiss. After everything that we've been through over the last few weeks, I still find it hard to believe that this is actually happening. Our first time together was incredibly desperate, needy, wild abandon. Once we released ourselves from the inhibitions that had been keeping us apart for so long, we embraced each other with a passion and intensity that was almost overwhelming.

The second time was so different, it almost seemed as though we weren't the same people anymore. And, in a way, we really weren't. We were simply acting out roles while playing to an audience. It was still a sweet, guilty pleasure, but, even as our bodies rocked together, there was still a distance between us. It was almost as though we refused to bring our emotions into play because of the risk of making them seem like a part of the sham.

But the past is past. Presently, we're safe, protected, and completely alone. If everything goes well later, we'll be back in Section this time tomorrow. If it doesn't, we'll be dead. Opportunities like this one don't happen often, and I intend to take advantage of it.

He drops his hands to my waist and pulls me closer. I can feel the hard, heavy maleness of him pressing urgently against me as he whispers, "Are you sure you're up to this?"

Instead of answering him, I reached down to cup him lightly between his legs, stroking and squeezing him through the lightweight material. He bites back a moan and moves my hand back to his chest.

"Later. I want to take things slowly this time." He reaches for the buttons on the shirt, undoing each one with steady deliberation. I shrug out of the sleeves, and his hands are quick to grab my hips. He leans toward me and skims his lips lightly over an ear, blowing into it softly. I can't help shivering at the sensation. Then, his lips move down, following the line of my jaw before caressing my mouth for just a fraction of a second. He plants a series of tiny kisses over my nose, my eyes, my forehead. At the same time, his palms gradually move along my body, inflaming my desire, teasing me mercilessly with the lightest of touches.

He begins to brush his lips lightly over mine, again, and again, until I'm desperate for firmer contact. Finally, just when I reach my breaking point and twist my hands in his hair to pull him down to me, he covers my mouth with his. As he slides his tongue hungrily against mine, his hands reach to cover my breasts, his thumbs brushing lightly against my aching nipples.

I whimper and lean my body further into the hands that are massaging me with such sweet pressure. He cups my breasts firmly with both hands and hefts their weight before squeezing them lightly. When he hears my gasp, he reaches for my nipples again, rolling them between thumb and forefinger with exquisite gentleness.

Careful not to disturb my bandage, Michael takes my elbow and leads me to the easy chair, motioning for me to sit down. A moment later, he kneels in front of me. He lifts his face toward me, and his eyes seem to be searching mine. For what, exactly, I'm not sure, but I meet his gaze directly, finally giving him a small nod. The indecision leaves his eyes, to be replaced with what can only be described as pure, primal need. I shiver under that predatory regard, anxiously waiting for his hands to reach for me again. Instead, without any preamble, he leans forward and lightly circles my left nipple with the tip of his tongue.

Has anything else that I've experienced in my life ever felt this wonderful? I can't think of anything, and I don't even want to try any more at this point. "Michael," I breathe softly as I close my eyes. Circling just around the areola, his tongue makes three slow revolutions before he leans back to sit on his heels. I open my eyes again, reveling in the mixture of love and lust that's written so clearly across his features.

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

"More?" I whisper.

She nods, but makes no move to speak. This time, I turn my attention to her right nipple, caressing it in exactly the same way as before. I move back to the first one again, but this time, as she threads her fingers firmly through my hair, instead of just licking around the periphery of the erect peak, I pull it into my mouth and suckle on it firmly. She gasps and clenches her fist in my hair for just a moment before gradually relaxing her grip.

I continue to nuzzle her for a few more moments, then bite the tip gently before moving to take her other breast in my mouth. She continues to run her fingers through my hair as I caress and nip at the sensitive bud. After a few minutes, I inch lower, brushing the sensitive skin of her midsection with my lips, leaving a trail of tiny, gentle kisses behind me. When I finally reach the barrier of cloth that's the only thing still separating us, I hook two fingers beneath the flimsy scrap of material, pulling it down and away.

I run my palms over her calves and thighs before placing my hands underneath her legs and lifting them to rest on the arms of the chair. My gaze is immediately drawn to the tangle of blond curls, but, after a few seconds, I raise my eyes to her face once more. Her head is thrown back, and her eyes are heavy-lidded with passion. With a quick, but gentle, motion of my thumbs, I separate her folds and reveal the glistening pink flesh buried inside them.

Unable to resist for even a second longer, I touch her with just the gentlest brush of my lips. Nikita lets her breath out in a violent rush, and the muscles of her thighs quiver beneath my palms. Ever so lightly, I let my tongue sweep across her: first in quick, light strokes, next in tiny circles, alternating the pattern every few seconds. When her breath begins to come in quick, desperate pants, I stop and raise my head to look at her once more.

Her hair is disheveled and her lips are slightly parted. As she gazes at me with smoldering eyes, I stroke her clitoris lightly with the ball of my thumb. She keeps her eyes open only by sheer force of will, but she's unable to keep her hips from bucking toward me.

"Is it good, Nikita?"

"Yes."

Her tone is low and full of desire, and I'm suddenly overcome with a sense of wonder. I'm not on a mission. I don't have to disengage my feelings, extract any information or worry about whispering the wrong name. Instead, I'm free to memorize every detail: the intoxicating scent of her, the way she flushes under my touch, the taste of the skin on her throat, the raw need in her voice. I want to hear that voice break on my name.

She makes it possible for me to be what I am to no one else: a lover, in every sense of the word. Just witnessing her arousal isn't enough anymore. I want her to describe it to me.

"How good is it?"

She takes her lower lip between her teeth and eyes me stubbornly. I slide my thumb against her again, more firmly this time.

Her eyes roll closed as she groans involuntarily, "Michael, please!"

As she arches her body toward me again, I reach for her, parting her to slide two fingers deeply inside. She gasps at the sudden intrusion, and I give her a moment to become accustomed to the feeling before I begin moving within her slowly, watching her reactions. When I apply pressure upward and rub my fingertips along her inner wall, she moans softly once more and leans further back into the cushions.

She's so beautiful in her pleasure. I'd like to watch her, but there's something else demanding my attention. I bend toward her again, and this time, my tongue plays counterpoint to my hand as I stroke her both inside and out, simultaneously.

Within seconds, she begins to shudder against me, and I still the motion and give her a moment to recover. I've wanted to do this to her for as long as I can remember, and I refuse to end it quickly. As soon as she begins to relax, I renew my exploration of her. I continue to tease her repeatedly, stopping each time she gets close to completion. She endures the sweet torture without complaint for several minutes, but eventually, gasping with effort, she whispers, "Don't stop, Michael. Don't stop this time."

Instead of halting altogether, I merely slow the stimulation as she begins to near climax again. Her breathing becomes harsher and more labored, and I slow the pace even further before finally lifting my head and whispering, "Now."

As if on command, her body trembles violently as her internal muscles tighten around me once, twice, three times, before she sighs softly and relaxes into my embrace. I gently withdraw from her and wrap both of my arms tightly around her waist before resting my head on one of her thighs. As my hands stroke the small of her back, she absently combs her fingers through my hair. After a few minutes, when she's sufficiently able to speak again, she says, "Go ahead and get some sleep, Michael. I'll take the first watch tonight."

I raise my head from her lap and give her a small, secretive smile before reaching behind me and picking up her scattered clothes. Tossing them into her lap, I draw myself up to stand. Cat-quick, she grabs my hand before I can turn away.

The look in her eyes is something akin to awe. "You really would, wouldn't you Michael? Even after the unbelievable pleasure you just gave me, if I asked it of you, you'd just lie down and go to sleep like it never happened."

"Yes and no." Her eyes demand further explanation. "I'd lie down. I doubt that I'd be able to sleep."

She glances up at me almost shyly, and her smile seems to ignite something in my chest. Tightening her grip on my hand, she uses it to pull herself upright. She brings our joined hands up to her lips, pulling her fingers from my grasp as she kisses my palm. Her other hand reaches for my face, her fingers trailing lightly over my jaw, chin, eyes, forehead, seemingly trying to memorize my features. As she investigates the texture of my lips, I open them abruptly beneath her touch and close my teeth on her thumb, very gently.

I release my grip a moment later and she edges nearer to me until I pull her into the circle of my arms, holding her close. Her head rests against my chest as her hands knead the muscles of my lower back, occasionally reaching even lower to squeeze my buttocks. She rubs her hip lightly against me, but when I sigh and try to pull her more firmly against me, she slips out of my embrace and drops to her knees. A moment later, she tugs gently at the waistband of my pants and eases it over the length of my erection before letting the silk fall to the floor. Her mouth gradually moves closer and closer to the rigid shaft, but she stops short of touching me.

There are limits to my self-control, and she's sorely testing them. I manage to hold myself firmly in check and wait for her to make the next move. Finally, she purses her lips and blows a soft puff of air against the surface of the skin. The sensation is simultaneously cool and warm, and the effect is thoroughly intoxicating. A moment later, she rubs her cheek lightly against my aching flesh, shrouding it with her hair. "Do you want me to...?" her words trail off.

I reach to cup her face in my palm and caress her cheekbone with my thumb. "Yes."

She traces the tip of one finger lightly along the underside of me. "Just 'yes', Michael? I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than that."

I don't try to hide the trace of amusement in my voice. "Yes. Now." I gasp aloud as her short nails sink into the back of my thigh and quickly add, "Please."

"Better." She closes her mouth around me and I shiver, even as I feel the fire consume me.

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

I let my tongue circle around the smooth tip exactly three times before pulling away from him. "More?" I murmur, reaching for the soft, full sac between his thighs and gently scraping its surface with my fingernails.

"No." I glance up at him, startled at his reply. He looks somewhat surprised himself, but he grips my hands firmly and lifts me to my feet before pulling me tightly against him. "It's not you," he whispers as the heat of his erection burns against the skin of my belly. He nuzzles my neck before pinching my earlobe lightly between his teeth.

"Then why..."

My words are abruptly cut off as he covers my mouth with his. As my body melts against him, he separates my lips, his tongue warm and firm against my own. When he releases me a few moments later, he explains, "You're still hurt. I want to be sure that you're comfortable."

Touched by his concern, I run my fingertips across his cheek before commenting, "You know, I've heard that it works just as well lying down. Then we'd both be more comfortable."

It's all the invitation he needs. He scoops me into his arms and walks the short distance to the bed before settling me gently onto its surface. Easing the length of his body alongside mine, he caresses me softly from hip to shoulder and back again. I roll slightly to face him and shift my position until my head is level with his groin. Eyeing him speculatively for just a moment, I reach out to touch the soft skin almost reverently.

"You're beautiful, Michael," I murmur.

"You don't have to do that, Nikita," he whispers as I begin to plant soft, small kisses up and down the length of him.

My words are low and husky as I take him back into my mouth. "I want to." And for maybe the first time in my life, it's the absolute truth.

He shudders helplessly as my tongue swirls rapidly around him and I begin to move my lips up and down the firm shaft. I want to tease him as he did me, make him lose control, but he lets me continue for only a few more seconds before muttering "Enough." He pulls me back up to face him and cups my face between his palms, skimming his lips over my eyes before taking my mouth again. When he finally pulls away from me, he places a hand on my hip and rolls my body slightly, so that I'm facing away from him. Sweeping my hair aside, he nibbles my shoulder and neck lightly before finally closing his lips on the tender skin at the base of my neck and sucking hard. As I moan softly and lean back to press myself more tightly against his muscular body, he places a hand on the back of my thigh and pulls my leg up against my body until my knee is folded against my chest.

I'm completely exposed to him now and he's quick to take advantage of the situation. His hand trails back around the curve of my thigh before finally moving to my center. I'm amazed at how quickly I'm responding to his touch as his slick fingers massage my entrance repeatedly, teasing, but never penetrating me. Just as I'm about to voice my frustration, I feel him shift position behind me. A moment later, I feel him press himself firmly against me, seeking entry and then, suddenly finding it. His breathing is loud in my ear as he immediately pulls out and begins to rub himself against the lips of my opening again. As I sigh and force myself to relax against him, he slips himself inside me again, a little deeper this time. I try to tighten internal muscles in an attempt to keep him there, but my effort's in vain.

He teases me for only a few seconds this time before thrusting his hips forward and burying himself completely inside me. I bite my lip to keep myself from screaming and clamp down on it even harder when he cups his hand around me and his fingers renew their casual exploration of my flesh. He strokes my clitoris lightly for a few seconds before he pulls almost completely out of me. As he pushes himself back in, he continues to caress me gently. He pulls back once more, and I smother a cry against my forearm as my body begins to shake almost uncontrollably against his. At the next stroke, white-hot light explodes behind my eyelids and I lie gasping in his arms, overcome by both the intensity of the orgasm and the tenderness and skill of the man who still holds my body tightly against his own.

Before I have any chance to recover, he begins to move within me again, faster this time, and deeper. The pressure begins to mount once more as my over-stimulated nerves are subjected to the glorious friction of his skin against mine. He remains silent, but his arms tighten around me and he presses his lips firmly against my neck as his body quivers against, around, and inside me. The rhythm of his thrusts slows and he shudders violently as he pushes himself into me one last time, his breathing ragged as he murmurs a single word, "Nikita."

The combination of the sound of his voice and the pulsating warmth of the flesh still buried deep within me forces me into oblivion once more. Secure in the knowledge that I'm safe in his arms, I let the darkness take me.

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

I watch her in the half-light as she glides around the room, picking up her scattered clothing. Her muscles ripple as she moves quickly, silently, her unconscious grace marred only by a slight limp. She moves toward the bathroom, and I hear the hiss of the shower. She doesn't turn the lights on, relying on the dim lighting from outside.

She had a taste of freedom, once. Maybe it was flawed in some ways, but it was still more than most operatives will ever know. She gave it up without reservation, simply because I asked her to. She's come to the point where she's willing to accept whatever I'm able to offer her. I'm finally beginning to believe that it's possible for me to give her what she so desperately wants.

I make my tread deliberately heavy so as not to startle her. A moment later, I pull the curtain back slightly as I step into the shower. She doesn't seem surprised at my presence and simply hands me the soap as she rinses her body in the warm spray. "Where do we go from here, Michael?"

"Back to Tate's office. We get the intel, then we go to the locker rooms in the basement, steal some clothes, and get out of here."

She fully realizes that I'm being deliberately obtuse, but she manages to keep her frustration in check. "We've already been over that, Michael. That's not what I meant."

"I know." I take her into my arms, and she resists for only a moment before accepting the embrace. Our earlier passion spent, we simply cling to each other, knowing that we have to return to Section later today, or die trying. "Nothing has changed for us, but there will be more missions, other opportunities for us to be together. I intend to take advantage of them. That's all that I can give you, for now. Is it enough, Nikita?"

"No, it's not enough." The words aren't entirely unexpected, but they're not what I had hoped for. I begin to pull away from her, but she tightens her arms around my neck and refuses to let me go. "But it's more than I expected, Michael. And, for now, it'll do."

I bury my face in her neck, crushing her fiercely to me for just a moment before releasing her abruptly. She smiles coyly and tilts her head back beneath the spray as she reaches for the shampoo.

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

God, what a waste. I just got out of the shower, and now I'm crawling back into this filthy jumpsuit. I'd washed my other clothes on our first day here and hung them to dry, but I didn't feel like tackling the uniform at that time. Now I wish I'd at least made an effort.

"Ready?" he asks as I finish pulling on my boots.

I look around the room again. We've managed to obliterate nearly every trace of our stay. It's not a perfect job, but, unless someone is specifically looking for us, it should do. "As ever," I reply softly.

"Ladies first, then." He boosts me up into the opening in the ceiling and we begin to stealthily make our way back to Tate's office. After about thirty minutes and two or three wrong turns, we're there. The only problem is, so is Tate. Damn it, it's three o'clock in the morning. He's never been around this late before. We've got no choice except to stay here until he leaves.

He's yelling into the phone, arguing in a language that I'm not familiar with. A few minutes later, he slams down the receiver, and a chesty brunette comes in from the outer office area and lays a file on his desk. "The Kurosami brothers giving you a hard time again?"

Tate slams a palm on the desktop. "Bastards negotiated a shipment of C-4, and now they refuse to accept it. They say they want some of the new generation of plastiques instead."

"Will you give it to them?"

"Of course I will. They're willing to pay triple the price we first agreed on, but now I have to find some other sucker to buy 50 kilos of C-4."

"Poor baby," the brunette murmurs, settling herself firmly in his lap. "Is there anything I can do to make it better?"

"I don't know," he smiles, idly playing with the buttons on the front of her sweater. "Since we had the break-in a couple of days ago, I've been pretty stressed. I can't afford to slack off though. Business is booming."

After they share a chuckle at his little joke, he reaches for a small black book resting next to his phone. "It's really funny, Gabrielle."

"What's funny?" she asks, leaning to nibble at his ear.

He reaches awkwardly around her to place the book in the pocket of his jacket. "I figure whoever was in here was looking for my list of suppliers and clients. This, right here." He pats his chest protectively. "I wish I could have seen their faces when they looked at what they managed to download from the computer."

"What was it, Chris?"

He throws his head back and laughs again. "It was a double-encrypted recipe for my mother's fruitcake."

Gabrielle shrieks along with him. When her giggles start to die down, Tate lifts her from his lap to sit on the edge of the desk. As he stands in front of her, she pulls his head down for a kiss and pushes the jacket away from his shoulders. It falls unheeded to the floor. As he begins to unbuckle his pants, she giggles, "Not here. Let's do it in the shower."

"All right," he smiles. "Go get the water started."

As she disappears into the bathroom, he walks to the door separating the outer office from the hallway and punches a code into the alarm panel. The girl's voice comes from the bathroom, "I'm waiting . . ."

He walks back toward her, loosening his tie as he calls, "Just making sure we don't have any more unwanted visitors." A moment after the door to his private bathroom shuts behind him, we hear more giggling and splashing.

"Ten seconds, Nikita."

I'd been so engrossed by my voyeurism, I'd nearly forgotten that Michael was right beside me. On the count of ten, I gently push aside the cover of the duct and drop into the office, careful to land with all of my weight on my good leg. Michael lands immediately after me and gently pulls the book from the fallen jacket. After quickly rifling through it and confirming its contents as our target intel, he quickly runs to the outer reception area. Following him, I notice his sigh of relief as he reaches for the copy machine.

"It's warm. I'll do it. Watch my back, Nikita."

Pleased at his trust, I go back to Tate's office and try to ignore the moans that are now mixed with Gabrielle's giggles. It seems like forever, but, according to my watch, less than five minutes pass before the grunts and cries from the bathroom finally reach a crescendo and then fall silent. I run back to the outer office. "Hurry."

"Three more pages," he murmurs.

The hissing of the water stops abruptly. "Now, Michael."

"Done," he proclaims, pulling the book from the copy machine and pulling a sheaf of paper from the machine's tray. He hands it to me and I tuck it into a cargo pocket as he runs to return the book to the jacket pocket. It's eerie how sometimes no communication is necessary between us. He laces his fingers together and stoops, holding his joined hands in front of him. I step into their cradle, and he boosts me toward the ceiling with no apparent effort on his part. As I grab the edge of the hole and start to pull myself in, I hear the bathroom doorknob rattle. Then, suddenly, I hear a muffled shriek and an indignant "Oh, no you don't!" Miraculously, the door stays shut.

Beneath me, Michael gathers himself and jumps, the tips of his fingers just catching the edge of the duct's opening. I grab a wrist and pull, ignoring the pain as I desperately wedge both of my legs against the sides of the duct for leverage. First, he gets his forearms in, next, his head and shoulders appear, and finally, he pulls his legs up and into the duct. Just as he snakes his arm back in to grab the hinged cover and pull it shut, the bathroom door opens and steam billows out of the small room.

A moment later, Tate and the girl walk out with their arms full of their clothes. They try to help each other get dressed, and, as a result, the whole affair takes twice as long as it would have normally. Finally, when the last button is fastened, hair is combed, and makeup applied, Tate scoops up his jacket and puts his arm around her as they head to the door.

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

Within minutes of Tate's departure, we're on our way to the basement. The building's got an exercise facility there, including locker rooms. We know from our earlier surveillance that some employees arrive as early as 5 a.m. It's almost that time now.

We stop at a grate that overlooks the treadmills, but we can also just make out the entrances to the locker rooms.

"Shall we split up now?" she asks softly.

I ruthlessly quash my instinct to stay with her. If someone were to see her, she could always play the part of the janitor. If I'm seen, things will be rather more complicated. "Yes. Try to wait for someone roughly your size. Clothes that don't fit properly will draw attention. We'll meet outside in thirty minutes."

She nods and follows the duct leading toward the women's locker room as I take the opposite fork. It takes perhaps five minutes before I get into a good position to observe the room. Several men my size have entered the facility, but one looks particularly suitable. He's perhaps an inch taller than I am, not enough to matter. His suit is light gray, Armani, I think, and the jacket looks to be wide enough to accommodate my shoulders.

He drops his black sports bag to the floor, disrobes quickly, and carefully hangs the suit and shirt inside his locker. Unzipping the bag, he pulls on a pair of shorts and a brightly colored shirt. Socks and running shoes follow, and then he's out the door in a blur of blue and white. I drop out of the ceiling, landing lightly on the bank of lockers below me. After I reposition the grill, I slide to the floor and begin stripping.

The locker door doesn't provide any meaningful resistance. After scooping the jumpsuit and my boots into the black bag, I reach for his shirt. The collar is a shade too tight, so I leave the top button undone as I pull the knot of the tie up to my neck. The trousers are fine, and the shoes are perhaps just half a size too large. Lastly, I pull on the jacket, and, as I suspected, it's a perfect fit.

Checking the safety beforehand, I slip the automatic into my pants pocket. The jacket is barely long enough to hide the bulge that it makes. I take just a moment to scrutinize myself in the mirror. As my eyes roam over the fine suit, the silk shirt, and the expensive Italian shoes, I realize that I look almost exactly as I did when Nikita and I were on the Armel mission. It didn't take much to convince Armel that she and I were a young couple in love. It's going to be far more difficult to persuade Madeline that we're not.

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

Finally, a tall redhead walks in. Charcoal gray business suit, with slacks instead of a skirt. Perfect. She walks to the far bank of lockers, so I can't see much more than her head and shoulders as she undresses, but I can tell which locker she's using. A few minutes later, she emerges in a bathing suit, with a large towel slung over her shoulder, and heads toward the pool.

I'm out of the vent in seconds, pulling a nearby bench directly beneath it so that I can shut the cover. After I slide the bench back into position, I come to the locker that the redhead was using and force it open. It takes just a few seconds to get out of my own clothes. Working quickly, I pull hers from the hangers and I'm just about to put on the hose when I notice something strange.

What the hell is this? The slacks have this weird nylon panel built into the front of them and the blouse is just way too big for . . .With a start, I realize just what's going on.

Great. Terrific. This is just what I needed. I pull on the hose quickly, and, cursing under my breath, I reach for the stack of towels, lay one flat on the bench, and lay the list on top of it. Rolling it up quickly, I tuck the loose ends underneath and stuff the whole thing into the front of the too-big hose. It's a little lumpy, maybe, but the blouse should help camouflage it somewhat.

I quickly pull on the blouse, slacks, and jacket and finally slide into the shoes before stopping in front of the mirror. It's weird. It's me, but it's not me. I wonder if all pregnant women experience a similar moment? Of course, they have more time to warm up to the idea.

My uniform, my boots, and my gun go into a duffel bag and I make my way to the rear exit. A quick slash of my knife takes care of the wiring to the exit alarm. They were more worried about people getting into the building than getting out, apparently. When I finish climbing the short flight of steps, I find that Michael's already outside, waiting for me. He stops in his tracks momentarily as he notices my appearance. I expected a smile, or at least a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but, instead, his expression is wistful.

Surely he's not worried about me becoming pregnant? Every three months, I have to report to the medlab to get an injection specifically designed to keep that from happening. But wait, I remember now. He and Simone had a child together once. And apparently, the child died. My appearance must be a painful reminder of that time.

"Let's go." His voice is soft, but firm. He takes my bag and picks up another lying at his feet, and we walk calmly around the side of the building, emerging onto the sidewalk in front of the building. The streets are still quiet, but we soon come to a coffee shop that's just opening.

Michael takes my elbow and guides me inside. He orders two coffees, pulling bills from a well-stuffed eelskin wallet to pay for them. We sit at a corner table with a view of the street and sip at our cups.

"How long do you think we'll have to wait, Michael?"

His eyes flicker in my direction for only a second before he turns to look outside again. "Not long. They knew where we were. I'm sure they've been watching."

His hand is resting on top of the table, and I reach, tentatively, to caress the back of it with my fingertips. Without taking his eyes off of the window, he takes my hand in his, squeezing it lightly, just once, before releasing his grip and standing. I don't even need to look to know that they're here. He takes our bags, and I follow him out to the street and into the van.

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

"What the hell happened, Michael?"

As usual, Madeline's countenance gives away nothing, but Operations is obviously furious. Nikita and I worked out all of the necessary details ahead of time, so I'm fully prepared for the question. "Everything proceeded normally until I started the download. Manipulation of the data must have triggered an alarm of whose existence we were unaware."

"So you're blaming this failure on inadequate intel?"

"I never said it was a failure." Nikita remains silent at my side, just as I've instructed her.

"Then you did get the intel?" Madeline asks, her eyebrows arching delicately.

At this, Nikita reaches underneath her blouse, pulls the bundle of cloth from her midsection and unravels it to reveal the list. She hands it to Madeline, who takes it with a smile. "Paper. How...quaint."

I offer her a slight nod. "Tate didn't keep anything of value on his computer. It was a red herring."

"I see." Operations turns to Madeline. "I'd like to see what Captain Hanson has to say about this."

"So would I." She meets his gaze directly. "But the good captain had a bad heart. He didn't live long after our . . .discussion. Still, I'm certain that he was telling the truth, at least as far as he knew it."

"Apparently, Tate is dealing in misinformation as well as in arms." Operations allows himself a small smile. "We'll let Mr. Birkoff get to work finding these people. I want to move as quickly as possible on this, Michael. You'll help drawing up the mission profiles. And Nikita--"

"She's been wounded." His expression shows irritation at my interruption. "Nothing serious, but enough to keep her out of the field for some time."

He pauses for a moment to digest the information. "Then she may assist you with the profiles. Drop her at the infirmary on your way to debriefing."

Madeline looks Nikita up and down, just once, and her dark eyes glitter with amusement. "Stop by Wardrobe as well, Nikita. That's a look that I'd prefer not to see you in again."

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

The medtech rolls up the leg of my pants and checks both the entrance and exit wounds in my calf. "Any pain?".

I shake my head. "No, not any more."

"It's healing well. I don't expect any problems." She makes a few notations on her PDA and hands it to Michael. "It's only been three weeks, but she's done very well. I'm clearing her for active duty, effective tomorrow."

"Thank you." The tech beams at Michael's words and is still smiling as I slide off of the table.

I follow him to his office, where he pulls up the intel that we retrieved from Tate's little black book. "Sixty-four names, Nikita. Fifty-five have been taken. The others are running, but they won't get far."

That just leaves one loose end. "Tate?"

"Dead. Single bullet to the head."

"I see." I look pointedly at him until he activates the system that lets us speak privately.

I'm not sure I why it matters to me, but I need to know. "You?"

"Self-inflicted," he says softly. "When we had as many of his associates as we could easily get to, I led the team to take him. When I found him dead in his office, I took the opportunity to destroy the computer's hard drive."

"I guess that's that, then." I stand to leave.

"Do you have any plans for tonight?"

I look at him sharply, amazed at the question. His eyes don't shy away from mine, and I would almost swear that there's a touch of humor in his expression. "No. Why?"

"We have some unfinished business to attend to." He leaves his chair and comes around his desk to stand next to me.

"All right." I swallow hard. "Is it related to the Tate mission?"

"Yes." His voice is a caress, and there's a dangerous gleam in his pale green eyes.

I can feel my pulse quicken, but there's not a hell of a lot I can do about it. "What should I wear?"

"Something...comfortable." He brushes his fingers lightly against the back of my hand before reaching across his desk to tap at his control panel.

Without another word, we leave his office and go our separate ways. Until tonight, anyway.

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

I lay beneath her, still trying to catch my breath. Every time that I think I know her better than she knows herself, she does something to surprise me.

"That was. . .impressive," I finally manage to whisper.

"Yeah," she answers brightly. Her face is flushed, and she's breathing almost as hard as I am. "I've got to admit, you look pretty impressed."

"Where did you learn how to do that?"

She laughs delightedly and rolls off of me. "Actually, Mowen taught me."

I sit up shakily. "Mowen...I didn't know that you two were that close."

She shrugs. "I think you were in Madrid at the time, and anyway, Mowen and I were hardly close, Michael. We were just both here alone one night, bored, and one thing led to another."

I do my best to suppress the brief stab of jealousy that slices through me. I have no right to question her decision to use Mowen to help fill a few of the empty hours in her life. Still, I wish that it had been me in his place. "So, did he teach you anything else that I should know about?"

"Maybe." She gives me a cocky grin. "But maybe I should just let you find out for yourself. Besides, it's your moves that I'm interested in now."

She gives me a hand to help pull me to my feet. Instead, I grab her wrist, throwing her over my shoulder to the mat. She turns the spill into a roll and comes up in a crouch, hands at the defensive. "That was hardly sportsmanlike conduct, Michael."

As I regain my feet, I begin, "There is only one rule of unarmed combat: wait for an opening. When it comes, take advantage of it. Speed and strength are important, but..."

"Patience is paramount," she finishes for me. "I remember. You taught me that when you first trained me, Michael. It took some time, but I think I'm finally beginning to understand."

"Are you sure?" We know that other eyes are watching, other ears listening, but the words are only a part of our communication, an overt subtext. Inwardly, we're both remembering a moonlit night, full of passion and desperation, a promise made in a room of sterile white, and a particular pair of navy-blue silk pajamas.

Sea-blue eyes meet mine unflinchingly. "Yeah. I'm sure."

"I'm glad, Nikita. Shall we begin again?" I reach down toward her, offering her a hand up.

She eyes me warily, just for a moment. I've given her more than sufficient cause for distrust over the years that I've known her, but her indecision disappears just as quickly as it manifested itself.

"Yes."

And she puts her hand in mine.

End

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