Michael stared straight ahead as Operations droned on about the upcoming mission. He was barely half-listening. His mind was preoccupied with why Nikita had kissed him the other day. She had said something about him being kind. He was not a kind man, and he knew it. "The kindest thing you've ever done for me."

That was the kindest thing he'd ever done for her? Letting her see her mother one last time was kind? It was heart-breakingly sad. He'd wanted to go to her, after her mother had left, and hold her. Nothing more. Just hold her while she cried. Necessary tears. He had given them a chance to forgive each other. Nikita had to heal her past pain before she could move on. Ha! Maybe it was the kindest thing he'd ever done for himself, then. Always looking for a way into Nikita's mind and heart…

All that talk of forgiveness had worried him. He kept wondering if Nikita was referring to him. He was positively sagging under the weight of the guilt he carried. Did she mean that she forgave him as well? Could she even? If she could, maybe there was a chance for them, after all. But that kiss…after months of coldness, indifference, and neutrality…was there still something there between them? On his side, he knew there was. He was deeply hurt that Nikita believed he could have canceled her. After all the times he had protected her, sometimes putting his own life at risk. Not that his life was worth much without her. Sometimes he thought she was the only thing that was keeping him alive. It was a fact that he valued her life more than his own.

"Michael? Are you getting this?" Operations snapped sharply, annoyed at his distracted state this morning.

Michael blinked inscrutably. "Not really, no."

"In my office," Operations commanded. Michael sighed at the inevitability of his life. Some things never changed.

Operations paced back and forth. "What can I do to make life more interesting for you, Michael?"

"Excuse me?" Michael stared at Operations.

"Life just doesn't seem to be holding your interest lately. Perhaps I could help." Operations' voice was deceptively soft, then suddenly grew in intensity. "If you don't start paying attention, you'll find yourself high on the termination rankings in the abeyance pool. If that still isn't clear enough, Michael, there is the obvious option, death."

Mine or yours? Michael said to himself, wryly.

Operations continued. "Now, as I was saying, during the actual briefing, you and Nikita are going to pose as therapists for a phobic drug dealer. He's afraid of airplanes—"

Michael interrupted. "Why does he need two therapists?"

"What??" Operations stared at Michael as if he had quite lost his mind.

"Well, it doesn't seem logical to me, that's all."

"Do you dislike working with Nikita, Michael?" Operations smiled wickedly.

Give me a reason, any reason, and I'll cancel her. Michael could just hear him thinking it. It was Operations' favorite way of keeping Michael in line, and it was getting old. He wondered why Nikita never noticed things like that. Like the sometimes overbearing pressure on him. Did she think it was easy doing what he did? Did she think he didn't want to fling off the cloak of errand boy par excellence? Did she know how many times he had changed profiles, just to avoid manipulating her, lying to her, or otherwise hurting her? Abruptly he realized that Operations was awaiting a response. "No, of course not."

"Well, I'm glad you're pleased with something around here."

"So the two of us are therapists? To heal this drug dealer's fear of flying?"

"Yes, that in a nutshell is the mission, Michael." Operations' sarcasm was wearing thin as well. He wondered if he was just getting too old to do this anymore. He was alone. He had no life, except what he managed to steal from Nikita. He'd asked her to spend the day with him, but she'd rejected him. His heart still hurt from that. But then there was that kiss…

"Do we actually have to cure his fear of flying? Or just take him down?"

"That's pretty funny, Michael. You think you could cure him? Where did you learn to practice psychiatry?"

"I just thought that we could do some good…"

"You want to do good, Michael? Concentrate! You want to cure his fear of flying? Shoot him, then Nikita can drop-kick him out of the plane without a parachute!"

They were both afraid of flying. Michael and Nikita. Neither of them willing to take the risks necessary to be together or to make their relationship work. Michael, because he had been hurt so often and so badly, he was afraid of being rejected by the woman he loved more than his own life. Nikita, because she had been manipulated and lied to so often and so badly, she was afraid of trusting the man she loved more than her own life.

Nikita adjusted her dark glasses. "So, where is the dealer?" They were at the airport, studying airplanes, while they awaited the meet with the dealer. He was late. That was no surprise. He was phobic about flying. He hated airplanes. He'd warned them this might happen.

"On his way." Michael's terse reply left no opening for conversation between them. As usual. Nikita wondered why it was always the same. She would try, albeit briefly and half-heartedly lately, to make an overture, and Michael would reject her. She would withdraw into herself, trying to protect herself from being hurt, and he would ignore her. Where had the feeling gone? The chemistry? On her side, she still cared. Deeply. Her cold front was just that. A front. She didn't know how much more of this she could take. She'd kissed him the other day, impulsively demanding he pay attention to what was important in their lives. It wasn't Section. It was them. Us, she thought, the same us that Michael denied.

Michael felt her eyes on him, studying him, wondering. It was frustrating having to always be in control around her. The last time he had lost control, honestly, was in Lyons. When he'd thought she was dead, when she'd pulled the gun on him, refusing to lower it, even after she knew it was him. Did she think she would actually shoot him? Did she know how much he would welcome that? He tortured himself fairly often by reliving their lovemaking. He sometimes feared he would go mad one day and kiss the life out of her in front of Operations and the entire mission team. Was that the kind of risk they needed to take?

He was glad he was wearing dark glasses. His eyes were entirely too revealing lately. The emotions he kept in check most of the time sometimes seethed beneath the surface, showing only in his eyes. What would she think if he kissed her now? Did she want it too?

Nikita flushed angrily. Michael was so tense. Cool, but tense. She envied him his coolness. She wished she was. But her anger was never far from the surface, and though she regretted hurting him, she didn't regret slapping him. He needed more than that if she was ever going to wake him up to the love that was slipping away from him.

Michael stepped behind Nikita, looking into the distance as a car approached the airport. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she tensed. He felt it, and he immediately backed off. Any overture, she rejected. Any at all.

"Nikita…can't we at least be friends?" Michael asked tentatively.

"Friends?" Nikita gasped. "You and I have never been friends! Lovers once, but friends, never! We can never be friends!" She turned her back on him, not wishing him to see that he had touched a nerve, and a very sensitive one at that.

"Why?" Michael whispered. His breath touched the back of her neck, and she savored it even as she instinctively moved to pull away.

"Don't you know why?" she whispered back.

"I wish I did." He sounded just as haunted as she did. Nikita caught her breath and turned around. Just as the car arrived, and the dealer alit.

The drug dealer they were meeting looked like any other businessman superficially. Except for the fact that he was sweating profusely during a cold spell in April. He took one look at the single-engine Cessna they were about to board, and he immediately began to have an anxiety attack. His breathing already erratic, his face turned pale as he contemplated the plane. Nikita stared at Michael, who made no attempt to move towards the man at all. She assumed control and extended her hand to the dealer, introducing herself at the same time. "I'm Nikita, one of the therapists who will be treating you today. And this is Michael, my colleague." She poked Michael in the ribs, but he merely cleared his throat, then smiled politely.

She all but dragged the dealer onto the plane, without Michael's help, and she began to wonder just what type of game Michael was playing this time. Once the man was settled into a seat, she gave him a paper bag to breathe into, in hopes that he would be able to regain control of his breathing. "Are you feeling any better yet?" she inquired empathetically. The dealer nodded. "A little bit, yes."

"Good," Nikita said, smiling patiently. She took out a spiral notebook and a pen from her handbag and sat across from the dealer. "When did this phobia first appear, do you know?"

"Well…I've always been afraid of heights, but this fear of flying started about two years ago, about the time I started working for Virgilio Valente. Hey, anything I say to you is strictly confidential, right? It can't be admitted in a court of law?"

Nikita smiled. "That's right. Please speak freely here. We are not here to sit in judgment on you. We only want to help you with your problem. Please continue."

The man continued to speak, carefully at first, then more at length, as if he were beginning to trust Nikita. Michael observed Nikita without seeming to, as he usually did. He still didn't understand why a man with a simple problem like a phobia would require two therapists. But since that question had already been asked and answered, he had no intention of trying to find out why they were both assigned to this mission.

He would have sat down next to Nikita, but proximity to her was making him restless. He would have liked to pace, but that was hardly conducive to creating a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere in which to treat a phobic patient. Who was already having an anxiety attack, no less. Never mind that they hadn't even attempted to leave the ground. The man's anxiety level was clearly problematic enough to restrict him from even looking at a plane without severe discomfort.

When Nikita mentioned to the dealer that they might hold a future session in the air, the man began to hyperventilate. Nikita tried to teach him square breathing, a relaxation technique that was extremely helpful with anxiety disorders, but the man was so constricted, it didn't work. Finally, frustrated, Nikita was forced to administer a mild sedative to the dealer, and gratefully, the man fell asleep.

Once he was asleep, Nikita found herself hissing at Michael, "What's the matter with you? I might as well be alone here!" Michael merely stared at her blankly. "You mean you aren't?"

"What does that mean?" Nikita spat out, glancing at the dealer to make sure he couldn't hear them. "I mean, ignoring me is your usual way of dealing with me."

Nikita frowned. "I don't ignore you…well, maybe a little, when you tick me off enough! Like now!"

"Thank you. At least, being ticked off is a reaction of some kind." Michael brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his jacket and crossed his legs, as if he were totally relaxed, when in fact, it was more than obvious he was not.

She didn't realize he had noticed she was ignoring him. It was somewhat embarrassing being caught unaware like that. Still, he had finally noticed. Something. But how dare he be angry with her? She was the one who was repeatedly victimized, not him. She was the one who was lied to, over and over, while Michael excused himself apologetically, almost as an afterthought. Did he know what pain he had caused her over the years? She thought so. She thought that guilt was a large part of what kept them apart. But she wasn't sure how to alleviate that guilt, not unless Michael cooperated and began letting her have some insight into who he was and what drove him.

"I'm not always angry, Michael…" she began. "No," he interrupted, "just most of the time."

"Try to see it from my perspective…" She tried to make him understand how it seemed to her, but he kept pushing her away.

"Why? Have you ever tried to see it from mine?"

"No, Michael, I haven't." She abruptly realized that she spoke the truth. "Why don't you tell me what it feels like, from your point of view?" But the question was too intensely personal, and Michael shook his head, unable to answer without feeling threatened.

"You see the problem? You want me to go first, every time. You want me to tell you what I feel…but you don't want to tell me how you feel." Nikita was just starting to get in touch with her anger, and when she finally exploded, she was afraid they would both get hurt.

"How come it's okay for me to be rejected? But not you?" Nikita whispered harshly.

"Why does either one of us have to be rejected, Nikita?" Michael asked simply. "Answer me that."

"I—I don't know." She stammered out. Before she could say anything more, though, the dealer awoke from his forced slumber, rubbing his eyes.

Michael sighed in complete frustration. Nikita, strange as it seemed, welcomed the respite from the emotionally draining conversation. She resumed her stance as therapist, as if the strained interlude between her and Michael had never happened, and Michael began to wonder if he had actually imagined it.

Operations asked Michael what the status of the mission was. Michael was glad to be able to answer that the dealer had given up Virgilio Valente's name as his contact.

"Good," Operations snapped. "So we are beginning to access the next level."

Michael smiled faintly. "Ah, yes, Section should be able to generate enough anxiety to make the dealer give up Valente. His phobia is unbelievably severe, and not relieved by the usual methods."

"Then Nikita is credible as his therapist?"

"Definitely." And as mine, she needs to improve her bedside manner. She sometimes pushes my buttons so hard, I can't answer her, even when I want to. I don't even know if she realizes she's doing it.

Operations smiled coldly. "Good. There's hope for her yet."

Michael took over the following session, which took place in the same plane. "You see how much you've improved so far? You're able to sit on the plane, on the ground, without panicking."

The dealer giggled nervously. "Well, 10 mg of Valium didn't hurt."

"Really? You don't seem that sedated to me."

The dealer, a short man named Joey Brunelli, laughed. "You should see what I would be like if I wasn't on major drugs."

"Then you use drugs regularly?" He pretended to note this on his pad. Nikita sat at his side, acting as observer this time. "Not regularly, no. But a lot. When I'm anxious."

"We think you're ready for the next step, Mr. Brunelli."

"What's that?"

"We build a hierarchy of all the things that cause you to have anxiety. We start with the bottom, where you're more comfortable, and we gradually move towards the top. What's at the top usually seems much more frightening to us than what's at the bottom. But by the time you work your way up there, you'll be desensitized. Hopefully." He smiled briefly at the older man. Desensitization therapy did indeed use a hierarchy to move the subject from a point of low anxiety to a point of high anxiety, gradually conditioning him to accept more and more anxiety at a relatively low rate. The object was to desensitize the man's reaction to the stimulus, in this case, flying.

He folded the page back. He wished it was that easy with Nikita. As much as he cared about her, she was not always an easy person to talk to. Or was it that what he wanted to say was so hard, he couldn't say it? He wasn't sure if they weren't both right.

As the dealer progressed in his desensitization therapy, he eventually reached the point of being able to tolerate short periods of time in the air. The last step in his particular hierarchy was to be able to sustain a short plane ride. That wasn't exactly what Section had in mind, however. Michael knew the profile would bother Nikita, so he didn't bring her completely into the picture vis a vis the intel. Section had every intention of exploiting the dealer's phobia and forcing him to give up the rest of his connection to Virgilio Valente. It would happen today, one way or another. If they had to break the man by compelling him into a panic state, well…that was Section's way. Michael sighed. It had become his way, too.

Unbeknownst to Michael, however, there was further intel. Intel he might have paid dearly to know about before the plane took off. He glanced at Nikita. There had been no break in that cold front since their last session with Brunelli. Michael settled into his seat and faced Brunelli. "As you see, we're going to go up and take a short ride. You've done so well, we don't anticipate a problem. How do you feel so far?"

Brunelli looked cautiously out the window and saw the wing of the plane. "You think I'm ready for this?" His heart rate started to accelerate rapidly. Nikita stared blankly at Michael, seemingly totally disinterested in the outcome of the mission. What she was really thinking was why two people who so obviously cared about each other could not find it in themselves to be together. There was absolutely nothing standing in their way. No hidden agendas. No hidden wives.

There was no reason for either of them to be unhappy any longer. So why were they so far apart? Nikita bit her lip. It wasn't that they didn't care. They did. But Michael couldn't stand not being in control, and being in love meant that control was the first thing surrendered. It meant being vulnerable to another person, and that too was something Michael disliked. It meant that Michael would have to open up far more than he was willing to now. And frankly, it looked like there was a better chance of Hell freezing over than Michael admitting his feelings.

When the plane suddenly dipped a wing, then righted itself, Michael frowned. Was there a storm outside? No, the weather forecast had been fine. The dealer looked anxiously at Michael and Nikita. Nikita shrugged. "Nothing to worry about, I'm sure. The pilot knows what he's doing, and we're not expecting bad weather."

But the plane began to behave erratically, and the dips and slumps grew worse, as if some crucial part had been sheared off mysteriously. Michael wondered if this was merely Section's way of guaranteeing that Brunelli would talk. It was definitely having the desired effect. Brunelli was beginning to sweat alarmingly already.

The pilot suddenly appeared in the doorway to the cockpit, clutching his chest. He said, "I think I'm having a heart attack…," then slumped to the floor. Nikita ran to the man's side, and turned back to Michael, fear written across her face. "Michael, he's dead."

Michael's eyes grew wide. This was an interesting turn of events, wasn't it? No pilot…no one flying the plane. He faced Brunelli, who had gone frighteningly pale. "Um, is this part of the treatment?"

Both Michael and Nikita shouted, "No!" together. Nikita looked puzzled as she stared at the pilot for a long moment. Then she reacted with characteristic sang-froid. "Michael, did you know the pilot was an abeyance op?"

Michael stood up and unbuttoned his jacket, grabbing his gun almost instinctively. Nikita snorted. "I dunno who you think you're gonna shoot with that. The pilot is already dead."

Michael turned and pointed the gun at Brunelli. "Okay, what's your story?" Brunelli looked ready to swoon and smacked his lips nervously. "What—What do you mean?"

"I suggest you tell us what's really going on." Michael directed, waving the gun in Brunelli's face. Brunelli put both hands up and wailed, "Okay, okay…so I work for Section, too…"

Nikita jumped up and stood next to Michael. "And?" He glanced anxiously between the two of them. "And…this was a test."

Nikita flushed. No wonder things had seemed so odd from the beginning. Another test from Section. What a surprise. "What was it a test of?"

"I don't know." Michael poked the man with his gun, and Brunelli jumped back. "I'm serious, I don't know. Only that Operations said he put you two into abeyance."

Nikita's mouth fell open. "After the way my performance has improved this year?" Michael holstered his gun and sat, his head in his hands. "Mine has gone downhill." Brunelli nodded, his head bouncing up and down, like a ping pong ball on a paddle. "He mentioned that. Your job performance was…um…mediocre."

Michael glared at Brunelli. "And why would he tell you this?"

Nikita pushed Michael back with one hand. "Tell me something, Brunelli, what exactly do you do for Section?"

"I thought you'd never ask. I'm a therapist."

She regarded the man sweating in front of her with a casualness she was far from feeling. "What kind?"

"Psychologist. Hey, I've seen people like you two before. You love each other, but you can't talk about your real feelings. It's like neither one of you wants to be the first one to make a move. You know what happens to people like you? They die unhappy."

Nikita looked behind her at the dead pilot. "Well, I'd say, we're all gonna be dead in a matter of minutes, if someone doesn't start flying this plane."

Brunelli didn't seem worried, and that fact immediately raised an alarm in Michael's mind. He looked at Nikita and wondered if she realized what he had. Brunelli jumped out of his seat suddenly and moved to the door of the plane. Nikita said, "What the heck are you doing?" Brunelli took off his jacket, revealing a small but intact parachute. "I'm going to live. I'm going to jump!"

Before Nikita could say another word, the man exited the plane, through the door, and all she could do was stare down at the ground and watch as his parachute opened. "Michael, we're gonna die!" She looked at Michael, her heart in her eyes, daring him to say something, anything remotely reassuring. Predictably, he didn't.

He shrugged. "At least, we'll go together."

"Michael, you may want to die, but I don't! Do something! Please!"

He sighed and walked towards her to a slow count of ten. "What? You want me to protect you, Kita? Like I always do? You said there was no point. You said you can take care of yourself. So do it…take care of it. Yourself."

He walked around her then, and went into the cockpit. She stood there, staring after him, then followed him, racing into the cockpit. "Michael! What kind of new game is this?"

He looked at her, genuine sorrow in his eyes. "No game, Kita. We're going to crash in about…" He looked at his watch. "Ten minutes. Got any last minute requests?"

"No! I mean, yes!" Nikita looked startled, then confused.

"You said you were going to be less predictable. Is that part of it?"

She slapped Michael, hard, across the face. He stared at her, hurt in his eyes, as his flesh turned red where her hand struck him. "Did that make you feel better, Kita? You can do it again, if it does."

"No! You'd like that, wouldn't you, Michael? Pain is the only thing you react to. Love certainly doesn't do it for you."

"I wouldn't know. I've had plenty of pain…and I haven't seen much love…"

Nikita glared at him angrily, rage contorting her face. "You bastard! We've got minutes to live, and you still can't admit that you love me! Well, go to Hell!"

"I've been there…" Michael's mouth grew tight, but his expression didn't change appreciably.

Nikita flew at him, trying to provoke some reaction. "Do you want to die?"

"Yes…sometimes I think I do."

"Do you want me to die, too?"

Michael frowned, obviously conflicted by the question. Even if he couldn't answer it honestly, the words that came to mind immediately were negative. He shook his head.

"Well, I will, Michael. I hope you're bloody happy!" She sank down in the seat next to him, starting to cry finally. "I love you, dammit! And I don't even know why, every other word out of your mouth is a damned lie! I don't trust you! Sometimes you hurt me, sometimes you ignore me…and sometimes, like now, you just break my heart." She clutched the arms of the leather seat and slumped forward, her hair covering her face.

Michael blinked. "You love me?"

She looked up, her face curiously empty. "I've always loved you, Michael, and you've always known. That's what's so sad. You've used my feelings for you, time and time again."

"Section…has…"

"Same thing to me, Michael. You are Section. The two are inseparable in my mind. You've given me no reason to think otherwise."

He turned away from her, tears blurring his vision. He leaned forward and activated the autopilot. She stared at him. "You know how to fly this plane?"

He nodded sadly, his face a mirror of hers, reflecting the way Section had abused them yet one more time. "Yes," he said tersely, unable to say another word for the pain that choked his throat.

"Was this all an elaborate ruse? No, even you wouldn't be able to pull something like that off." She swallowed. "Would you?"

"Are you asking me if I arranged this test?"

"Well, did you?"

He half-smiled. "I see. Very good, Kita. Answering a question with another question. You've adapted to Section better than you think."

"I don't want to adapt, Michael. I've had it!" She pulled out her gun and inserted the clip, snapping it in with an audible click. She pointed the gun at Michael, tearfully demanding that he land the plane. Now.

"You think Section will let you go just like that?"

"No, I think you will." She nudged his shoulder with the gun. "I'm serious, Michael. Either you land this plane now, or I will shoot you and end both our lives."

He turned to her, his face etched with pain. "I'll land the plane, Kita. Please, put the gun away."

"I'm going to walk away from you, Michael. Just like you want me to. And you're going to let me. Just like I want you to." Nevertheless, Nikita's eyes burned with tears that ran carelessly across her cheeks.

She clutched the gun, her hands shaking, and Michael easily disarmed her with one flick of his wrist. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. He dropped the gun on the floor. Leaning over, he pushed the heavy swath of hair out of her face. "Kita…I'm not worth this much pain."

"That's my decision, Michael, not yours. And it doesn't matter what you say or do. I will always love you. There is nothing you can do about it. You will always know it. It will always be true. You can banish me, but you can't escape the fact that I love you."

He sighed, accepting the inevitable. "And what do you think I should do about that?"

"I wish that just once, you could tell me how you feel."

"I've always had a fear of flying, Kita, did you know that?" Nikita looked shocked. "How-How could you? You're flying the plane now!"

"Because I knew your life depended on it, Kita. I haven't flown since Simone…died."

"Then—?"

He leaned forward, kissing her with all the unspoken, but finally undenied, love in his heart. "I've overcome my fear of flying, Kita. And so have you. We belong together." He fondled her cheek, running his thumb along her hairline slowly, tenderly. "I love you."

END