*Disclaimer* Some of these characters are borrowed from the TV series La Femme Nikita. No copyright infringement is intended. The following is rated NC-17, and it is your responsibility to adhere to this!

Push and Pull

written by Shrift

Nikita checked down the hallway as Michael raised one leather-gloved hand to knock on the hotel door. Three precise pounds. Nikita remained alert, waiting for Birkoff’s reply through the feed in her com-link: wishing she had some bubble gum, or a mint. Something.

"It’s Michael, Thompson. Go ahead and let them in." Birkoff’s voice sounded loud in her ear.

Nikita had been roused early that morning by Michael’s husky, "Josephine." She never quite minded waking up that way, with a little thrill in her abdomen. Unfortunately, she’d drank a mug of instant coffee and ran out the door without brushing her teeth. Now, hours later, the resulting taste was revolting. Nikita could think of only one word to describe it: blyeach. She should have stuck with tea.

Her thoughts immediately cleared of those ruminations as the door cracked open. Nikita grinned as Michael treated being confronted by the muzzle of a gun as an everyday occurrence, waiting politely for it to be taken out of his face. He could just as well be line for an elevator, had any passers-by seen him. The gun was immediately withdrawn and the door cracked open a little wider.

Thompson had that familiar, scared look on his face; it had been his duty to pull the gun and protect the level one collateral, but he wasn’t quite sure how Michael would take it as he stepped through the doorway. And he was trying to hide it behind a macho veneer as Michael and Nikita dropped their black duffel bags to the floor.

"You’re here to relieve me?" he grunted, puffing out his chest.

Michael quietly surveyed the rooms, slowly unbuttoning his black overcoat with his left hand. The collateral and his wife were sitting on the sofa farther in the enormous room, watching television. Michael slanted a look at Nikita. She nodded and began sweeping the apartment.

His pale eyes finally found their way back to Thompson’s jittery form. "Debrief."

Thompson had to visibly restrain himself from saluting the Team Leader, but Michael didn’t acknowledge his slip. "Yes, sir. We’ve got teams in the rooms above and below, and on each side. Surveillance in the hallways and in all the rooms we’re covering. There’s been no hostile activity so far."

"Do you have a lap top computer here?" Michael’s eyes were off again, tracking the progress of the man he knew only as Pfizer as he crossed the room.

"Yeah, it’s right over there." Thompson gestured with his chin towards a small table and chair.

"Gather your gear and you can go."

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

When the door closed behind Thompson, Michael found himself confronted by Pfizer and his immature-looking wife. Jeff Pfizer had the air of a rich, blonde playboy about him, and his wife radiated "college prep". Nikita trailed behind, an amused look taking up residence around her mouth.

Rather than address them, Michael pulled his gloves off methodically, finger by finger. Pfizer broke first.

"So who are you two supposed to be? Mulder and Scully? Villains from Melrose Place?"

Pfizer’s wife tittered beside him. Michael’s nostrils flared slightly, and Nikita took the initiative.

"I’m Nikita. You can call him Michael," she said, consciously mimicking his oft-repeated words. Her grin was feral, but only Michael knew the difference.

"My father said that the very best would be provided for me. So when are they going to get here?" Jeff sneered.

Nikita thought it might not be in good taste to throttle the snot. Her mood had improved since she had found, and subsequently stolen, the complimentary mints from the pillows in the bedroom. The sheer plushness of the hotel room had also lightened her mood; the thick, beige carpeting and overstuffed white furniture agreed with her. She and Michael, from the way Operations had made it sound, were in for an extended stay. It paid to be in comfortable surroundings on a mission like this.

Michael circled Pfizer with a predatory gleam in his ice-green eyes. "We’re here to protect you," he said finally. Michael halted gracefully and placed his gloves on an oak end table.

"Oh, I get it. She’s the brawn and you’re the brains, right?" Jeff replied, throwing his right arm around his giggling wife’s shoulders.

Nikita nearly laughed. She was beginning to imagine what life was going to be like cooped up with Jeffrey Pfizer and his marzipan-brained wife twenty-four hours a day. The fact that he wasn’t a very perceptive man wouldn’t get him very far with Michael, supposing that Nikita didn’t hurt him first.

Pfizer had done the very worst thing he could have done, short of hanging a target on his back; he had underestimated Michael.

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

Michael had a certain elegant way of carrying himself which suggested he would be physically ineffectual, Nikita mused. Unless one knew how dangerous Michael was, his precise movements would persuade otherwise.

Pfizer seemed to have pegged Michael as a wuss. Indeed, Michael’s black jacket seemed to swallow his dimensions, making him appear smaller than Nikita knew him to be. In full mission gear, Michael cut an imposing figure; more so, now that the length of his hair had been shortened. The hints of his physique were there in the strong column of his neck and his broad shoulders. The regular features of his face, especially his full lips, might detract from any sense of threat--as long as Michael wanted it that way.

Michael had yet to answer Pfizer’s taunt. He had been listening to Birkoff through his feed.

"What about team four?" he murmured.

Pfizer’s wife wiggled around in her husband’s arms and pouted at Nikita over his shoulder. "Who’s he talking to?"

Nikita untied the belt of her polyvinyl jacket. "Michael is the Team Leader. Everything gets coordinated through him," she said, throwing her jacket carelessly onto the love seat. Pfizer whistled at the strong lines of her body; Nikita had donned a sleeveless mesh top and low-rider leathers earlier this morning.

"I guess that answers my question," he joked. Nikita didn’t appreciate his look, or the answering glare of his little wife. "If there was a Commando Barbie, you could be the model."

"Yes."

It was Michael, speaking into the black com-unit. He moved over to the table and pulled the lap top open. While he waited for it to boot up, Michael went through a seemingly endless series of one-word questions with Birkoff.

"Why? How? Meaning? Now?"

Michael tapped in a sequence and pulled a micro disk from his coat pocket. "How long, Birkoff?" Michael turned away from the computer and shrugged off his jacket, folding it carefully over the top of Nikita’s. "Okay."

Michael locked his pale eyes on Pfizer. "Someone would like to speak with you."

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

Pfizer cleared his throat self-consciously. "Who?"

Michael didn’t answer; he simply turned to face Pfizer. His black T-shirt was taut across his chest. Two large, silver guns were snugged under Michael’s arms via a leather holster. Legs planted wide, strong arms crossed, Michael answered, "Please sit down."

When Pfizer cast a perturbed glance at his wife and hesitated, Michael qualified his statement. "Now."

Pfizer began moving immediately. His wife held stubbornly to his hand and trailed after him.

"Just you," Michael said, taking a step back and freeing his arms. Nikita’s hand on her shoulder held the woman back. Nikita gave her a warning glance when she seemed about to speak.

Pfizer seated himself, jumping as Michael held a com-unit a few centimeters from his eyes. He fumbled with it for a moment, finally hooking the correct end into his right ear. Michael leaned over Pfizer, allowing him a long, hard look at the glock, and pulled the computer around to face him.

"Ready, Birkoff," Michael said and began to type with his right hand, his left resting on the back of Pfizer’s chair.

Nikita desperately wanted to take him aside and ask him what was about to happen. Michael had been conversing with Birkoff on a private channel. Nikita held her tongue; she would find out soon enough. She wasn’t about to make any move that could be construed as a challenge of Michael’s authority with Pfizer around.

Birkoff’s voice exploded in her ear after the long auditory drought. "The secure video downlink is ready. There’ll be a three second lag, nothing I can do."

The window opened on the lap top screen, black and blank. Michael typed for a few more seconds.

Nikita bit her cheek when Operations’ face appeared on the screen. He didn’t look happy

"Uncle Paul!" Jeffrey Pfizer blurted, his smug smile spreading across his face once more.

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

If Michael was surprised by Pfizer’s outburst, he didn’t show it. Neither, for that matter, did Nikita. She just barely kept her fingers from tightening painfully on--what was her name, anyway? Nikita couldn’t recall it from the profile she’d barely had time to read, much less study. She almost hadn’t remembered that Pfizer was married, not that he seemed mature enough for the responsibility, in the slightest degree.

"Jeffrey," Operations stated equably. "Your father asked for my help. I agreed to provide it, on one condition."

"Oh, Dad’s loaded. You know that," Pfizer said dismissively.

"Money is not a relevant factor," Operations snapped, the pupils in his blue eyes narrowing in irritation. "Your life is in danger, Jeffrey. Do you understand that if you refuse to comply with this condition, I will withdraw any and all protection?"

With the ease only a rich, twenty-four year old could muster, Pfizer said, "Sure. What is it?"

Operations stared stonily at the young man before creasing his face in an oddly pleased smile. "You answer to Michael. He runs the show. Anything he orders you to do, you do it. Your life will depend on it."

Pfizer rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Michael? Oh, come on. He’s French."

Rising, for once, to defend Michael, Operations laughed. "Michael is the best in the field. If you are refusing to accept Michael and Nikita as your bodyguards, then I’ll have to call your father and--"

"Wait!" Pfizer sighed and rolled his eyes again. "Okay, Uncle Paul. I agree."

"Repeat after me: I will do everything Michael says," Operations drawled. Nikita wasn’t clear on their relationship dynamics, but it didn’t appear that Operations really cared for the young man.

Pfizer reddened, but complied. "I will do everything Michael says."

"Good to see you again, Jeffrey," Operations said, leaning forward to switch off his screen.

"Wait. Who does Michael answer to?" Pfizer demanded, determined to regain some of his control over the situation. Instead of answering, Operations pinned him with a glacial stare, and the screen went blank.

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

"What are my orders, sir?" Pfizer said, craning his neck back to grin flippantly at Michael. Michael blinked at him and leisurely slid his eyes toward Nikita. "Stay out of the way." Michael brought his gaze abruptly back to Pfizer’s face to ram his point home. Jeff stood up and moved out of Michael’s radius, forgoing comment; Michael turned his back on the younger man and pressed a button on his com-unit.

Dropping her hand from her shoulder and giving--Krissy, that was her name--an insincere smile, Nikita skirted widely around Pfizer. There was a small twist in the leather holster strap that ran across the broad expanse of Michael’s back. Nikita tugged it into place and ran a smoothing hand along the rest of the strap; Michael acknowledged her with a brief head turn. Nikita gave him a genuine smile and continued to walk around Michael, hand trailing over his shoulder blades.

It was a blatant assertion of possession and unity, but Nikita didn’t want Pfizer getting any ideas. Michael caught her eyes, and she nodded.

Nikita circled back to the bags, picking up Michael’s and bringing the heavier surveillance equipment to the table. After unzipping it, Nikita walked to the door which joined the Pfizers’ rooms with another suite and knocked three times. She returned, moments later with a steaming cup of coffee, which she handed wordlessly to Michael as he continued to coordinate teams and review Intel.

Nikita rifled through their bag of clothes and assorted odds and ends until she found her PDA.

"Do you two have implants, or something? Don’t you need to talk every once in a while?" Pfizer hadn’t moved, although Krissy had sat down and already begun watching television. Cartoons, Nikita noted. Rather than answer him, she goaded him further by plucking the com-unit from his ear and returning to Michael’s side: all without saying nary a word.

There was a huff of disgust and a door slam. Then the sounds of a shower muffled by the strains of the cartoon, "Johnny Bravo." Krissy was giggling helplessly.

Nikita allowed herself a small smile as she re-read the profile. She was curious as to why, exactly, Section was protecting the spoiled snot. Nikita was willing to bet her toothpaste that it was all Jeffrey Pfizer’s fault.

The more Nikita read, the more her stomach clenched with anger. She looked up to find Michael staring at her. From his expression, Nikita gleaned that this was definitely a favor mission.

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

Three days. Three hellacious days. That’s all the time they had been cooped up with Jeff and Krissy. Nikita had a constant headache now, and her back was sore from sleeping on a cot. Nikita was sure that Michael hadn’t spoken more than three words in the last twenty-four hours. She would have laughed at his grim expression as he woke her up to take her turn standing watch, except for the intense, throbbing sensation in her head.

Nikita checked her clip as Michael spread himself out on the floor after folding up the cot. Even if it hadn’t been too narrow for him, Michael would have chosen the floor. After the first night, in which he thrashed himself off the cot to land in an undignified heap on the soft carpet, Michael would never look at a cot the same way again. Nikita had been stuck for an emotion. She was shocked by the violence of the nightmare which had so obviously held him in its grasp, but watching Michael literally fall out of bed...

It was akin to a jungle panther falling out of a tree and landing on its back, paws in the air. Uproariously funny, but you were almost afraid to laugh and further injure its dignity.

Nikita could almost take Krissy’s television addiction and Pfizer’s overwhelming need to feel self-important by indulging in somewhat-less-than witty repartees. But it was the parading around in underwear that had really gotten on Nikita’s nerves.

Knowing that Section One was extending its formidable services to protect an idiot wasn’t helping, either.

The profile stated that Jeffrey Pfizer had been doing some underhanded dealing with a major drug cartel. He had been laundering money, all the while majorly skimming off the top. Obviously, Pfizer had failed do to the math, and now several drug lords were gunning for him. The only reason Jeffrey Pfizer was still alive was that his father was highly placed in the U.S. Government. That, and his father knew Operations and had asked for a whopping personal favor. He must have promised something irresistible in return for Operations to put Michael on this assignment.

Being in mortal danger didn’t seem to affect Mr. and Mrs. Pfizer in any normal way, a fact which shouldn’t have taken Nikita by surprise. Krissy, from day one, had taken to lounging around in the hotel room with only a sheer nightie to cover her. Nikita hadn’t been able to tell if it was a come-on to Michael, or if the girl simply had no tact. When Jeff had exited the bathroom, sporting only a towel wrapped around his waist, Nikita gathered the couple enjoyed displaying their gym-toned bodies. They probably do this at home with their curtains open, Nikita had thought snidely.

At least Michael had done it with more style.

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

He’d swung the door open, a cloud of steam following him out into the room. She still had no idea what had possessed him to do it, walking out with just a towel. It was a good thing the enemy hadn’t attacked right then, because Nikita had been more than a little distracted. Hell, she’d forgotten her own name for a moment.

Michael had certainly given Jeff and Krissy a lesson in how to wear very little. He’d prowled out of the bathroom, damp hair curling on the nape of his neck. He must have cranked the sensuality meter up to full blast. With every perfectly coordinated step, his wet skin glistened over rippling muscles. His sheer lack of ostentation and consciousness of his near nudity had Nikita biting her lower lip. He’d moved to within a hair’s breadth of her, digging in their shared "suitcase" for another shirt and his razor. The warmth of his nearness touched off memories Nikita was desperately struggling to suppress.

Her legs around his waist in Lyons, on the boat. The feel of his hard chest after she had stripped him of his shirt, during the Armel mission; how she’d completely forgotten the cameras when Michael’s mouth had descended upon her sensitive throat.

She’d banished those thoughts, one by one. Still, when Michael glanced her way before returning to the bathroom, the look she’d given in return was a heavy-lidded gaze of pure lust. The flick of his tongue to catch a drop of water running down his face had nearly undone her. That, Nikita was sure, he had done deliberately.

Nikita had crossed her legs uncomfortably as Michael finished up in the bathroom. Her only consolation was that Jeff and Krissy had remained fully clothed since Michael’s little display. Perhaps they could be taught.

At least, Nikita thought, we’re getting out of this room tonight.

According to the profile, Jeff and Krissy were supposed to adhere as closely to their normal routine as possible, so as to not alert any potential hit men of Section’s protection. Not that any self-respecting hit man wouldn’t spot them as professional bodyguards with a simple zoom lens. Nevertheless, Jeff and Krissy’s usual Friday night haunt was some place called, "The Country Bar."

From the name, Nikita deduced that it was either a strip club, or a watering-hole for those twisted people who liked to line-dance.

At this point, Nikita was willing to take anything.

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

Nikita pulled a pair of battered blue jeans from the valise Madeline had sent up. She held them up against her and turned her body to the left and right.

"Those are mine."

Nikita clenched her teeth and rolled her head back on her neck. In Section, there was a slight echo to warn her of his approach; Michael padding barefoot across carpet made no discernible sound. He reached his arm around her and pulled the jeans from her unresisting grasp. Michael stepped closer and his chest brushed against her right shoulder-blade. He freed a dark blue, button-down shirt from the case. It fell across Nikita’s arm as Michael moved away; the shirt was made of some soft, very touchable fabric.

"Michael," Nikita called. He turned around, clothes draped over his shoulder. "You forgot these." Nikita tossed the leather cowboy boots, which Michael caught deftly.

"Thanks."

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

Nikita tugged on the western style fringed shirt and pulled her cowboy hat lower on her forehead. "We stick out," she muttered sideways to Michael.

Michael slipped his arm around her waist and bent to press his lips close to her ear. "Obviously," he murmured, and guided her to sit at the bar. The two Section operatives did stick out, like a Rembrandt amidst amateurish watercolors of sailboats. Like runway models in a small town.

Like two covert assassins in a country and western bar.

They were beautifully foreign. Faces turned as they threaded across the bar, as flowers follow the sun.

The moment Michael had stepped into the dim, smoke-filled establishment, he called Birkoff through his com-unit:

"Downgrade Nikita and me to peripheral surveillance. Julie and Davis, take point."

"Why, Michael?" Birkoff blurted.

"Do it, Birkoff."

Nikita sipped at her beer. "What will you tell Madeline when she finds out you didn’t follow profile?"

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, scanning the crowd for Pfizer.

"Your hat. You didn’t wear it," Nikita deadpanned. Nikita could see the muscles in Michael’s jaw working as he tried not to smile.

"And where are your chaps?" he said finally, returning his gaze to her face.

Nikita licked her lips and scooted her barstool closer to Michael so that her knees touched the insides of his splayed thighs. "Mmm. I thought I would save those for later."

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

The idea had been that Nikita would pose as Jeffrey Pfizer’s cousin. She and Michael were newlyweds, and had blown into town for a visit. If asked, Pfizer was to introduce them as such. Nikita hadn’t worried about Pfizer or his complete lack of acting skills; it was unlikely that she would have coaxed Michael out onto the dance floor. But with the abrupt realization that they couldn’t function covertly by blending into the crowd, Nikita had been at a loss for what to do... until the game started.

Nikita supposed it had begun when she teased Michael by shifting herself into a more provocative position. What she hadn’t expected was that Michael responded accordingly. She had sat on his lap, but Nikita had thought Michael’s legendary control would take hold.

They had been nursing beers for about an hour when Nikita elected to find the ladies room. On her way back to the bar, a petite redhead was sitting on her stool with a hand on Michael’s sinewy forearm. Although it seemed inconceivable that he had made a joke, the redhead was giggling prettily. When Nikita materialized at his side and Michael didn’t readily acknowledge her, Nikita gave in to impulse and wiggled onto his lap. Although he snaked an arm around her waist to keep her upright, Michael had continued chatting. The woman quickly lost interest when Nikita decided to butt in with, "Hi, I’m Michael’s wife. And you are?"

When she vacated the stool, Nikita moved to stand up. Michael’s arm tightened around her waist, fingers trailing idly across her jean-covered hip.

"Where are you going?" he whispered into her ear.

Nikita leaned into him until her back was flush against his chest. "Nowhere." She rested her head on his shoulder and grinned.

Michael’s eyes gleamed a warning, and then his soft lips began nibbling along her exposed neck. He suckled her skin with his insistent mouth, nipping gently with his teeth. Nikita’s breath caught raggedly in her throat and she unconsciously writhed against the thigh she straddled. Michael gave an almost inaudible growl and increased the pressure of his arm until she stilled.

And so the game had begun: each attempting to bring the other to an intense, frustrating arousal without being completely distracted from surveillance.

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

Nikita had finally convinced Michael to let her off his lap with a whispered, "My turn." She faced him, fingers brushing over the soft fabric covering his chest. The live band in the corner of the bar kicked out a country song, and Nikita swayed rhythmically to the steady beat. She danced in front of Michael, so close that her zipper brushed his kneecap. Just as Michael seemed about to reach out to her, Nikita danced closer. She swayed, rubbing her groin lightly against the top of his thigh. One thumb stroked in time over his clenched bicep. Nikita didn’t give in to the delicious, spreading warmth, not even when Michael’s eyes darkened to an intense green. Her will nearly broke when his tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

It was his move. Without warning, he took it and slid his leg out from between hers. Michael snagged her by the belt and pulled her forcefully forward. When she was flush against his heat, his thighs clamped low around her hips. Then, unexpectedly, Michael leaned against the bar and took a sip from his beer. Nikita hooked her fingers into his belt loops and waited for what was surely next. But Michael stayed back, a small curl edging his lips.

Nikita noticed, after a moment, that the urgency she had been feeling had not faded an iota. In fact, her arousal seemed to be deepening. Nikita concentrated, and felt the faint thrusting of Michael’s hips. The subtle rocking was achingly, painfully erotic. It fueled Nikita’s next move.

She leaned forward slowly, capturing his eyes. Her mouth descended on his, brushing and pulling away. She rubbed her lower lip on his, breathing in his slight exhalations. She was literally breathing him into herself. Michael groaned and took his turn by pulling her lower lip inside his mouth. When he released it, he slanted his lips across hers, tongue delving and stroking the velvety interior of her mouth.

They broke the kiss with a fevered gasp. "What’s Pfizer’s location?" Michael asked huskily. Nikita flicked her eyes up to the mirrored back of the bar.

"Left of the band stand doing the two-step," she whispered into his ear, taking his earlobe between her teeth and tugging gently.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Nikita turned her attentions to his corded neck, biting him gently at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. She licked to soothe the reddened skin.

Michael’s hands pressed warningly on her hips. "Nikita."

"What?" she snapped.

"Bouncer’s headed this way," he said, releasing her from the cradle of his thighs.

Nikita backed away a few inches and took Michael’s face between her palms. She smiled as his eyes crinkled. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

"What will we tell Madeline?" she choked out. That they had been bounced for necking? That they had been kicked out for lewd behavior?

"We were maintaining our cover," Michael replied.

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

Nikita burst into a loud guffaw right as the bouncer finished picking his way across the crowded bar. He was a big man, topping Michael by nearly six inches. The collar of his emblazoned T-shirt was tight; he suffered from a body-builder’s "no-neck" syndrome. Michael lifted his face to gaze at the bouncer’s cherubic grin, a cool mask of pure intimidation rippling smoothly into place.

Nikita expected him to cross his arms, give them a quick harangue, and politely ask them to leave. From the way Michael had slipped from playful to icy, so did he.

Instead, the bouncer chuckled and shoved a roll of bills into Michael’s front shirt pocket.

"What is this?" Michael asked. He was using the tone that had sent many a Cold Op quivering when a mission hadn’t been completed to his satisfaction.

"Our drink sales are up fifty percent since you two started going at it. You’ve got an appreciative audience over there." The bouncer kicked his head back. Nikita leaned around the man. A mostly male group of around twenty people whistled and waved, giving Nikita the thumb’s up sign.

"And the money?"

Although he was massive, the bouncer didn’t seem stumped by Michael’s paucity of words. "You two can have that if you keep it up for another hour or so. Compliments of a very happy manager."

"Nikita," Michael said. Nikita gave a little wave to the group.

"Yes, Michael?"

"Ask Krissy and Jeff how much longer they’d like to stay."

Nikita nodded and plunged into the crowd.

The bouncer took the stool next to Michael and leaned towards him conspiratorially. "You know, there’s a betting pool going," he hedged.

"On what are they betting?" Michael asked, his eyes following Nikita.

"Which one of you breaks first. How long you’ll last... you know, the usual."

"Really."

If the bouncer noticed that Michael didn’t partake in his proffered bonhomie, he didn’t comment on it. "Yeah, I was hoping you’d give me some insider information."

"I wouldn’t bet on either of us, sailor." Nikita’s voice so close to his ear caused the bouncer to flinch in surprise. Nikita mentally scolded him for his lack of awareness and poor technical training.

"Not tonight," Michael agreed, making room for a snuggling Nikita on his lap.

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

Nikita had insisted that they give the money back to the manager, with the instructions that it be used to buy two rounds of drinks for the disappointed group of men who were casting pouts in her general direction.

Jeff and Krissy had decided to leave about fifteen minutes later; Nikita was relieved that they wouldn’t be approached by some very inebriated cowboy requesting that they start going at it again.

In the limo ride back to the hotel, Pfizer had harped on her and Michael. He had compared them to rutting animals, exhaustively cataloguing their technique. Nikita gritted her teeth, figuring Pfizer would shut up after around ten minutes of their non-reaction. Krissy sat smirking beside her husband.

If Michael can take it, so can I, Nikita thought glumly.

Pfizer continued to drone. "You know, I’ve got a friend or two in the porno business. I could give him a ring and get you two starring roles in his newest production. We could call it ‘Bodacious Bodyguards’ or ‘Carnal Combat’." Pfizer snickered to himself and leered at Nikita.

Twenty minutes later, and almost to the hotel, Nikita threw in the towel. Before she could lean across the seat and throttle the snot, Michael spoke.

"Pfizer."

"He speaks!" Jeffrey Pfizer exclaimed, touching off one of Krissy’s giggling fits.

Michael cocked his head. "Be quiet." His voice was soft and loaded with threat.

"Yeah, right," Pfizer dismissed. He took his eyes off Michael to grin triumphantly at his wife.

Before Nikita could blink, Michael hovered over Pfizer, one knee perched on the seat. Horrible sounds were coming from his throat as Michael pressed his forearm into his windpipe. Krissy looked on in shock.

"That’s an order," Michael told him softly. Pfizer scrabbled at Michael’s arm, which only resulted in him pressing more forcefully against his throat. "Blink twice if you understand."

Pfizer’s white-rimmed eyes blinked twice in a spastic motion.

Michael pulled away from Pfizer, settling elegantly back into the leather seat next to Nikita. She nodded to him, a combination message of thank you and well done.

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

Striding through the richly appointed lobby, Nikita felt the first tingles of apprehension stream down her spine. Throwing a warning glance at Michael, she smoothly changed direction and covered Pfizer from the other side.

The jittery feeling only got worse as she climbed into the elevator. Nikita could barely contain her agitation.

"Birkoff, is there any movement in the ninth floor hallway?"

"I’m not reading anything, Michael. Is there something wrong?" Birkoff asked absently. The elevator chimed as the doors slid open. Michael pointed his hand away from the Pfizers’ room. He waited for Nikita’s confirming nod and stepped fluidly out of the elevator, gun drawn. Nikita ushered Jeff and Krissy out a moment later, nearly shoving them around the corner as Michael covered them outside the closing elevator doors.

A red pinprick moved across Michael’s face. "Get down," he ordered.

Gunfire erupted a second later. Nikita bit her cheek when Michael jerked back after pulling off three rounds. Michael rolled to the corner, brandishing his second gun when he came to his feet.

"How many?"

"One left," Michael grunted. Before Nikita could act, Michael was already up and taking cover behind a large potted palm. A bark chip splintered off, revealing the shooter’s location in its trajectory. Michael squeezed off one more round, and then Nikita heard him put in an order for Housekeeping.

Michael moved forward cautiously, checking pulses on the bloodied bodies littering the hallway.

"Michael?" Nikita strained to see his injury, unable to leave the cowering Pfizers.

"Flesh wound. I’m fine," he answered.

Sure you are, Nikita thought disparagingly.

"Where’s the backup team, Birkoff? We need to secure the area."

"ETA is thirty seconds." Birkoff’s soft voice was interrupted by a deeper, much harsher one.

"Michael, what happened up there?" Operations demanded.

"We were ambushed coming out of the elevator."

"And the collateral?"

"It’s secure."

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

"Sit."

Nikita glared at Michael until he acquiesced.

"Off," she said, gesturing at his shirt.

Thompson muffled a laugh, nudging Lee with his elbow. Lee shot him a murderous look and edged away, clutching his automatic closer. Thompson straightened when Nikita spun around and stalked to his side.

"Do you find something amusing, Thompson?" Nikita drawled, eyes flashing dangerously.

"N-no," Thompson blurted.

"Then why did you laugh?" Nikita asked coolly, tilting her chin up. She was staring down her nose at Thompson in her cowboy boots, taller than him by several inches.

"I-I was remembering this joke," Thompson stammered.

"Which one?"

"You know, the one about the blonde who-"

Nikita’s eyes narrowed when Thompson trailed off. "Who did what?"

"I-I don’t remember."

"Bring me the emergency medical kit, Thompson," Nikita said. Thompson scrambled to do as she told, rummaging wildly through the black duffel bags. He handed it to her wordlessly; Nikita turned back towards Michael. "Oh, and Thompson? Don’t bother to pull your foot out of your mouth if it’ll keep you quiet."

Michael was unbuttoning his shirt as she approached. She helped him slide it off, smearing blood across his shoulder and down his arm. Nikita snapped open the medical kit and tried to ignore the sculpted lines of Michael’s chest and abdomen. There was something utterly delicious about Michael’s chest, and Nikita knew if she didn’t control herself, Thompson and Lee would get a repeat performance from the bar.

The bullet had dug a furrow through the fleshy part of Michael’s shoulder, the ragged edges leaking blood. When Nikita touched Michael’s smooth skin to probe the wound, all the electricity that had thrummed in her veins a mere hour before ignited once again. She could feel the color flushing her face and was glad that her back was to the rest of the room. Nikita took a few deep breaths to calm her shaking hands and quickly cleaned the gash.

"I don’t think it needs stitches," she murmured to Michael, chancing a peek at his face. He was staring at her intently; Nikita flashed him a quick smile. He had actually told her the truth. She moved closer to apply the dressing, biting her lower lip until she tasted blood when the inside of her thigh brushed against his. "All done," Nikita said. She stepped back and sighed deeply when Michael stood up. Barefoot and bare-chested, in jeans.

Nikita was making rapid mental alterations in some of her better fantasies when Pfizer came out of his bedroom.

"What the hell was that all about?"

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

Her arousal churned into a white hot rage. Clenching and unclenching her hands, Nikita was ready to storm across the room and take Pfizer down with a flying kick to the cranium. Unpredictably, Michael ran interference.

He moved around her and approached Pfizer with what could only be classified as a strut. Nikita’s anger bled back into arousal as she watched Michael walk.

"You’re uninjured. The situation has been contained," Michael told him, his soft voice hypnotically soothing. Nikita realized Michael had seen something she had not; Pfizer was afraid.

So scared, that he was willing to antagonize the very man who might have cheerfully throttled him thirty minutes earlier. Pfizer’s arms were wrapped tightly against his midsection.

"And?" he prodded.

Michael canted his upper body forward. "And that’s all you need to know."

Pfizer definitely did not need to know how the hit men had evaded Section’s notice, Nikita thought. He didn’t need to know that a singles convention had hit town that weekend, and that Birkoff hadn’t been able to verify all the identities of the participants mingling in the hotel ball room. He did not need to know that the four women who had been wined and dined at the singles convention were quietly sleeping off the effects of the Rohypnol, awaiting memory modification in the bowels of Section. All he needed to know was that the four assassin lotharios were very dead, and that for the time being, he was safe.

Jeffrey Pfizer nodded sharply, cowed for the moment; he turned on his heel and stalked back into the bedroom. Krissy had been hanging back in the doorway, and now approached Michael. She blanched at the drying blood on Michael’s arm.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Nikita was rocked back on her heels by the concern evident in the airhead’s voice.

"I’m fine," Michael said.

Krissy lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Michael’s neck. "Thank you." At first, Nikita was touched by Krissy’s about-face. When Krissy didn’t release Michael from the hug, Nikita followed Michael’s path across the room. She was determined to rescue him from her grasp, feeling intensely possessive of what she thought of as her bare-chested, barefoot Michael in jeans.

Before she reached him, however, Krissy pulled back. "Can I kiss you the French way?" she asked. Horrified by what might follow, Nikita increased her pace.

Encouraged by Michael’s blink, Krissy gave him a quick peck on each cheek.

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

Nikita reached Michael’s side as Krissy followed her husband into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Krissy’s enthusiastic hug had dislodged Nikita’s careful bandaging, and his wound was bleeding again.

"Do you think we should cauterize it with gunpowder?" Nikita asked flippantly.

Michael parted his lips in surprise. He had forgotten that Nikita was present in the Section plane that had transported them back from Eastern Europe. He and Madeline had been forced into the medical bay for treatment: Madeline, for her induced heart attack; Michael, for his multiple gunshot wounds. Despite being hovered over by doctors, Madeline had demanded that he debrief. Igraine Petrosian, the deep cover operative for Section One whom Madeline had been sent in to rescue, had disappeared to contact Operations the moment he set foot in the plane.

"What did you use to cauterize the wound on your forearm, Michael?" Madeline had asked, not satisfied with Michael’s simple explanation.

"Gunpowder." A med tech had gasped and dropped a metal tray of instruments; he remembered the look of pity in her luminous eyes, which he had returned as she was escorted out of the room. She wouldn’t last long.

"Crude, but effective. It’s worked well for you in the past," Madeline had commented.

"Yes."

Nikita had swallowed dryly, ignored in the corner.

"Gunpowder?" he repeated. Nikita smiled whimsically at his confusion and ripped the remains of the bandage away. "I could ask the front desk to send up some kerosene," Michael offered.

Nikita heard a spluttering sound in her ear. "Good one, Michael," Birkoff muttered.

Michael had made a joke.

An esoteric joke, Nikita amended, seeing Pfizer’s faintly shocked face in the doorway. Krissy’s bow-like mouth was pursed with concern.

"I think there’s some kerosene in the emergency kit," Nikita quipped for their benefit. "Let’s get you cleaned up in the bathroom."

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

Upon walking into the bathroom, Nikita found herself derogatorily muttering, "Can I kiss you the French way?" Nikita had set her com-unit on receive only before reaching the door. The door latched shut behind them.

"Ni-ki-ta." She found herself pulled around and into Michael’s strong grasp. Nikita saw the need glittering in his eyes as his mouth descended on hers.

Oh, yes. Michael kissed her the French way.

His hot tongue slipped between her lips, mating with her mouth. Nikita gave a low groan as his tongue rubbed frantically against hers, lips caressing and teeth nipping. Michael backed her against the sink, his hands sinking greedily into her hair. Nikita avoided his injured shoulder and settled her hands on his hips, pressing him closer. She ground against his rapidly hardening arousal, hiking one leg up and around his waist.

Michael rested his forehead on her shoulder as they both came up gasping for air. When he lifted his face to hers, the urgent look was confined in his gray-green eyes. He silently communicated to her that it could go no further. Not with the mission, not with Thompson and Lee outside. Not with Madeline’s ever observant eye; if they spent too long together in the bathroom, she would surely ask questions. Nikita’s brain understood, but her body threatened to betray her. A quickie wouldn’t quiet her hormones, anyway, she thought. Not with Michael.

"No more," Nikita agreed huskily.

Michael brought his hand up, brushing the tips of his fingers against her cheekbone. "No. Not yet."

Nikita’s eyes fluttered shut. He had said that to her before, "Not yet." But this time, Nikita sensed a definite intent behind his words. His voice was loaded with raw promise, a promise that there would be a later.

Nikita slipped her hand into Michael’s, lacing her fingers with his. He squeezed her hand and sat on the edge of the tub. Nikita held the contact as long as she could, wiping away the blood with a warm wash cloth.

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

Madeline, in an odd moment of concern, had given her and Michael twelve hours off. Perhaps it was a reward for not killing Pfizer or his wife; perhaps it was for anticipating the attack. When Michael repeated Madeline’s recommendation that they each take a room at the hotel and try to relax... well, Madeline’s choice of words had been unfortunate.

Oh, I want to relax, Nikita thought. Just not how Madeline thinks.

She communicated this non-verbally to Michael. He nodded. They started out the door. When Nikita ducked back in to grab their shared duffel, Thompson gave her an unsettled glance. Nikita grinned and pointedly didn’t bother to separate their things.

Michael had turned their com-units off and stuffed them into his coat pocket before they approached the front desk. Nikita took that as a sign; if Section wanted to communicate with him, they would need to use his cellular.

Nikita entered the room ahead of Michael and took the duffel bag with her into the bathroom. Michael had shrugged off his jacket and pulled off his shoes when Nikita came back out.

Nikita reveled in his throaty gasp; his flushed cheeks; his narrowed eyes.

She was wearing the suede chaps, and nothing else.

He approached her slowly, brushing her blonde hair from her shoulders to rub his lips across her neck. His fingers trailed gently down her arms, the sides of her breasts, stopping on the soft skin of her rear.

He was being tender with her. Nikita wanted that, later. Her need was too prevalent and too urgent to take his soft touches much longer. Nikita trembled with the weight of her desire; shivering as much at his touch as with the hot flush that crept over her skin.

Michael, somehow sensing her need, clutched her to him so that his belt buckle pressed almost painfully into her navel. His mouth captured hers, tongue arrogant and demanding. It would have seemed violent, if it hadn’t been what Nikita wanted. Michael’s lips tortured her, raining hot kisses over her face and neck. His mouth devoured her, tongue rubbing, licking, teasing.

Nikita felt Michael laying her down on the bed, gasping as the cold coverlet contrasted sharply with the pulsing heat he had stirred. Michael tore his T-shirt off, mindless of his injury. Nikita sucked in a breath of air through kiss-swollen lips. No matter how many times she saw him like this, she knew she would never get enough. Never.

With a swift movement, Michael unclasped his belt buckle and stepped out of his pants.

Nikita felt her heart stutter, legs unconsciously falling farther open in invitation. His eyes gave an answering gleam as he climbed onto the bed, prowling up her body. Nikita wrapped her arms around his midsection and pulled him down on her, rubbing her breasts against his chest. He hissed in satisfaction.

"Now, Michael," she demanded. No more foreplay was needed.

Michael ran his hand down between them, parting her folds. He found her hot and wet, writhing against his slightest touch.

"Ni-ki-ta," he rasped, moving his hips over her. But Nikita wouldn’t wait any longer. Her hips bucked up, and Michael’s hardness plunged into her.

The friction of him sliding against her inner walls caused her to cry out in ecstasy. "Michael!" He groaned at the urgency in which she said his name, and ceded her the control. Nikita kept him to a furious pace; there was nothing but their gasping lungs and Michael’s hardness slamming into her, barely pulling out before entering her completely again. The incredible tension in her was spinning out of control, building at such a momentum, that Nikita knew it would be soon.

Her orgasm toppled her. Nikita had seen firecrackers behind her eyes with Michael; her back had arched; tears had fallen from her eyes. But this was an explosion all to its own.

"Oh, God. Michael!"

It had raged through her like fire in her veins, pulling every muscle taut as she rose to the heights of bliss three times. Michael had stroked her through it, but the lightning contractions of her triple orgasm brought Michael to a violent fulfillment.

Nikita felt a hand caressing her cheek and rolled over.

"Ni-ki-ta," Michael repeated insistently.

"Mmm..." she moaned, throwing an arm over her face. When Nikita sat bolt upright in the cot, Michael moved back to the easy chair.

Oh, God, Nikita thought. Don’t tell me I dreamt that.

Nikita’s cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. "Was I moaning your name?" she asked him huskily.

Michael’s eyes glittered at her through the darkness of the hotel room. "Yes," he told her, voice strained.

"Do you want to know what I was dreaming about, Michael?" Nikita taunted, rising slowly from the cot. Her nipples were outlined under her black tank top.

Michael didn’t answer, but he didn’t bother to hide his considerable arousal.

"The chaps, Michael. I didn’t take them off the whole time," she whispered, tucking her gun in the back of her pants and taking up Michael’s usual perch at the computer. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?"

They both knew sleep was a lost cause. Michael didn’t bother to move from the chair, even had he been capable of movement.

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

After Nikita’s comments that night, she and Michael had moved gingerly around each other. Both were wary of coming into contact, lest the passion flare into an unstoppable volatility. When they did happen to brush against each other in the hotel room, each hid the startled reactions of their bodies admirably.

Krissy and Jeff were oblivious to the unspoken torment. Thompson didn’t ogle them. Lee didn’t avert his gaze out of respect and fear.

Now if they could fool the cameras, they would be in the clear.

Madeline, upon request, had sent another packet up to the room. Nikita gratefully discovered within it a few more personal and recreational items.

Even with the added distractions, Nikita found herself hard put to wrest her mind away from waking fantasies when she was on watch.

Michael was sitting in the stuffed easy chair, reading a book, of all things. Occasionally, he would glance up and give Nikita an almost pleading look. Chastened, Nikita stopped staring directly at him. She borrowed a tactic from Michael, staring instead at a point up and to the right; she still observed him with her peripheral vision.

Nikita was running a routine sweep of the rooms when she saw Michael put down his book out of the corner of her eye. He rolled his neck and stood up, walking to the bathroom.

Nikita detoured in her sweep to pluck up the book. The title was in French. She saved Michael’s place with her index finger and flipped through the pages. Some of it appeared to be poetry. Nikita kept her jaw from dropping in surprise and set the book back down where Michael had left it.

The only French Nikita knew really consisted of, "Bonjour, oui, and merci." Nikita reined in a hysterical chuckle.

I guess that’s all I really need to know, she thought ridiculously. ‘Bonjour’, Michael. Oh, ‘oui’, Michael! And later, ‘merci’! Nikita bit her lip and tried desperately not to giggle as the scene played out in her head.

She finished the sweep, passing by the door to the bathroom on her way back to the computer. She heard the taps squeak and the sound of water bursting out of the shower head. Nikita didn’t attempt to force the image from her mind. She knew it would be impossible.

Instead, she dragged a chair over to the wall, out of sight of the cameras. Nikita sat back in it and leaned her head against the wall, where Michael was showering only a few inches of drywall away.

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

Michael rested his palms against the shower tiles as the steaming water sluiced over his body. He had just dipped his head under the water to wet his hair when Nikita slipped through the door; the pelting water muffled his hearing, and Michael remained unaware that she had entered.

When Nikita ripped the shower curtain back, he was justifiably frozen in shock. That is, until she shimmied out of her clothes and stepped in to join him.

"Ni-ki-ta," he said, keeping his hands on the tiles. Nikita smiled shyly at him; Michael had encapsulated so much in those three syllables. Warning. Need. Irritation. Love. Anger. Lust.

"The bathroom doesn’t have any surveillance, Michael," she drawled. "And there isn’t a camera that covers the bathroom door." She moved forward, slipping her hands onto his water-slick shoulders. Nikita traced his healing wound with the tip of a finger, leaning forward to kiss his shoulder. When her breasts rubbed against the expanse of his back, Michael’s hands clenched against the wall. He wondered, later, how he hadn’t ripped his fingernails out.

"We’re both getting distracted, Michael," she whispered close to his ear. "We have a small window of opportunity. I don’t care how little time we have, as long as it involves you in me."

Michael somehow managed to turn around, his core trembling with the thought that she had found a way for them to be together.

"Ni-ki-ta," he said again, lungs burning with words and inexpressible emotion. But she knew.

Nikita moved forward and licked the drips of water from his stubbled chin. "We don’t have much time, Michael," she said hoarsely.

With a muffled growl, Nikita pulled Michael against her and supported her back on the tiles. His back was to the spray, and the water trickled over his shoulders and down his finely muscled abdomen. She followed the paths of the drops with her mouth until Michael pulled her up sharply to mate with her mouth.

His tongue burned hotter than the water steaming the bathroom mirror, in a kiss more fervently erotic than the one he had given her earlier against the sink. He felt her arms wrap around his strong neck. Michael scooped up her hips and Nikita folded her long legs around him.

"Michael," she gasped, her naked need splayed across her impassioned face. He answered by entering her, slowly easing her hips down on his hardened length. When she sheathed him completely, Nikita teasingly rotated her hips. Michael hissed between clenched teeth, dipping his head to her breasts in retaliation. He nuzzled her nipples with his stubble, taking one between his lips and grazing it with his tongue. He nipped and pulled with his teeth until her fingers dug warningly into his back. She shifted impatiently on him, and Michael began a long, slow stroke. The water pouring between their joined bodies heightened their senses. Nikita’s pebbled nipples scraped down his chest as Michael pumped into her, the pace increasing. Nikita’s heels dug into Michael back as she arched back, attempting to pull more of him inside her. From the hazy look in her eyes, Michael knew she was close to the edge. All he needed to do was push her over.

He freed one hand, somehow still stroking into her, hard and furious. Michael slid his hand between their flushed bodies, one finger seeking out Nikita’s pleasure. He stroked her clit, plunging into her with even more force.

Her head snapped back, the cords of her neck taut. "Michael!" It was a low groan torn from the depths of her soul. He came with her, capturing her mouth with his lips as he exploded within her spasming walls.

She sagged against him, legs still wound about his waist. He met her eyes when they finally fluttered open. There were no words.

They never needed any, not like this.

Hold me, her eyes said.

"I don’t think I can walk," she whispered aloud.

Michael answered her with his eyes. I don’t think I can let you go.

End of part one...

written by Shrift

Continue on to Push and Pull, part two

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