a/n: Awkward plot bunny strikes again! (Oh, I just found out that his name is apparently "Pioze," while code-named the Professor. I don't read the books, sorry.)

Flashback, Professor's POV, pt.2.

He lay back on the bed, one hand over his eyes to shield them from the light. He refused to admit it, but his head had begun throbbing again. She sat in a chair pulled up to the side of the bed, and went through the checklist, her tone businesslike. The fact that he was near-naked was not an issue. The fact that his raw magnetism filled the room so much that her own temples had began aching was.

When her questions led, as they always did, to his frequent headaches, he admitted that having someone rub his head helped far better than any medication. He thought he'd managed to couch it in language terse enough to keep her from grinning at the revelation, but when he stole a glance at her, he saw that her lips were quirked in a barely suppressed smile.

He'd have time to be pissed about it later, he decided as he studied her bent head. Her pen flew across the page as she recorded his brusque disclosure, and she absently chewed her lower lip. Some of her hair had come loose from the messy bun she'd put it in earlier. He wondered why she had still been awake when he'd first stumbled in; she hadn't appeared sleepy and wasn't dressed in what he'd consider pajamas. If anything, she looked like the student she was supposed to be, up late studying, wearing a sweatshirt from some college in the States and worn cutoff jeans. It was the most casual he'd ever seen her. Moving his gaze down her (long, shapely) legs, he saw with surprise that she was barefoot. Whenever they'd had a meeting, she'd been dressed in businesslike attire, fit to kill from neck to heel, complete with stilettos or boots. Suddenly her bare feet, with red toenails—red, the girl had painted them red—made her seem more vulnerable than he was in his current state of undress.

He finally admitted to himself with a sigh that in spite of his best defenses, he'd begun to want her. Heaven help him, he was attracted to a tiny chit of a girl who had never had to pull a gun on another human being in her life. He blew out a heavy breath and pressed his fingers to his once-more pounding temples. This was not going to end well, and he was going to have to ask for a transfer. He'd heard the Barcelona agent was looking for a change of scenery.

Her voice broke through his musings, businesslike once more. "All right, we're done for now, so let me check your bandages and I'll leave you to your rest." He nodded, swung his legs over and sat on the side of the bed as she came closer.

Nicky's POV:

She crouched down beside his leg, peeling back the bandage. Her rudimentary skills had helped stop the bleeding, she was glad to notice. She absently rubbed his leg as she calculated how long it would take to heal. He had been very lucky; the wound wasn't too deep, and it had, indeed missed a major artery. He would be fine in a few days, and wouldn't even have a limp.

She looked up to relate this news to him, to have her voice die in her throat at the look of stark desire on his face. Suddenly she became very aware at their proximity. She'd always been attracted to him, of course, but she wasn't a fool. He didn't do anything by halves. Licking her dry lips, she managed to murmur something about her diagnosis, but couldn't tell if he heard her or not. She looked away and focused on a new bandage for his leg, taking an inordinate amount to do so.

Unable to stall much longer, she glanced up at him again. Her breath quickened as she realized that he was watching her with a hooded gaze. She stumbled to her feet, then realized that she still needed to look at his arm. Touching him, once more. And he was still watching her.

She stepped closer, standing in between his knees, forcing him to break his stare, reaching out for the bandage on his upper left arm. He brought his right hand up to rest on her hip, holding her still. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent his head to rest against her stomach even as his knees gradually closed to hold her legs captive as well. He could feel the hitch in her breathing, but she lifted the tape and checked her patch-up job.

When her fingers smoothed the tape down again, she couldn't move away. How had she gotten ensnared so quickly? Her hands fell to rest against his head, finding his temples automatically and, as if in a trance, began to massage the pain away. As if in response, the thumb at her hip started to move in soothing small circles. Somehow his hand had ended up underneath her sweatshirt, resting against her bare skin, and his touch felt like a searing brand. She struggled to regulate her breathing.

He finally tipped his head up and looked at her, his gaze at once so full of desire and pain that she fell to her knees before him, and lifted her mouth for his needy kiss. It began almost hesitantly, barely concealing the force and near-desperation behind, but when she opened her lips to his probing tongue, all bets were off. Her hands slid into his hair as he devoured her, alternating with searing open-mouth kisses to her jaw and throat. She kissed him back with as much desire as she could pour out; all of her fear when he had a mission, all her craving turned into something tangible. He gave back as good as he got, surprising her with the force of his longing.

She tried to lean into him, but had no leverage. She clutched at his leg, but when he flinched, the world came shrieking back into focus. What were they doing? He let go of her almost immediately, and once again that evening, she shakily rose to her feet. Without speaking, both knew that the moment of madness had passed, that to continue down that road was the height of folly. She turned away, repressing the urge to touch her swollen lips or go back to him for one last taste. To her surprise, he stood as well, and motioned toward the door. She gathered her pad and pen, and nodded.

He walked her to the door, his face inscrutable, even when she turned and looked at him, her own gaze blank. For a beat, or two, neither moved. Then he gently placed his hands on her hips, pulled her a step closer, then gradually moved his hold higher until his fingers were splayed across her back and his thumbs were resting just beneath her breasts. Uncertain of his actions, she simply looked at him. He measured her heartbeat for a moment or two, then pulled her across the remaining distance for one of the most heartbreakingly gentle kisses she'd ever received. She lifted her free hand to rest against his cheek as her eyes fluttered shut. He held her gently, his lips caressed her own with equal parts passion and tenderness. When he pulled away, she refused to meet his gaze, unwilling to share how deeply it had affected her, for she knew he was simply trying to make a point.

Sure enough, when he tilted her chin up to look at him, his eyes were dark and unreadable. His voice was rough with anger, at himself, at Treadstone, the world, and her. "Go to bed, Nicky. I'm too dangerous for you."

a/n: Don't worry, it's not done yet.