Author's Note: Although I have tried to keep our fair heroine and her Spyguy in character to suit the Third Season Arc, I have spun them in a manner that I wished to see on screen.

As you know, these characters belong to the WB universe. I just like to take 'em out to play once and awhile.

Thank you Jane Austen. I'm certain you will all recognize my homage to that storytelling Queen.

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

Dead.

He was dead now.

Floating through Section like a drowned man, his ears filled so as not to hear, his eyes open but unseeing.

Floating.

Operatives darted around him like fish, watching, staring, their lips moving.

He took no notice. Alone he floated. In weight. In silence. The air around him water-heavy, isolating. Sealing him in his own world; beyond reproach, beyond accusation, beyond recrimination, save for the constant flood of self-loathing that tore at his heart.

He still slept in the house. They'd emptied and locked it, but he had ways of getting in.

Did they think they could keep him away?

He stood in Adam's empty bedroom, stripped bare now. There was nothing left of his son. Not one toy, not one scrap-

But so many memories.

He saw it then, overlooked by Housekeeping-

Faint marks on the wall, in the corner where Elena measured Adam's height with a crayon; once a month, since he turned three.

Look how big I am, Daddy.

He knelt and pressed his face against the precious lines.

"Adam," he wept.

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

"Sit down," said Madeleine, her gentle tones easily mistaken for compassion by the untrained ear.

Nikita flipped back her shades and sank into the proffered chair, posture arrogant enough to be noted but not insolent enough to be worthy of comment, and smiled pleasantly, "This isn't going to be one of your little pep talks is it?"

Madeleine raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you've noticed that Michael isn't taking the loss of his son very well."

"Bloody rude of him."

"I don't have to remind you that diminished capacity is not an option."

"So?" Nikita snorted, "I'm not in charge. Put him to work--isn't that the standard Section cure for whatever ails you?"

Madeleine nodded. "Operations agrees. He wants Michael put back into rotation."

"And you don't?"

The strategist watched the younger woman's face, gauging her reaction, "No," she inhaled slowly, "And I think you know why."

Pause. Meaningful stare. Nikita shook her head. "NO--I won't do it, Madeleine. He has a right to his own," she struggled for the word, "--privacy. If he wants to shut himself off, for God's sake, let him-"

"He has always felt very protective of you."

"Does this mean you're going to try to kill me, hoping he'll come to my rescue?" It was hard to keep the anger from surfacing.

Liquid, dark eyes watched her, eerily calm, the will behind them pure steel, "That can be arranged."

Nikita bit back a rude remark and fell silent. Madeleine tapped her fingers together lightly, as if lost in thought and then rendered her decision. "I'm giving him an opportunity, Nikita. You can either choose to help Michael or I'll pick someone else who will."

The younger woman flushed. "How do you live with yourself?" she whispered, her cheeks dark with suppressed emotion, "I don't get it." She rose from her chair and headed toward the door, pausing for a half second at the sound of the words floating over her shoulder.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'--"

As always, alto voice calm, carefully measured, the inflection faintly mocking.

Nikita gritted her teeth and kept going.

Madeleine focused back on the flat screen above her desk, ignoring the emotional outburst. There were variables to be assessed, decisions to be made. She hadn't the time or the inclination to agonize over an agent's personal feelings.

Besides, Nikita didn't have to like following orders.

She just had to do it.

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

Toril's low voice was taut, "You're clear-take the shot."

Jackson fired, striking twice, killing the target instantly. Smooth as a baby's butt. Madeleine would be pleased. Jackson handed the rifle to his partner and flipped open his cell phone. In her office, Section's Chief Strategist received his news with satisfaction. "Excellent," she said crisply, "You are certain? Seven days, at least?"

"No one saw him arrive. As you saw from the aerial photos, the villa is secluded."

"Staff?"

"Dismissed before he arrived."

"Good." Her voice hardened, "I don't need to remind you not to mention--"

"Understood."

Madeleine's shoulders relaxed as she sank back into her chair. "Why don't you take a few days off. I'm sure you'd prefer more commodious accommodations."

"You're the boss." He listened for a few more minutes, shut the phone with a snap and picked up his duffel bag.

"Do we have new orders?" Toril yawned, rubbing a grubby hand across an even grubbier face. They'd been on stakeout since midnight.

"What time is it?"

"Almost six."

"Let's eat. I'll tell you over breakfast."

Rifle in hand, she followed him down the rocky pathway to the waiting car.

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

"Yes, Michael?"

He faced her gravely, "I have considered your offer of personal time and I wish to decline."

Madeleine waited. "And?"

"That's all." He stared at the wall behind her.

Mascara'd lashes blinked. "You understand that if you choose full duty you will not be confined to short, local assignments." Translation: the house will be recycled, new owners found. There will be nothing left when you return.

Michael's pale complexion glowed like ashen marble under the florescent lighting. "I understand."

"Good. I had a feeling you would, and I've taken the liberty of assigning you the Annenberg file." She gestured to a data pad on the corner of the desk. "You'll be taking a team to South Africa, heading backup. Nikita will work primary. When you're finished, I have another mission I'd like you to attend-at my own discretion. Your calendar was clear and I appropriated your services for five additional days. I expect you will not need more than the allotted time."

"Is the team going too?"

"No. I'll brief you later. There will be ample time in the air on the way back."

Her watchful gaze slid across the somber planes of his face, noting the bloodless lips, the matted lashes, taking in every detail, missing nothing in the visage of the Level Five Op.

Michael, her greatest protege---

A superb agent, a brilliant military mind, an excellent trainer, and, in an organization of criminals, an honorable man. Section needed him. She needed him. He was the Future, and Madeleine had long-range plans. They hadn't seen him advance this far to let him stumble now. He'd lost his wife and son, a blow infinitely worse than Simone's death, and Operations' insistence on playing hardball was a dangerous miscalculation. They had too much riding on Michael's shoulders to push him. Reintegration was crucial, for many reasons. But ever the victim of his own pride, Operations refused to budge, forcing Madeleine to take matters into her own hands.

Her opaque eyes focused back on the grieving man standing so patiently before of her, "You may go."

She didn't watch him leave, preferring to turn her back, unsheath her scissors and prepare one of her delicate bonsai for the next cut.

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

Five years he had shared his bed with Elena. Made love to her. Made a child with her.

Deceived her.

Even now, in her mourning, she had no idea. No inkling that she was nothing more than an assignment to him. Of course he cared-only a brute could have withstood her innocent charm. But lust? Passion? No. Never. She deserved a man who felt those things for her--a man who made her his life.

Who saw the sun in her smile and the whole world in her eyes.

Who thirsted for her the way he did for Nikita.

Nikita.

How could he think of her now? He had no right. And what was Nikita to him when his own son had been taken away? What did he care for her, knowing his child was without a father--knowing that he would never see Adam again?

No.

He didn't care. Not for Nikita. Not for anyone. Not anymore.

That part of him was dead.

Besides, he no longer deserved her. He no longer deserved any woman. He was a coward and a thief--he'd stolen Elena's life and sacrificed their son for Section One.

Michael unbound the flap of his leather travel bag and began to arrange his clothing in neat, methodical layers. Trousers. Shirts. Socks. He moved into the bathroom to assemble the contents of his shaving kit, glancing up at the mirror, eyes drawn not to his own reflection, but to an item he had so carefully hung over the right corner: a broken pair of sunglasses that once belonged to Nikita--last summer's favorites. He had seen her toss them away and palmed them when she wasn't looking, feeling a foolish thrill at carrying away even that tiny memento.

But then, he had always been a fool when it came to her.

He shook his head angrily. Stop it! Stop it!-

It was ludicrous, this obsession with Nikita, this need--like a drop of whiskey on the tongue of an alcoholic. It went against every natural instinct, every iota of good sense, not to mention his own, inborn prejudices. Why, for one thing, he didn't even like blondes, he never had--they were just too pale. He had always preferred the warmer, caramel skin tones of Asian women and everyone knew his favorite hair color was black: blue-black, black with red tones, shiny black, like Elena. Like Simone. Now SHE was everything attractive: small, delicate, black eyes, black hair, dark skin.

Perfect.

He searched the shelf for razor blades, lips moving silently in what had become a familiar recitation.

Tall woman--so awkward.

When he was a boy, it was an accepted fact that women were delicate flowers, soft and yielding, petals silky soft, pliant-

Wet.

He drew in his breath at the image and sat down abruptly, staring at a scuff-mark on his right shoe.

He could stand almost shoulder to shoulder with this Amazon, strong enough to take him down in a fight if he wasn't careful.

This Huntress-

This Valkyrie-

He began to apply polish to the toe.

Others had been before. But they were not Her--

Not his partner-

Not his soul mate-

Not his better half.

That dubious honor, so jealously guarded, so reluctantly bestowed, could only belong to a light-haired, pale skinned goddess who laughed and cried without warning, whose insistence on compassion towards innocents prickled his conscience.

Whose smile, second only to that of his own son, had come to mean more to him than his own comfort.

Nikita.

Nikita.

He began to buff the shoe, breathing harder as he pressed down.

She was the only woman he could look square in the eye. The only woman to match his endurance, to counter his ambivalence with a whisper of hope that he followed like a trail, to her door.

Nikita..

His head bowed.

He had lost one woman and sacrificed another. What right did he have for a third chance?

None.

None at all.

Nikita.

Green eyes reset in a slow, shuttered blink.

He'd betrayed his wife. He'd lost his son.

God help him.

Nikita.

His need for her would surely damn his soul to hell.

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

Toril took another sip of her drink-just a tiny one, to take the edge off-and waited for him to arrive.

She had no idea who he was or where he came from--that was Madeleine's department. All Toril had to do was pick up the phone, describe what she wanted and like magic, it arrived. No involvement, no commitment, no touchy-feely bullsh!t.

Section understood these things, thank God.

At the sound of his knock, she tugged the belt a little tighter around her robe and reached for the knob.

"Toril?"

She smiled and closed the door behind him, watching his graceful stride into her hotel room, blinking in astonishment at the sheer size of him. He had to be at least six foot six.

"Damn, Honey- you're tall!"

His smile was gorgeous-white, even teeth, dimples flashing in each cheek, gold earrings in delicious contrast to silky, dark skin. "I'm Rafael."

Her eyes swept the length of his lean dancer's body; delighted, she held out a hand to shake. "My pleasure."

His smile widened, "I promise."

She laughed and gestured discretely, "Shall we?"

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

Jackson sat alone under a fancy miniature orange tree in the hotel dining room, trying to consume a roast beef sandwich, drink his glass of grapefruit juice and figure out when they would get in their practice time at the rifle range. So far, he and Toril had been sitting on this goddamned island with their thumbs up their--well, for two days of so-called vacation, and he was already wishing for orders from Section.

Not that he minded the downtime. They'd been pretty busy these last few months, traveling through the US and South America. Their mobile team was a test case, and his brainchild, and it was important to both their survivals that they didn't screw it up. That took practice-lots of practice.

Hell, he and Toril must have been 24/7 in each other's company, more time then he'd ever spent with anyone, but he couldn't lie, it wasn't bad. When Operations told him he could have his pick of personnel for a partner, it was an easy choice. Sure, he'd worked with other agents who had more experience, would have been fine, but he liked the way they worked together. It wasn't really tangible. He just knew he could rely on her no matter what.

It was that simple.

Today, however, he wasn't speaking to her. On account of a certain limp-wristed gigolo he'd glimpsed heading up to the room.

Enough said.

"Mmmphf." He chomped down hard on the sandwich, scowling. This "vacation" was not going the way he had hoped.

Not at all.

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

The leather strap bit painfully into Nikita's aching shoulder as she staggered down the length of the cabin toward the plane's exit. The commercial crop duster that flew them to the island from Miami had been overbooked. She was seated next to a pregnant woman with an infant, and both mother and child were airsick almost immediately. To her dismay, the plane also carried another baby, who wailed for the duration of the flight.

By the time they disembarked, Nikita's nerves were ragged; she felt helpless and exhausted and on the verge of a hysterical crying fit.

Their taxi had no air conditioning, and the driver raced precariously over the narrow roads at a nauseating pace. Motion sick, she stared miserably out the window, unable to look at Michael. She was angry with Madeleine, angry with herself for agreeing to this-this--charade.

Do you think you're the only one? Jurgen had taunted, Michael manipulates beautiful women.

Now it was her turn. Now she would be the one to manipulate.

At least, those were her orders.

No--she wouldn't--she couldn't. There had to be another way.

She leaned her head against the dusty glass, letting the landscape pass by in a blur, not caring. Just get her to her hotel. Just let her relax. Just let her sleep.

She was just so tired of it all.

She would figure it out later.

Later-

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

Toril stepped out onto the balcony and lit a well-earned cigarette. She'd sent Rafael on his way with a generous tip and the promise to call again the next time she passed through town. She settled onto the chaise, smoking contentedly, every inch of her body relaxed. "Come in," she called absently, at the sound of the muffled thump on the door, her eyes mesmerized by the shimmering blue ocean. She heard Jackson let himself in and stomp noisily onto the balcony.

"So, that was your date?"

She flicked an ash and smiled, "Yeah."

Jackson scowled, "He looked like a fag to me."

She sighed contentedly, "Maybe he is. I would have asked, but I didn't want to interrupt. What are you--jealous?"

He stared at her indignantly, blood staining his tanned cheeks, "What?"

Her eyes closed, "It's not my fault you're not getting any. If you weren't so damn picky."

He exhaled in a rush, not sure why he'd been holding his breath, "You know I don't like stupid bar girls."

The cigarette waved airily, "So call Madeleine--I'm telling you--she'll get you exactly what you want. It doesn't have to be a big deal."

"It's none of their damn business!"

Toril opened one eye. "Sit down, you're driving me nuts."

"I don't wanna sit down!" His voice was grumpy now.

"I'm trying to have this nice leisurely cigarette--"

"You shouldn't smoke!"

"Christ, Jackson-I could've had a woman partner the way you nag me!" She sat up, stubbing out the Newport. Then she took a look at his hot, flushed face and sighed, "Come on, let's go get dinner."

A half-hour later, they were seated at an outdoor table on the terrace. "So, any word ---" she began, then stopped abruptly, as Jackson's eyes lit up.

"Wow! Look at that!"

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

"Votre cle, Monsieur."

"Merci."

Nikita drank in their surroundings with open admiration. She had become accustomed to first class travel, but this was something else. The lobby was an elegant blend of cool marble and glass, with a wide open receiving area that managed to impress with spaciousness yet keep an intimate flavor. Through the sparkling floor length windows, she could see flowers everywhere; a wall of flowers leading to a terraced garden, the ocean seeming to surround them on all sides. Despite herself, she felt a grudging flicker of anticipation at what she was now suspecting would be an oasis away from the ugliness of Section. She followed Michael as they stepped into the elevator and rode up in a disquieting silence. They had exchanged a mere handful of words since their arrival.

The bellhop carried their bags and with a sharp, quick motion, opened the double doors to their suite. Nikita stopped, transfixed by the breathtaking sight before them.

"Oh, Michael, it's beautiful!"

Michael set down his travel bag, taking in the elegant expanse that would be their home for the next five days. It was stunning. Madeleine had gone all out. Why, he did not know. They usually received deluxe accommodations but this was excessive, even by Section's standards. He watched Nikita cross the massive living room, step up to the formal dining area, out the French doors leading to their private pool with its panoramic view of the harbor. He moved out to join her. She leaned against one of the stone pillars and stared dreamily out over the bay.

He caught her hand, concentrating on her perfect, slender fingers, feeling somehow comforted by her presence.

Why did he have to do that? She kept her eyes on the water, not wanting him to see her face, to see the guilty deception lurking behind her eyes.

"Nikita-"

She pretended to misunderstand. "Michael, we have a job to do," and pulled her hand away gently. "I'd like to change before we get to work."

He relinquished his hold on her without complaint.

She showered, dressed, and joined him back in the outrageously huge living area. Wordlessly, he handed her a data pad, and they sat down together to begin their work.

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

Jackson stared, riveted, at a distant point over Toril's right shoulder. She twisted in her chair. A woman was making her way among the crowded tables. She was tall, and generously endowed, even Rubenesque, with upswept hair, creamy shoulders exposed by a tight dress of honey silk. Her hips swayed, flesh rolling sensually as she glided across the floor toward them. A wave of spicy perfume preceded her approach, seeming to mesmerize Jackson, who stared at her in flagrant appreciation. The woman passed by, her gaze locking with his, a bewitching smile moving across her face.

The matching silk shawl loosely draped around her shoulders slid to the ground. Jackson reached out and caught the delicate, fluttering folds inches above the floor. "You dropped this, Ma'am," he drawled, slipping back into the boyhood accent Section had paid speech therapists good money to help him lose. She turned, murmuring thanks, eyes downcast demurely, her voice husky.

Watching, Toril snorted rudely. Jeeezus--that had to be the oldest trick in the book! But the other woman was already moving away, continuing on toward a table on the far side of the terrace.

"Jackson-for God's sake close your mouth before you slobber all over the table!" Irritated for a reason she could not identify, Toril lit a cigarette and exhaled in a huff.

Jackson's tanned face was flushed, brown eyes glowing with interest. He smoothed back his cropped blonde hair, whistling under his breath. "Whatta fox!"

"Her?"

"Yeah, didn't you see her looking at me?"

"Are you kidding?" Toril spat, flicking ash furiously. "She was a COW!"

He stared at her reproachfully. "What's wrong with having a little meat on your bones?" To her astonishment, he got up, slid his chair back and headed toward the other woman. "Don't wait up-"

Toril felt her jaw slacken, then caught herself with a start. What was wrong with her? Jackson had a right to score with whomever he pleased, and he should-he'd been so cranky lately! She supposed he was attractive in a military way-if you liked the Teutonic warrior look--which she didn't. Toril preferred them long and lean, like Rafael. Besides, Jackson, well, he made a great trainer, but a lover?

Eeeuw!

A myriad of reasons why that was teased at the edges of her brain but she couldn't seem to isolate a single one.

Well, who cared? Jackson was definitely NOT her type.

She shook her head. Ridiculous! She raised her hand and ordered another martini.

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

"Madame?"

"Are there any messages for us?"

The concierge consulted his terminal. "No, Madame."

Nikita murmured polite thanks and began to turn away, when a snippet of conversation halted her progress. Intrigued, she reversed direction and returned to the room she shared with Michael. He was studying a topographical map of the island when she entered, so engrossed that he didn't hear her initial, "Michael!"

"What?" he replied after her third inquiry, wondering why Madeleine had given them such poorly gathered intel.

"I just overheard one of the desk clerks mention a guest named S.J. Moffat."

"And?"

"That's one of Jackson's."

Michael's head rose, "Why wasn't I notified?"

She stared down at him over the rim of her new, electric blue shades, "You're asking me?"

He frowned, reaching into his pocket for the phone, coding in Madeleine's personal extension.

"Michael?" Birkhoff answered, sounding surprised, "Madeleine told us you wouldn't be checking in for another four days."

"Where is she?"

"I don't ask, and she doesn't tell. What do you need?"

"Where's the Mobile Team?"

Birkhoff tapped a key. "Um..says here Venezuela--why?"

"No reason." Michael looked at Nikita and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

She shook her head. "There's no answer in their room."

"Go check it out."

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

At midnight, Toril was crooning drinking songs with a group of sailors from Turku. Somehow, after making the rounds of the local bars, she had ended up in a low rent establishment located only a mile from the hotel.

But just as they began the chorus to "Jag har tre strommingar" a man in black appeared in the doorway. She froze, recognizing Michael's short nod as a command, and groaned inwardly, feeling the alcohol-sodden numbness spreading across her facial muscles. She put down her glass, slipped some money on the table, and made her way across the floor.

"Michael."

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number, not looking in her direction, his eyes continuing to scan the room. "Where is Jackson?"

"Around," she shrugged, as lucidly as she could manage. She lit a Newport and inhaled the heavy menthol smoke, willing the sharpness to penetrate through her rolling, Stoli haze.

Michael held out the phone. "He's not answering."

"What?" she coughed. Jackson was never off duty--it was almost a Section joke. "Must be a dead battery--you know he sleeps with it under his pillow!"

"No, I didn't know." He watched her sideways under veiled lashes.

Wait a minute--was he insinuating? Toril flushed. "I mean", she stammered, tongue stumbling over the words in a way that horrified her, "I don't know personally--he's told me-"

Michael turned cool green eyes on her, "Whatever you say."

For the second time that night, she was astonished. She trailed behind him, shaking her head. Was that a joke? Outside, Michael hailed a cab. "Let's go."

She nodded dumbly and collapsed into the back seat. Michael slid in beside her and instructed the driver in fluid French, while Toril rolled down the window and let the breeze hit her full face. Within minutes they had arrived at their destination, and Michael, like an elder brother escorting an inebriated sibling, helped her solicitously from the cab up the steps into the hotel.

Thankfully, the lobby was deserted. Toril knew better than to shake off the iron grip of his hand on her arm. "What's the matter?" she whispered, when they were safely beyond earshot of hotel personnel.

"You're not supposed to be here." He pushed her ungently toward the terrace. Surprises disturbed him. They usually meant incompetence or intrigue, and both spelled trouble.

"We got some time off--hey, is Nikita with you--ow--" she broke off, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"On who's authority?"

"Madeleine's," she snarled, "Can I have my arm back?"

"Section thinks you're in Caracas."

I don't know anything about that--this is Madeleine's deal. We did her a favor and she told us to take a few days off--that's all I know!" She backed away from him and leaned up against a stone column.

Michael's face remained expressionless. "What favor?"

She frowned disapprovingly at the bruise forming on her bicep and pulled a cigarette case out of her jacket. "What do you think?"

"Who?"

"Oh yeah-you know I can't tell you-"

"Who?"

"If it was anyone but Madeleine-

He stared at her.

She glared back at him, then sighed, rolling her eyes and gesturing with a curl of her hand.

Michael spat the name of their target.

She exhaled with a rush of blue smoke, "You didn't hear that from me."

His accent was terse, "Tell Jackson I want to see him tomorrow." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared into the hotel.

Toril watched his exit glumly. She'd just violated about a zillion Section protocols, and when Jackson found out...

She trudged toward the elevator, her earlier euphoria dissipating rapidly at the thought of her partner's reaction. No matter how much he liked and trusted Michael, no matter how harmless the intel, business was still business, especially in Section One.

Sh!t.

She could see her own reflection in the mirrored walls around the elevator, fierce scowl in anticipation of the massive butt-kicking, of which she was sure to be on the receiving end-no pun intended.

The doors opened and she stepped on to the empty platform, pressing the floor button with a dejected thumb, the alcohol and adrenaline swirling through her bloodstream in a potent cocktail.

What was Michael doing here? And why would he make a joke like that? As if she and Jackson would ever --you know-- and like Michael could point a finger with him and Nikita, well, ok, so it wasn't official but EVERYONE knew about it! And Jackson, that big NUT-- he always got so MAD at her when she, er, entertained gentleman callers--jeez--he's not ugly! He could get any girl he wanted! Well, yeah, he wasn't ugly, actually, he was...handsome, and he had that voice..and his shoulders were..But he sure couldn't dance, could he?--Nah, he had two left feet, NO rhythm--though he must do OK on the Electric Slide, although he certainly didn't get much practice these days except with that-That WOMAN--If I see her I'm gonna DECK her--I'm gonna DECK her! The nerve of that TRAMP--moving in on my partner!

Toril stumbled into her room and collapsed on the bed, fully clothed.

"MY partner," she muttered defiantly.

Then, she passed out.

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

Nikita heard the soft knock.

"Come in."

She was standing on the balcony off the darkened bedroom, staring up at the stars scattered across the black velvet canopy overhead. He walked through the doorway, eyes riveted to her quiet, leaning figure, her long hair reflecting white in the moonlight. Almost before she realized, he had crossed the expanse between them and stood behind her, his breath soft on the back of her neck.

"Nikita." Michael's voice was low, accent more pronounced than usual. He was exhausted. They both were. The flight in from Johannesburg had been a killer, and with the charter plane to the island, they'd been up for twenty-four hours straight.

And yet, how was it that the mere sound of his voice called goosebumps up out of her skin, caused the hairs to rise on the back of her neck, compelling her very essence like a King Cobra under the spell of a Charmer. She lost all fatigue in an instant, her heart speeding up crazily, almost dizzy with his nearness, with the scent of his skin, the tension between them.

She spread out her arms, gripping the balcony railing. She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the dark harbor below, on the lights dotting the water. Away from those eyes, that had been shuttered lately, starting with that day-

He'd kissed her. Openly. On the cheek, so softly, so gently, she thought her heart would break with the realization she was about to die and leave him behind. Was there anyone who didn't know he was the only thing she cared about anymore? Christ, she'd wanted to be selfish. To pretend she hadn't seen Adrian's tape, to bury her head. It was bad enough to exist within the inhuman confines of Section, to be treated like an automaton and discarded like garbage, but to discover that they served a false god; to know that Section's ends were not, in fact, Just--

And now, with Elena and Adam ripped away from Michael, the home he'd lived in for those years emptied and shut away-

And she was supposed to screw him back into submission-as if a good lay could erase the loss of his wife and son.

God, it was all so disgusting. She was disgusting. How could she have agreed to this sham? She was too ashamed to look at him.

Michael, I'm sorry.

He stood silently beside her at the railing, in the darkness, the lights dancing in the harbor below, feeling the weight coming down, the air thickening around him and suddenly he was struggling again.

Adam-

God, the thought of his son hurt; a visceral knife in his belly, blade thrust so sharp he could barely breathe, could barely see, could barely function.

Of course he had known, of course he had understood intellectually that the day would arrive. Why hadn't he prepared? How could he have been caught so completely off guard?

Stupid--

How do you prepare to lose your only child?

He'd thought it was bad almost losing Nikita. "They'll cancel you," he'd said, fighting to keep his voice from breaking, control so overloaded he was almost trembling with suppressed emotion.

She'd been so brave, "I won't run," and he'd pleaded with her, so hard he couldn't see for the grief rising in front of his eyes. But it was all in his mind--those words, those entreaties; all the words he'd been desperate to tell her, but never could.

Each time, it got harder and harder to pull away; each time, his desire was stronger. His logical mind fought it, refused to accept it-that she had become his weakness, that she had gotten under his skin, into his blood, wrapped herself around his heart, crawled like a stowaway into one of the few remaining chambers in what was left of his humanity.

Now Adam-

One hundred times worse.

How could he live without his son?

They'd not spoken of it. She'd tried, but he'd kept his eyes cold, repellant, refusing to let her near, forbidding her approach. He knew how he was being, that she, of all people, deserved more from him. After all they'd been through, all they'd meant to each other. He could barely contain his despair. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so much to tell her. But he just couldn't.

He couldn't bear it.

Nikita felt his hand rest gently on her shoulder. So gentle. She shivered, almost sick with concern for him. And desire. All she wanted was to feel his breath on her cheek, his arm around her waist, his skin meeting hers with the same hot urgency that spread like a virus though her entire body whenever he was near.

But she wouldn't let that happen. It was wrong. Madeleine could do what she Liked-- Nikita wouldn't play.

His hand rubbed her bare shoulder gently, lips dropping to brush against delicate skin. There was so much he ached to tell her, but he was so tired. So tired. He would be able to think clearer in the morning. All he wanted was to curl up against her body and sleep; his arms encircling her waist, his legs wrapping around her long, slender ones, his face in the hollow at the base of her neck, with the scent of her lulling him to sleep. He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing deep and even.

"Michael?"

There was no reply. Nikita put her arm around his broad shoulders, and led him to the darkened room, where she laid him back against the soft bed, his feet still on the floor, one arm flung across his chest. She sighed as she removed his shoes, undid the belt, rolled him over so she could get his jacket off. In sleep, his stoic mask disappeared, his face relaxing into the softness of a child. She had no doubt that sleep was possibly Michael's only remaining refuge from Section and its vultures.

>From the loss of Adam and Elena.

>From her.

She caressed his forehead, smoothing his hair back and leaned over, softly pressing her lips against his.

"Goodnight, Michael."

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

In his dream, he sat on the back porch, while Adam rode a red tricycle, spokes flashing in the bright summer sun.

See me ride, Daddy.

See me ride!

The bed was empty when he awoke, groggy and disoriented.

Whose bed? What mission? Where-

He raised his head, looking around the room, the rosy light of dawn painting the walls with color. The island. Nikita. She'd left a note. Gone jogging. He rolled over and remembered how Adam used to slip into bed in the mornings between him and Elena. Are you a wiggly boy? Michael had teased, his son's tiny warm body snuggling against his back.

God--

How did a parent get beyond such a loss?

He sat up slowly and headed for the shower, realizing his late night encounter with Toril meant that he and Nikita were stuck here together for the next four days with nothing to do. Exactly as Madeleine must have intended when she sent Jackson's team out surreptitiously to do the job she later "assigned" Michael and Nikita.

He'd refused time off so she made sure he had it anyway.

Jesus.

The scenario was so transparent, it was almost laughable. Why then, did he feel nothing but a dull ache? He dragged himself under the water, willing his legs to support him, willing his breath to flow in and out. After awhile he felt better, standing under the steady hot water, the beating stream against his skin blocking all sound, cocooning him in a comforting isolation.

He dressed slowly, then wandered into the hotel cafe. He was surprised to see Toril sitting upright and ordering breakfast. He approached her table, pulled out a chair and sat down, attended to instantly by the discrete hoard of dining room waiters hovering about. "Coffee, please," then, "You're looking rested."

She smiled sunnily, her answer interrupted by the appearance of another waiter carrying a tray full of drinks. "Here you are, Miss."

Toril watched him line them up neatly in front of her: apple, orange, mango, pineapple and tomato--all the vitamins. "Gotta replenish the fluids," she explained, downing one after another while Michael watched, fascinated.

"Hangover?"

She laughed, "'Course not--I'm Norwegian!"

"I see," he replied politely, although he didn't really, and made a mental note to update her file.

She read his face and laughed, "If I live that long, I swear I'll go to AA--scout's honor," and looked around, serious again. "Where's Nikita?"

Michael set down his cup abruptly, the force bouncing his teaspoon onto the tiled floor with a metallic ping. "She went jogging."

Toril averted her eyes, and within seconds, another waiter appeared to replace the lost spoon. As the man fussed over her morose table-mate, Toril studied the Level Five Op surreptitiously, like other Section agents, in awe of his power and beauty, wondering what it was like for the equally gorgeous Nikita to be the center of his world.

But, if his melancholy expression was any indication, all was not smooth on the path of true love.

Too bad--they deserved better.

Well, it was none of her business. She concentrated on her tomato juice. People were so funny. They had a good thing right in front of them, and they insisted on making it complicated.

Go figure.

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

Nikita loved the tropics. She loved the heat, the ocean, the heady smell of flowers in the air. She rounded the corner, heading toward the beach, not noticing the man until she was almost on top of him. "Jackson?"

"Nikita? What are you doing here?" The former SEAL tucked in his shirt hastily and smoothed his unkempt hair.

"Assignment," she replied truthfully.

"Is Michael here, too?"

She was mildly annoyed by the question. So that's how it was, was it? Wherever she went, everyone assumed Michael followed? Just a tad disconcerting in light of her grand scheme to insure they remained Just Friends.

"Yes, he's--are you ok?" She couldn't help staring at the uncharacteristic stubble of beard on his jaw and the wrinkled clothing. Jackson was normally spit-and-polish, Toril was the slob.

He flushed under her scrutiny, "I'm..yeah-I gotta go-see you later."

"Sure." Shaking her head, she jogged toward the sparkling pink sand, concern for Michael soon pushing every other thought away.

Jackson trudged up the stone walkway, cursing his own stupidity, dreading the inevitable meeting with his partner. He'd never just run off without telling her where he was--no doubt she was back in their suite, getting more and more pissed.

He rubbed his jaw, reliving the events of the previous night. He hadn't even slept with the woman, but instead spent the night on the beach, hoping somehow that a certain Section operative was insanely jealous.

Idiot-

He was acting like a complete idiot! And him, so long a military man-he should know better--godd@mmit--it was time to get back to work--quick--before he REALLY made an ass of himself!

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

At 07:30, Michael stirred a little sugar into his fourth cup of coffee. Toril had gone to the weight room. Nikita had not returned from jogging, and for some reason, he was still sitting alone in the same spot.

As a concession to the climate, Michael had discarded his usual black ensemble. Today, he wore the pale colors of the tropics: flowing linen trousers, open-necked, white shirt. He looked like a planter, the way he remembered his grandfather when he was a boy on the family estate.

He still hadn't figured out what to say to Nikita, how to tell her he was sorry.

For lying about Elena and Adam.

For lots of things.

He exhaled, staring at the ring finger of his hand, empty now. What could there be, but distrust between them? After his lies, after Section's manipulations.

He smiled grimly. And now that he knew their "mission" was nothing but a pretense, he had a pretty good idea of what Nikita's orders probably were--exactly what his would have been under the circumstances.

A well-meaning deception, a harmless seduction. He wondered how Madeleine had framed it-- Nikita's chance to console a grieving Michael? Or, even better--Saving Michael from himself.

Part of him wondered if Nikita had resisted, if she'd seen the trap inside Madeleine's strategy. The cynic in him whispered that Nikita was just out for whatever she could get; that now he was free, she cared only for her own needs and desires.

Deception.

Seduction.

Words he understood better than anyone. Words that no matter how well meaning, in Section One, could lead to only one thing-

Betrayal.

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

Nikita jogged by the weight room, stopped, and knocked on the glass. Inside, Toril looked up and waved. Come in, she mouthed, Come in.

Later, they sat on the beach, catching up on the previous few months, Nikita's voice strained as she described the latest mission.

"Married? With a kid? Oh my God, I'm so sorry-"

"Yeah, well you know how it is-"

"No, but I can guess." Toril sighed, "Love is the pits--I'm never letting that happen to me!"

"Poor Jackson"

"Jackson?" Toril sniffed, " What does he have to do with it?"

"Nothing, apparently-"

"God, I hope not-- what a prude! I don't think he's gotten laid since Reagan was in office, although you should've SEEN the broad he left with last night!"

Nikita shook her head. Talk about blind. "Well, what about--?"

"That psycho from Housekeeping? AS IF!"

"Oh yeah, he said she was too tall."

"Oh come on--they're all the same height lying down!"

They giggled together.

"Something funny?"

The women turned. Jackson eyed them suspiciously, a pair of fins in each hand. His partner's face reddened. "Absolutely not," she replied hastily, jumping to her feet. "Ready?"

He turned to Nikita. "Michael's looking for you in the lobby."

"Thanks. See you two later," Nikita murmured, hiding a smile.

Left alone, they scrutinized each other, each waiting for the other to speak. To Jackson's surprise, Toril smiled slyly and pinched his arm. "Hey handsome," she winked, "Gettin' any?"

She watched his relieved expression and laughed.

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

He heard her enter their suite and head for the shower. After a few minutes, he knocked on the door "Nikita-" then stepped into the steam filled bathroom. She was just finishing when she heard him call her name. She waited, the steady drip off the faucet splashing down into the tiled shower stall. She was inside a frosted glass enclosure; he couldn't see her, but she had no doubt he had turned his head away.

Always chivalrous, even when no one was looking.

"I know what's going on, Nikita."

"Pardon?"

"I spoke to Jackson this morning-you can drop the pretense."

She opened the shower door and emerged, towel draped around her willowy form. "I don't know what you mean, Michael."

"Don't lie."

She recoiled for an instant, "You're a fine one lecture me, Michael," then stepped in front of him, forcing herself into his line of sight. "Are we going to talk about what's really going on?"

He focused on her face for the first time, "What is there to say?"

"You've just lost your wife and son, for Christ's sake- don't you think I see what it's doing to you? Why won't you talk to me?"

He pulled away from her, retreating through the living room, up and out onto the patio. She dropped the towel and slipped into a hotel robe, pulling her wet hair out from under the collar, following him out into the sunshine, catching his sleeve with an urgent hand. "I don't think less of you for caring about them, Michael. I don't blame you for what happened-"

He turned his face away. "I should have prepared. I should have done something. How can I live without Adam?"

"But you have to--."

Something stirred in him, and he lashed out, "What do you know about it? What do you know? Five years I've carried this --five years--without being able to tell you--to tell anyone! I had a son, Nikita--I had a son-" his voice was ragged, smooth skin flushed with rage and frustration.

"Oh Michael," she whispered, unable to see, feeling tears sliding in hot trails down her cheeks. Within seconds, his hand was on her shoulder, tugging her gently, and she threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his broad frame. "You can't let them take Adam, Michael. You can't."

She felt him sigh. "What would you have me do, Nikita? You know the consequences."

"I defied Operations and I'm still alive. There has to be a reason--they must have a weakness--"

"It's impossible."

"Michael, I don't believe that. There must be a way!"

He reached up to tuck a lock of errant hair back behind her ear. Nikita, the eternal optimist. "You don't know what you're saying."

Her eyes pleaded with him, "Yes, I do."

His voice was low. "It will be harder than you think. Worse than you imagine."

"I understand, Michael-but I can do it--we can do it."

He stared into her clear, blue eyes. Instead of a protege--a partner. And not just any partner--

Nikita.

Finally ready to accept the weight, to share the burden. He hadn't ever expected to meet anyone he could trust in Section One. With her, he would have an ally; to work in tandem -not to destroy Section One, but to change it--from the inside out, as Operations and Madeleine had done when they assumed control.

As their successors would, when the time came.

After a decade and a half, Michael had learned to mark his time in years, not weeks or months, and he had been waiting for what felt like an eternity. At first, he'd fixed his hopes on Simone, but had never felt the spark from her, the will to overcome and succeed despite impossible odds. But Nikita-she had all of that and more. More, he admitted, even than himself. Her vibrancy wouldn't be contained, even by Section. Again and again, she'd performed in the face of his own deception and betrayal. And now, he had dealt her the greatest blow of all, and instead of wilting, she'd become even stronger.

He had been right about her. She was the one.

He pressed his cheek to hers, his hands waving through her hair, for the first time since losing Adam, tiny beads of purpose beginning to form. "They are already trying to play us against each other," he said slowly, "When we get back--" he pulled away, eyes boring into her face with the sharpness of lasers.

She saw her cue. "You could not be swayed. You were too grief stricken---"

He shook his head. "It will not be enough for them to hear it. They must witness it. They must believe that I cannot be salvaged."

"Michael, they'll put you in abeyance."

"Its better that way. Operations must take the credit. He needs to think he is in control--be careful."

"I'm not afraid. Not for myself-"

His warm hand gripped hers and they stood together in silence.

"I'm sorry, Michael."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Nikita."

She rubbed the tops of his fingers with a gentle thumb. "You know," she began somberly, "You said once that there were things you wanted to tell me but you couldn't--"

His face was troubled. "Yes."

"The truth was worse than I imagined," she swallowed. "I can't pretend it didn't hurt me." Her eyes sought his, "And I can't pretend that I'm not still angry, but I want you to know--we will find a way to get Adam back, Michael, I swear."

Her face wrenched with emotion and she looked away, unconsciously mimicking his own stoic facade. He embraced her tightly, burying his face into the flowing curve of her neck.

I'm the one who is sorry, Nikita.

"No more lies," he promised, inhaling the heady scent of her skin.

Her arms encircled his waist without hesitation.

"No, Michael. No more lies."

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

Jackson opened the door to their suite with its elegant living area and two rooms, his and hers. Although they had no physical resemblance between them, they usually registered as brother and sister when they traveled and didn't share a bedroom.

Man, it was hot. He hadn't realized. Distracted, he pulled off his t-shirt and threw it on the floor. He'd go sit on the balcony, get some air. Toril's stare stopped him. "What?" he asked, defensive.

"Since when did you start taking after me?" She bent over to pick up the shirt. He had flung it under a table, forcing her to crawl on her hands and knees to reach it.

"You?" he chortled, "Going topless? Why didn't I--" then froze at the sight of her rear end bobbing across the floor in form-fitting white shorts. His face reddened at the thoughts flashing through his mind.

She looked up at him from the tile. "No-I meant, it's not like you to throw your stuff around-I'm the one that makes a mess. Damn, it's stuffy in here." She stood and wiped her face and throat with the wadded up garment.

A surge went through him as he watched her rub his shirt against her bare skin. She didn't even notice his discomfiture, just kept on patting herself down, oblivious to the effect it was having on him. He cleared his throat. His partner looked up quizzically. In a horrible moment of silence that seemed to stretch on forever he began to panic.

What should he do? What should he say?

He blurted out the first thing that came into his mind--

"Get down and give me fifty!"

Her jaw dropped in astonishment. Then, she shook herself and rallied. "One-handed," she challenged, "Twenty bucks--"

In unison, they hit the deck and began.

One.

Two.

Three.

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

The terrace was deserted save for the tables and moonlight.

The sat and ordered coffee, lulled by the hot tropical breezes and soothing waves. It felt good to sit together, his hand resting on top of hers. Like old friends. Like maybe something more-

Suddenly, Nikita's fingers flew up to her cheek. "My earring!"

They both glanced around them.

"Maybe it rolled under the table. I'll get it." She leaned down, then realized the linen tablecloth blocked her vision of the floor. Cursing the bad luck-they were her favorite earrings, she slid out of her chair onto her knees and began feeling around in the dark under the table. "Do you see it?" she asked.

At that moment, unnoticed by either of them, Jackson and Toril stepped onto the terrace, having been directed by a helpful concierge.

The first thing they heard, was Michael say intently, "A little to the right, Nikita"

Then, they saw the Level Five operative, seated in a chair, with Nikita on her knees, in front of him under the table.

"Jesus Christ!" Toril blanched. She shrank back against Jackson, causing him to slam into her and almost trip.

"What the---? Oh sh!t," he cursed silently, covering her mouth and yanking her against his chest. "Don't say a word," he hissed. She shook her head violently. As if she would even think of interrupting!

They backed away slowly, finally reaching the lobby.

"I need a drink," she stammered.

He started to laugh. "By God, you little lush---I'll buy you one!"

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

Later, as they sat side by side in the bar. "So--"

"Mmmf?" She replied absently, admiring a handsome young bartender across the room.

"Would you ever, er, you know---to me---in a public place?"

She turned and eyed him speculatively, pursing her lips. "Would you ever let me shoot that modified Remington you got in Malta?"

"Are you KIDDING?" he barked, "That gun belonged to General Patton!"

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

Michael lay back in the wide bed, propped up by half a dozen pillows, watching Nikita brush out her pale hair. There was a gracefulness about her that he would not have expected--she of the boundless energy and childlike exuberance. They had said nothing to each other for an hour; in silence they went about their nightly ablutions, gliding around the room like swans in a strange, perfect symmetry.

Finally, he had retired to the bed, feeling the cool, crisp sheets wrap around his legs, shadows falling across the room in alternating patterns of dark and light. Still Nikita stood, her body silhouetted against the open doorway, drawing the brush down in slow, methodical strokes. The night breeze was warm and scented, lifting the ends of her hair as she worked.

Finished at last, she turned to face him, her expression a whisper in the night. Wordlessly, he held back the covers, his eyes meeting hers in a quiet, unspoken understanding.

She slipped under the sheet beside him, and it was like he had always known it would be.

A familiar but half-forgotten dream-

He wrapped his arms around her slender form, his breath soft against her skin, his gentle hands caressing the curves of her face.

Slowly, he kissed her cheek.

And together, they drifted away into the untroubled realm of sleep.

The End

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