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Date Posted: Saturday, July 29, 08:27:52pm
Author: ManiRani
Subject: Paris is Burning
In reply to: JayBee and Nell 's message, "Friday Challenge: July 28, 2006" on Friday, July 28, 06:04:15pm

Hi everyone--I've been lurking forever, but this is my first attempt at fanfic ever (and is completely un-beta'd). It's a longer than a drabble, but it's what I came up with. Any constructive criticism would really be appreciated. Thanks! Mani


You know the phrase “Paris in the spring?” How it’s supposed to conjure up images of romance in every sidewalk café and love blooming around every corner like the lilies that French people are so crazy about? Yeah, who came up with that?

Because whoever it is failed to mention is that Paris in the summer can really suck.

Whatever you want to say about Australia, at least we have electricity (translation: air conditioning) that’s reliable enough not to conk off during the hottest week of the entire year. And it’s not just my apartment. Even in Section, which I think is normally cold enough to keep an exposed corpse preserved for something like 7 to 10 days, the wires or something went haywire, and we’ve had to resort to battery-operated fans just to keep the machinery from overheating. And to keep us from killing each other out of sheer frustration.

So, when Michael walks over to me after debriefing his 3-week mission in Moscow and asks me over to dinner at his place that night, I’m shocked enough to cough soda up my nose and all over the mission profile I had just finalized. My first thought is, “Oh, that’s attractive. Good job, Nikita.” My second is, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

It would be one thing if it were just dinner. But the look in his eyes says that this is not a “Hey, I’m hungry” dinner or even a “It’s been a while, let’s catch up” dinner. What Michael is asking me to is a I-haven’t-seen-you-in-three-weeks-let’s-have-so-much-sex-that-you-can’t-be-mad-at-me-for-the-next-two-to-three-years dinner. Which I would normally be more than happy to attend. But, under the circumstances, the idea of having skin-on-skin contact with anyone is vaguely nauseating. I mean, the man fucks like a dream, but come o--

“My air conditioning is working.”

“Let’s go.”

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