It all started innocuously enough. Operations wanted to bring down Ben "The Axe" Forrester. Forrester was noted to be a heavy drinker who frequented some of the less savory parts of the city. Michael and Nikita were assigned to the mission. It didn't seem particularly complicated. But it got that way.

Michael patted Nikita on the shoulder. "Traveling light this time, no inventory except handguns."

She smiled, curiously looking forward to spending the evening with Michael, even if it was in a dive near the waterfront. "Been a while since we've been out together, Michael." She bit her lip, watching for his reaction to her statement. It wasn't long in coming.

"I wouldn't call this a date, Nikita." If it hadn't been for the way he lovingly drawled her name in his accented voice, she would have thought he no longer cared. But he was just being careful. At least, that's what she told herself. As usual.

Sighing, she pushed her handgun into the waistband of her pants where she could reach it quickly. She was wearing suede, from boots to pants to fringed vest. She knew she looked funkier than usual, but she was tired of the same old thing. Always dressed in careful black elegance.

She had plans. She had no intention of really getting drunk. She knew how to fake it, perhaps better than anyone, given her eccentric childhood and adolescence. But it would be interesting to see how revealing Michael could be, if he weren't under control. Michael under the influence. Now there was something that would probably be worth seeing.

Fanning herself, she knew her face was hot with color. Luckily for her, Michael hadn't guessed she was thinking about him. He was oblivious. As usual.

But things did not go as usual.

Michael stopped just outside the bar. "The Axe" was reported to be inside, already drinking heavily. It was up to them to make contact, any way they chose, and bring him into Section. He glanced at Nikita. She seemed unusually quiet and aloof tonight. He wondered why. Oh, well, he didn't pretend to understand her.

"Here's the rundown. One of us stays sober. One of us drinks with Forrester. You choose, Nikita." His changeable gray-green eyes flicked over her, making her feel as though she were being studied for posterity. Now *there* was a romantic thought.

"I'll drink, Michael. You stay sober. You're so good at staying in control, anyway." Her underlying sarcasm was not lost on Michael. Ah, she was not being aloof, she was annoyed by something he said. Or did. Or both. Well, that was hardly unusual.

He blinked, his impassive stare reflecting back Nikita's biting tone. "You might try it yourself some time," he said coolly. Her eyelids fluttered down softly and slowly, concealing her bright blue eyes for a moment. So now he thought she was chasing him. Well, she would see what she could do to put a kink in his step.

They strolled inside, Michael with his arm loosely around Nikita's shoulder, Nikita seething inwardly at his presumption. She heard female laughter, followed by a throaty roar like a wounded bull. It was Forrester. He was cute, if you liked burly, bearded men who looked like lumberjacks. Her taste in men ran to something more refined, but then again, when she thought about it, she had more luck than brains in that department, and precious little of that.

She leaned back against the bar, her long, wheat-blonde hair trailing over the counter when she arched her head back. Michael glanced at her. They were supposed to play it any way they could, but he assumed they would keep a relatively low profile. He assumed wrong. He should never have tried to play with Nikita's feelings like that. She was about to make him very sorry.

The bartender was one of them. An operative from Section One. He liked Nikita's looks. She whispered in his ear, and he agreed to play a little trick on Michael for her. It was so easy. So damn easy.

She opened up her vest, revealing a low-cut, abdomen-revealing spandex top which clung to every curve. To say she felt the stares of every man in the room would be an understatement. She lifted her drink, which was supposedly alcoholic, but in fact was not, and toasted everyone. Every man in the room watched the liquid move slowly down her throat as she swallowed. Ah, that hit the spot.

Michael frowned. "What are you doing, Kita?" he whispered.

"My job. Why, what are you doing, Michael?" she whispered back, an ingratiating smile plastered across her face.

He didn't answer. He lifted his own glass and drained it in one gulp. Unbeknownst to him, his drink was alcoholic, thanks to Nikita's arrangement with the operative behind the bar. Three drinks later, he was decidedly unsteady. Nikita's smile broadened. Any time now, Michael would be flat on his face and completely out of control. She wanted to see that so badly, she could taste it.

Nikita was starting to feel strangely exhilarated. At first, she attributed it to her natural enthusiasm and exuberant personality, but then, she realized that something was wrong. She hiccuped and glanced down at her glass, which was once again empty. It *was* good to the last drop. It tasted like more.

But when she turned to the bartender to order another drink, he had disappeared. So had Forrester. What was going on? She felt tipsy, even disinhibited, but not drunk. How could this happen? She arranged with the bartender to ply Michael with alcohol, not her.

Michael smirked to himself, as he drained his glass one more time. Did Nikita think she could fool him so easily? Really. That trick was already old when he first used it. Still, he felt a curious tingle all over his body. He didn't think he was drunk, just a bit, what was the word, tipsy. But how could that happen? He had arranged with the bartender to ply Nikita with alcohol, not him.

Truth was, they were both outfoxed by an older operative with a hidden agenda. Not a mean person, no. Just someone with, you should pardon the expression, an axe to grind. Someone who thought to render them uninhibited enough to be funny and revealing, but not totally incapable of thought or feeling. Someone who was close enough to watch what was going on…

Nikita leaned back on the bar and studied Michael from beneath her lashes. Why did he have to be so cool to her? She pouted, unwittingly drawing attention to her full lower lip. Michael swayed unsteadily on his feet for a second, but caught himself. He stared at her mouth, and Nikita swore she could feel him touching her. She dropped her eyes, which she knew revealed way too much, and he cupped her chin, tilting her face up to the light. She shifted away from him, and he reluctantly let her go.

The operative in the shadows continued to watch, pleased by what he saw as a beginning, frustrated by Nikita's pulling away from Michael. Oh, well…time for a little more intervention, perhaps.

Why was she always pulling away from him? He wanted her, not that he would ever admit it, even to himself. Yet in that curiously paradoxical way men often have, he expected her to read his mind and act on the feelings he didn't show.

He leaned on his elbow on the bar, staring into his empty glass, looking almost forlorn. If there was one thing Nikita couldn't stand, it was when Michael looked hurt. It was her weakness. She looked the other way, but ran her fingertips lightly up and down his arm. He grabbed her wrist suddenly, stilling her fingers, and she turned to face him, startled, eyes wide.

"Why are you touching me?" he whispered.

"Don't you like it?" she asked, unable to maintain the cool facade she had been building against him. Using her other hand, she flicked her fingernails over his skin, resting them in the crook of his neck.

"Yes," he answered, suddenly unable to evade her question.

She touched his mouth then, her fingers tracing the outline of his lips, slowly and tantalizingly, until he closed his eyes. "Don't," she whispered.

"What?" he asked, opening his eyes, which were a bright green, vivid against his face.

"Don't close your eyes, I want to see them."

He nibbled on her fingers, gently at first, then gradually taking them, one at a time, into his mouth. She gasped softly. "Please…"

He regarded her almost sleepily, but the lambent fire in his eyes never dampened. His arms slid around her waist, almost involuntarily, trembling when they met her bare skin. He felt the handgrip of her gun and it brought him back to himself.

Suddenly strangely sober, he released her, and she felt bereft without his touch. She trailed a hand down the front of his shirt, and he stopped her, sighing. "No, Kita. We can't."

Tears sparkling like diamonds in her eyes, she shook her head. "Why, Michael?"

He couldn't answer her. "I can't allow you to become my weakness, Kita."

She grasped his hand and pressed it to her face. This time he didn't pull away. "I already am, Michael. We both know that."

"We're working, Kita. We're under surveillance right now."

She groaned, kissing his hand, then pressing it to the hollow of her neck, then pushing it lower and lower, towards her chest. "Do you think anyone cares what we do, Michael?"

"I care." He said, startled to realize it was the truth.

"Ohhh…I see. I'm good enough to take to bed once or twice, but not good enough to compare with the Merry Wives of Michael. Who were all pretty, petite, and brunette. There must be a lesson in there for me somewhere."

She pushed his hand back at him, pulling her vest closed, as if she were suddenly chilled to the bone. "I dunno why I keep trying to get through to you, Michael. I never learn."

"Kita, keep your voice down," he hissed.

"Why? Afraid someone might hear what a first-class bastard you are? Do you know how many tears I've cried over you?" She turned away, almost falling over in her attempt to move quickly.

Michael felt his heart clench like someone had plowed their fist into his chest. Was he still standing? Was he even breathing?

"That's the drink talking, Kita. Not you."

"What makes you think so? Cause you didn't hear anything you wanted to hear?"

She swung away from him suddenly, tears blinding her, and she staggered to the door, searching for the way out. A huge hand grabbed her then, forcing her to turn around. His fingertips were imprinting themselves on her upper arm. She was sure to have bruises in the morning. A tear dropped from her eye to the huge hand. Forrester released her. "You okay, honey?"

She nodded, vaguely aware that she had succeeded in making contact with the target.

He smiled drunkenly. "I saw your boyfriend was upsetting you."

"He's not my boyfriend." She worked feverishly to clear her head of the drink.

"Oh?" The lumberjack man looked happy to hear that. Nikita sighed. Thank God she only had to get him outside and into the van. If she had to go home with him, she might have run screaming into the night.

Michael watched Nikita from his position at the bar, wondering why she was able to pierce his emotional armor every single damn time. It irritated him. But more than that, she made him want things he had no business wanting. It wasn't just a physical ache anymore, it was more. He hated that. But he didn't hate her. He could never hate her.

Nikita swiped at her face with one hand, smearing her eye make-up. Still, she had never looked more desirable to Michael. He walked unsteadily towards her and the target. He didn't like the look of the man's huge hand on Nikita's arm. He didn't want anyone touching her but him. He was, much as it took him by surprise, jealous.

That was probably a dangerous feeling to have during a mission. But suddenly Michael didn't care about the mission. The target was in sight, the mission was nearly over, and his mind was already on what lay ahead. He was going to possess Nikita tonight, if it killed him. And in the mood she was in, it very well might.

Nikita grimaced at the target. "Please, I don't like being manhandled."

Michael stood between her and the target. "Perhaps you didn't hear the lady. She doesn't want your hand on her arm." Michael spoke softly, but he was carrying more firepower than he needed.

Forrester laughed heartily. "Hey, Shorty, what are you gonna do about it?"

Michael reached out and twisted the man's entire arm into a comealong hold behind his back. "You were saying?"

Nikita sniffled as the man was led away to the waiting mission van. When he had been safely delivered to the van, Michael managed to make his way unsteadily back to Nikita. She was still standing in the same spot. "We hitching a ride back to Section in the van?"

Michael nodded. "Neither one of us is in any shape to drive."

She sighed. "Okay then." She absently rubbed the spot on her arm where Forrester had grabbed her. It hurt like hell. It was bright red. Michael stared at it, transfixed. "He hurt you?"

Nikita nodded silently. Michael leaned over, almost losing his balance in the process, and kissed the place where she was bruised. His lips, far from soothing her, ignited something within. She burned where he touched her. She couldn't thank him. She wished he wouldn't do that. He blew hot and cold, and it confused the hell out of her.

Walter suddenly appeared in front of them. Where on earth had he been hiding? And since when? What was he doing here anyway? These were all very valid questions. Now if only there were valid answers.

Michael frowned. "Where were you?"

Walter shifted uneasily beneath Michael's gaze. It was one thing to plan something like he had, for the two operatives, who didn't seem to realize they were meant to be together, and quite another, to confront the angrier half of that team face-to-face. He didn't care who knew it, Michael intimidated him. Sometimes with a look. Sometimes with a tone. This time it was both.

"Well, you were probably wondering how it happened that you both got drunk." He grinned anxiously. "Well, that's a funny story. Remind me to tell you sometime when you guys are sober enough to hear it. Bye now."

Michael grabbed the older man by the back of his shirt, and they both heard the material rip slightly. "You're mad, and I respect that, Michael, I do. But I gotta say, in my own defense, I only had your best interests at heart. Yours and Sugar's. You two need to get down a bit and party a little. You're so…straight. Both of you. God, it's depressing."

Michael looked at Nikita. "What do you think we should do with him, Kita?"

Nikita shrugged. "Make him ride in the back of the van with us? All the way back to Section?"

Michael's eyes narrowed. "Yes, perhaps that would be best. Once we have the target secured."

Nikita nodded. They walked Walter back to the van in lockstep, and he grudgingly entered through the back door. Michael walked over to the target, who was still eyeing Nikita lasciviously. "I thought I told you to stop that, Axe."

Forrester glared at Michael. "Whatcha gonna do to me now?"

Michael backhanded the man into oblivion. No more Mr. Nice Guy. End of problem. Unconscious was always an option for the more recalcitrant types.

Walter nervously sat between the two operatives. He looked from one to the other, not much caring for the looks he was receiving from either one. "Maybe I could go sit up front with the driver."

Nikita glared at him. "Nope, don't think so, Walter."

Michael looked darkly at Walter. "Do you know how you made both of us feel? Playing with real people's emotions is a really bad idea."

"I think I got that part, Michael. Now can I go sit up front? Please don't make me stay back here with you. I'm an old man, have pity."

Michael rolled his eyes. "I suppose. But I hope you learned your lesson."

Walter nodded excitedly. "Oh, yeah, yeah, absolutely, whatever you say, Michael."

Walter bolted through the door into the front compartment and locked it. He was evidently afraid of Michael coming after him.

Michael sighed. "Imagine, Walter thinking he could get away with that kind of thing."

Nikita nodded. "Imagine," she echoed, mesmerized by Michael's mouth.

Michael shook his head. "No, Kita, we can't."

Nikita sniffled. "Please…?"

Michael made sure the target was still unconscious, feeling for a pulse. His pulse was strong and slow. Good. Michael checked the handcuffs on the giant of a man. He didn't want to risk losing the target this close to Section.

Michael sat next to Nikita, facing her. He stared directly into her eyes as his hands rubbed hers gently, sometimes barely touching at all, then gradually kneading and massaging the skin in between each finger and knuckle on both hands. It was at once sensual and tender. It was lovemaking without words, without invasive physical contact, yet it was strangely erotic all the same. He kissed her hands, then each finger, his lips warm and moist against her skin.

Meanwhile, Walter was watching the surveillance screen from the front compartment. He began muttering to himself, finally starting to gesture wildly. "Well, of course you two are all messed up! You don't know how to get anything right! What's with this weird stuff, this hand rubbing thing? Is that some kind of foreign technique you picked up somewhere? God, no wonder you people can't get together! I give up!"

Michael splayed both hands against Nikita's and gently pushed her back onto the bench. He pushed her vest apart, exposing her tightly clinging spandex top. He removed her vest, dropping it onto the floor. He pulled her top down, exposing her breasts, each hand cupping one. Nikita lay back, passively, until she felt his lips on her skin. Everywhere he touched her, it burned. Possessively. Like she was wearing his brand.

Walter nearly jumped out of his skin when he rechecked the screen. The couple had dropped below the level of the surveillance screen. "Now where'd they go? Sheesh!"

Michael kissed Nikita, nudging her mouth open with his tongue. He licked the corners of her mouth, then suckled her lower lip until it was swollen. He pressed warm, wet, open-mouthed kisses upon her, drugging her, hypnotizing her, mesmerizing her.

Michael raised his head briefly, meeting Nikita's eyes, which grew inexplicably tender as they lit upon his face. He looked unfocused for a moment, then his entire face softened. He pulled her into his arms, pressing her against his chest as he lay his head on her shoulder. "Don't look at me like that, Kita."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Like you love me," Michael whispered against her ear.

"But I do," she replied helplessly.

He groaned. "Don't tell me that, Kita." He kissed her tenderly on the mouth, his voice mere breath as he mouthed the words she longed to hear. "I love you, too."

Walter hit the side of the surveillance screen. The audio was gone. Now? Either the audio was gone or Michael found a way to switch it off…or they were whispering. "Hey, stop whispering, kids! I got a right to know what's going on!"

Michael laughed softly. "You do realize that Walter is listening to all of this."

Nikita nodded. "What do you think we should do about it?"

Michael replied, almost matter-of-factly, "Give him something to remember a long, long time."

She smiled enigmatically.

Walter was about to give the screen another thump when he abruptly realized that the sound was indeed working. And what an earful he received.

"You mean I don't have to take all my clothes off, Michael?"

"No, you can't get pregnant if you keep your clothes on." Michael hid a smile against Nikita's neck before they continued.

"But what about safe sex?" Nikita snickered.

"What about it?"

Walter hissed at the screen, turning almost purple with apoplexy. "You couldn't be that dumb, Sugar. And you, Michael, you were a Valentine op, for God's sake. You know what a condom is. Use one!"

Nikita felt Michael's chest vibrate against hers, and she knew he was barely controlling his laughter.

"I have a condom," Nikita said innocently. "Does it matter if it has a hole in it? Oops, I stretched it too far, I think it tore, is that important?"

Michael couldn't quite look at Nikita and keep a straight face. "Um, that might make a difference."

Walter stood up and unlocked the door to the back compartment. He threw himself through the door and was stunned to find that both Michael and Nikita were sitting on the bench, fully clothed.

"Is there a problem, Walter?"

Walter turned bright red. "No, no problem. No problem at all." He returned to the front compartment, muttering incoherently.

Michael and Nikita collapsed laughing. "I suppose it was mean to play a trick like that on him," said Nikita.

"He'll get over it," Michael said with a grin.

"Now where were we?"

END