By Genevieve and JayBee

Part One

Twelve Days

Nikita glared at the calendar on the kitchen wall. No matter how much she scowled, sadly, the date remained December 13 - twelve days until Christmas.

Great. Just great. She�d just returned from a four-day stint in Dubrovnik, and was due to leave for Hanoi in the morning. It was a cold op � mainly surveillance � and god only knew how long she�d be stuck there. Tra la la la fa bloody la la, she thought sourly.

Dropping her keys onto the kitchen bench, she looked down and sighed. No wonder I�m not in a festive mood. It�s hard to feel like decking the halls when there�s gunpowder under your fingernails and someone else�s blood on your jacket.

Kicking off her boots, she headed upstairs, stripping off her dusty mission blacks as she went, leaving a scattered trail of clothing behind her. She didn�t particularly care about being house-proud tonight. To be honest, she didn�t care about anything much, not with Michael stationed in Prague for another two days.

A hot shower helped revive her wilting spirits somewhat, but a stiff vodka rocks was even more help. Dressed in makeshift pyjamas - tatty sweatpants and an old sweater, an outfit that screamed �I am definitely not expecting my lover tonight� - she wandered across to the stereo. With background music provided by one of Michael�s forgotten classical CDs, she headed for the couch armed with a notepad and pen.

Five minutes later, she was still staring at a white, blank page. She chewed the end of the pen, suddenly feeling a little empty.

�Why do I do this to myself every year?� she exclaimed to the empty room, tossing the pen and notepad onto the coffee table. �Another Christmas, another New Year, another goddamn year,� she mumbled, bitterness tightening her throat. As if making a Christmas list and thinking about cooking and buying a tree would change anything. As if on December 26th she wouldn�t still be stuck in the hellhole otherwise known as Section One.

My fifth posthumous Christmas�my, how time flies when you�re having fun.

Tossing back the dregs of her drink, she debated the pros and cons of a second. It didn�t take much vodka to give her a hangover, and she did have a six a.m. briefing. She pictured Operations� reaction if she was to be anything less than bright eyed and bushy tailed at the briefing, then grinned. �What the hell,� she said under her breath. �It�s a long flight to Hanoi. I can sleep on the plane.� Rising from the couch, she sauntered into the kitchen and poured herself a double.

Sipping her drink, she walked back to the couch, back to the wretched �to do� list. Taking another sip, she frowned at the blank notepad. Should I even bother? I probably won�t even be here. And if she were home on Christmas Day, all she really wanted was to spend the day with Michael. She didn�t care about presents or Christmas trees.

Polishing off her drink, she stretched out on the couch, hugging one of the large sofa cushions. The vodka � lovely but deadly stuff she�d brought back from Poland last year � was already making its presence felt. She was pleasantly weary and warm all over. After four days of sleeping on a camp bed, the couch was heavenly.

Don�t fall asleep on the couch, nagged the little voice of common sense in her head, but her body had no intention of moving. She was so tired. She would just close her eyes for a minute, then go up to bed.

~*~*~*~

It took a while for the soft bleating of the phone to sink into her sleep-addled brain. Nikita forced open gritty eyes, momentarily confused by the fact she was lying on the couch, every light in the apartment blazing.

Her phone was on the coffee table. Without sitting up, she flung out one hand to grab it, almost knocking it off the table in the process. Finally, she managed to answer the damn thing. �Yep?�

�Josephine.�

Nikita blinked at the sound of Madeline�s voice. Why on earth was Madeline calling her in the middle of the night? �Yes?� It was hard to sound cheery through a cotton wool mouth, but she gave it her best shot.

�I believe you�re late for your briefing.�

Nikita sat bolt upright, a very unwise move. Her head swimming, she peered at her watch. It was 6:15 a.m. Muttering a very bad word under her breath, she sprang up from the couch. �I�m sorry, I wasn�t feeling well last night,� she invented quickly, shoving her feet into her boots, still half-asleep. �I took quite a bit of cold medication.� Well, vodka could be medicinal, she mused, fighting the hysterical urge to laugh in Madeline�s ear.

�Perhaps you�d care to join us as soon as possible?� Madeline sounded as though she�d heard every excuse there was, and Nikita�s was decidedly lacking. �As you�re the lead operative on this mission, Operations has been forced to push back the briefing until your arrival.�

Shit, shit, shit. �I�ll be there in twenty.� She stared at the trail of black clothing on the living room floor. Where the hell is my jacket?

�I�d make it fifteen, if I were you,� Madeline suggested casually. �Operations was rather displeased.�

At the sound of the dial tone, Nikita flipped the phone shut and looked down. She was wearing her pyjamas, no socks, and her boots. Nice look if she was going undercover as a baglady, not so good for discreet surveillance.

Giving herself a mental shake, she set about breaking the all time record for dressing and getting out her front door. As she turned to pull the door shut she caught sight of the blank notepad still sitting on the coffee table and felt an odd sense of relief. Christmas planning could wait until another night. The way she was feeling at the moment, she�d rather face a displeased Operations than spend the night pretending she had a normal life.

Eleven Days

When a loud clomping echoed across Section's main floor, Birkoff looked up from his work in surprise. At 6:30 in the morning, no one ought to have that kind of energy, at least not without the assistance of copious amounts of caffeine. He glanced curiously around the room, cringing inwardly as he spotted the source of the noise: Nikita, taking long, swift strides in her mission-black boots, blonde hair bouncing to and fro as she walked. Her brisk movement would have seemed confident but for the expression of nervous anticipation that twisted her features, and the flushed redness in her face that bespoke of having literally run to Section.

Oh, God, poor Nikita.

He knew where she was going -- and he knew exactly why she looked like she was hurrying toward her own beheading. Operations' hoarse shouts to Madeline earlier that morning had made the situation horribly obvious to everyone within earshot. Since then, the man had been pacing steadily back and forth beside the briefing table, anger billowing out from him like waves of hot air from a blast furnace. As he glowered, the row of operatives seated attentively before him slowly wilted, their posture weakening more and more with each passing minute.

As Nikita's path neared Comm, Birkoff gazed at her sympathetically. Normally, she would have given him at least a wink or a smile as she passed; this time, she didn't even glance in his direction.

Yikes. Just the thought of the scathing dressing-down she was about to get made him want to hide. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to know about it, didn't want to think about it. So he frowned, concentrated on his monitor, and put the rest of the room out of his mind. Nikita could handle herself, anyway. And he had a systems scan to run that couldn't wait any longer.

He licked his dry lips and began typing, focusing his attention on the text appearing on the screen. In the background, he could hear Operations' voice: a low growl, punctuated with occasional sharpness. More faintly, he heard Nikita reply, her tone conciliatory, but her words inaudible. Eventually, even the voices faded away, lost in the general din of morning activity as more and more operatives arrived to start their workday.

He began to relax, breathing more easily. No one was getting throttled over there, after all. Nikita had been stupid, and she got yelled at. That was it. No big deal. He made a face, leaning closer to the screen. Now, why wasn't the scan cycling? Oh, no, Simon hadn't installed anything during the night shift, had he?

Ugh. Now he had to pull up the systems log and see what was going on.

Lost in concentration, he jumped when he felt someone tap his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Kristy, one of the newest techs, standing over him expectantly. She was young, but that almost went without saying in their line of work. She was also plump and rather sweet-looking, but attempted to make up for her round-faced pudginess with short, punk-like hair that she had dyed an unnatural shade of purplish-black, a small diamond stud in her nose, and far-too-heavy makeup. It didn't work: she still looked like a mall-rat version of a rebel, someone's suburban little sister.

"I've got the QA done," she said, cracking her gum loudly as she held out a disk.

"Oh, yeah, thanks."

He took the disk absentmindedly and found himself staring at her, not quite sure why. She appeared oddly out of place, although he couldn't identify what it was, exactly. Then it struck him. She wasn't wearing the usual subdued clothing that Section operatives seemed to adopt as their de facto uniform. Instead, she wore a bright green knit sweater adorned with a large, wood-block style pin in the shape of a cheery Santa. She looked ludicrous, like a cartoon character burst to Technicolor life in the middle of a black and white film.

She must have noticed his staring, because she giggled and said, "You like the pin, huh?"

He blinked, embarrassed. "Uh, it's nice, I guess. Cute."

She smiled. "You want it?"

"What?"

"Oh, don't worry, Birkoff. I've got others I can wear." She unfastened the pin, then bent down and attached it to the front of his gray sweatshirt. "There. Now you look festive," she pronounced, smirking.

He looked down at the pin, discomfited. If a jolly, red-cheeked Santa seemed silly on her, it looked positively idiotic on him. What if he had to go up to the Perch? Or worse yet, Madeline's office. He could just see the new entry in his psych file: Mr. Birkoff has developed a new attachment to kitsch jewelry. This could be a sign of gender confusion. Closer monitoring may be warranted.

"Um, I don't really need this," he mumbled. "You should keep it."

"What, you don't celebrate Christmas?" she asked teasingly, cocking her head and placing her hands on her hips. "You Grinch, you! I'm gonna tell Santa to leave you a lump of coal in your stocking."

He wrinkled his forehead, unsure what to say. Before he could think of anything, her expression suddenly transformed, her face flushing bright crimson.

"Oh, God, you're Jewish, aren't you?" she asked, her tone mortified. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Boy, I should just keep my big mouth shut."

He opened his mouth to answer, but then realized he couldn't. Was he Jewish? Christian? Anything?

I don't know.

Did he have a family? Had he ever celebrated holidays? Did he have any traditions or history? Or had he just hatched in a Section incubator, like some sort of freak?

I don't know.

He reached down and unhooked the pin, and then handed it back to her. "Here. It looks better with your sweater anyway."

She took it and nodded, her face still bright red. "Thanks," she said, smiling awkwardly and backing away as if she wanted to disappear. "Let me know if you want any more testing done, okay?"

"Sure," he muttered, and turned back to his monitor.

He looked at the screen blankly for several moments. Finally, he sighed and forced himself to start typing, ignoring the phrase that still rang faintly in his mind.

I don't know.