Chaos.

It was chaos.

Nikita screamed for Michael. Birkoff and Declan had all they could do to hold Nikita back. She wanted to go to her baby. Her fairy princess. Fee.

Miranda had the baby on the floor on her back. Walter came back with the oxygen tank and handed it to Miranda. Miranda checked for obstructions inside Faith’s mouth and found nothing. The baby was hot, feverish, and congested. What was more frightening than anything else was the fact that Faith did not cry. She lay there, gradually turning blue around her mouth, but still she did not cry.

Suddenly Faith began to convulse. Her fever had to be very high, for, in the absence of all other evidence, Miranda was convinced these were febrile convulsions.

Nikita sank to her knees, screaming and sobbing Faith’s name. Michael came running, half-dressed, his chest bare, and took in the situation at once. He pushed Birkoff and Declan away, claiming his right to Nikita instantly.

Miranda took charge. Without a superfluous word, she managed to get everyone to do something constructive. Faith’s life depended on the next few minutes.

Walter looked like he was in shock. He couldn’t believe how quickly everything happened. One moment, Faith was merely lethargic, the next moment, she was clearly in trouble.

Miranda directed Birkoff to call Neil, Declan to call 9-1-1, and Walter to get ice. Quickly and expertly, she set up her suction equipment, asking Michael to plug it into the wall outlet. Michael followed Nikita to the floor, holding her as tightly as he could. He couldn’t even react to what was going on with Faith. He only saw Nikita at that point, and she was so fragile, she might fly apart at any moment. She sobbed pathetically, clinging to Michael’s chest, her tears saturating him almost at once.

Meanwhile, Chris was in the stroller, forgotten, crying furiously at being left alone, frustrated at what was happening to Faith. He didn’t understand. He wanted his mother, but the gap that separated them was too wide, and he was restrained by the stroller. Michael finally heard Chris scream, and he left Nikita’s side briefly, to release Chris and pick him up. When he returned with Chris, Nikita choked on a sob, knowing on some level that her son needed her desperately now, and there was nothing she could do to help Faith.

Holding Chris in his arms, Michael sat next to Nikita. Eventually, he found a way to wrap his arms around both of them, and Nikita leaned against Michael’s chest for support, her tears slowing their course.

Miranda suctioned Faith’s nose and throat, and suddenly, Faith gave a loud cry. She was breathing again. Not only that, she was scared to death. She cried even more loudly once she realized that Chris was crying, too, and Nikita smiled through her tears, knowing how competitive her daughter could be. Even at a moment like this.

Miranda started the little girl on oxygen, and her color improved dramatically. Nikita chanted, "Thank you, thank you," over and over again, her hands almost in a gesture of prayer. Walter sighed and sniffed, his own tears running down his face now.

Miranda applied the ice to Faith’s armpits and groin, which would lower her fever immediately. "We can’t give her aspirin, Nikita, because of the risk of Reye’s Syndrome, but we can give acetaminophen. Do you have any?"

Walter nodded and bolted upstairs to the twins’ room, which was well stocked with anything they might need in a crisis. Kept under lock and key, for the safety of curious little eyes and hands and mouths, there was a stock of acetaminophen there. Liquid. For babies.

He handed the bottle to Miranda, who expertly dropped the requisite amount into Faith’s mouth after removing the oxygen. "She feels cooler already. Don’t worry about the seizure, Nikita. Very young children frequently seize when they have high fevers."

It was apparent that Miranda was very skilled indeed. She not only worked well under pressure, but she knew instinctively who needed to do something, and who needed emotional reassurance. She dispensed both with the greatest of ease. Walter was in awe of her. He was in love.

"Should we--should we worry about the fever, Miranda? Will it come back? Should she go to the hospital? What am I saying? Of course, she should. Shouldn’t she?" Nikita turned to Miranda, then to Michael, the entire experience clearly disorienting her.

Michael looked at Miranda. "What do you think, Miranda? You’re the expert."

"But you’re the parents." She smiled kindly.

Declan came back from the kitchen, breathless. "Ambulance will be here in five."

Birkoff followed. "Neil says, do whatever you have to do to stabilize her, then he’ll meet you at the hospital."

Miranda thanked them both for their quick assistance. Nikita suddenly realized just how lucky Faith had been, to be surrounded by such a loving family at a time like this. She sagged against Michael’s chest, almost breathing hard, for it had been a struggle of sorts to get through what happened.

Faith began flailing her arms and kicking her legs, but it was quickly apparent that this was no seizure. It was Faith’s way of letting the world know she was back to herself again, and she was not about to tolerate any further interventions without serious protest.

"Miranda, do you think she’ll be all right now?" Michael was quiet, but Nikita knew he was not calm inside. She could feel his heart pounding against her body. She alone knew how scared he was right now.

Miranda nodded. "Without knowing what’s causing the fever, it’s hard to say. But I don’t think this is anything more serious than roseola or an upper respiratory infection. We should know more when we get to the hospital."

Nikita seemed to shrink before his eyes. Michael kissed the top of her head. "What is it, love?"

"This isn’t how I saw us celebrating her birthday, Michael. It’s ruined."

Birkoff looked at Declan, and Declan looked back, shrugging. He was clearly disappointed that the birthday celebration might not take place, after all. But what could they do? Bring the party to the hospital? And what about poor Chris? It was his birthday, too. Now he would have no party, either.

In the aftermath of Faith’s near-death experience, they all began to think about the consequences it set into motion. Walter definitely blamed himself. More than that, Nikita blamed him, too. There was a rift between them now that would take powerful healing. As for Birkoff, he hadn’t even begun to process that this happened to his goddaughter. If he stopped to think about it, even once, he would have an anxiety attack, for certain.

Declan was upset, but not for more obvious reasons. He kept thinking about the incident in the kitchen earlier, and how he couldn’t forget some of the things he had managed to survive at Section. What was the point of survival, if you couldn’t go on with your life, as you knew it?

Miranda, for her part, silently applauded everyone. Including Walter. He had acted quickly, and he did not have a problem taking direction from a woman. A strong woman. She liked that. She was very favorably inclined toward Walter.

Nikita was holding together surprisingly well now, probably due to Michael’s presence and support, but she would need a relatively speedy resolution to Faith’s illness or she would begin to come apart again.

Michael? Michael was an enigma. At once cool and concerned. His feelings were not normally for public display, she suspected, but that was fine. He was there for Nikita, and his reaction to her pain and grief had been unhesitating.

This was a damned interesting family she had fallen into. She hoped they let her join.

When the ambulance left, it took two passengers with it. The patient, Faith Michelle Samuelle, age 1, and her mother, Nikita. Nikita refused to listen to anyone, insisting on riding in the back of the ambulance to the hospital with her baby daughter. The others would follow in the Jeep as soon as they could.

Miranda saw Walter’s pain, and she immediately went to him. "Walter, this was not your fault. You know that, right?"

"She blames me. Nikita blames me. I was responsible for taking care of Faith and Chris. So it is my fault, Miranda." Walter looked older than he had when he came in. His eyes red-rimmed from unobtrusive tears, Walter didn’t even think about going to the hospital with the others, fearing Nikita would cut him dead. It would break his heart. So he wouldn’t go.

Miranda put her hand on his arm. An hour earlier, Walter would have been thrilled to have her touch him. Now, he felt nothing. Nothing but pain. "There’s not going to be a birthday party, Miranda, I guess you figured that out. So there’s no reason for you to come over tomorrow. Won’t be much going on here."

"Walter!" Miranda could not believe the man was going to give up that easily. Everything she knew about people, and she was a good judge of character, told her that he was a fighter.

Michael came forward and shook Miranda’s hand. "Thank you," he said softly, "for saving my daughter’s life." He didn’t qualify it by saying that anyone was to blame for putting her life in jeopardy to begin with, so again, Miranda had to wonder why Walter and Nikita were at odds on this.

Once again, she complimented the two young men for their help and quick response. Obviously, they were well accustomed to performing under fire. She packed her equipment away, feeling saddened by Walter’s response. She had been so hopeful. This was a major disappointment. Guilt was one thing, but Walter could no more cause a communicable disease like roseola than he could fly. And even if it were as simple as an upper respiratory infection...oh, no...was that the reason? Nikita was lashing out at Walter because of her own guilt? Did she blame herself for somehow infecting Faith with her viral infection? No, no, no, this was all wrong, and she had to put her straight right away.

***

When Miranda got to the hospital, she saw Neil instantly. He was standing outside the PICU, talking to Michael. As she approached, she asked Michael how Nikita was faring. Michael shrugged, seemingly reluctant to discuss his wife any further with Miranda. She frowned, turning to look at the observation window, and she spotted Nikita right away. She was already arguing with the nurse in charge, evidently over being allowed to see her daughter.

Miranda cleared her throat and asked Neil if she could discuss something with him. Privately. He raised an eyebrow, but he nodded. Michael stared at Miranda, as if she were intruding, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was going on.

"Neil, did you call Madeline?" Miranda asked.

Neil glanced at Michael, who was now several feet away, but who was clearly watching them. "No, why?"

"Because Nikita is blaming Walter for causing Faith’s illness. Because she’s overreacting...badly. Pick one."

"You don’t understand Nikita, Miranda. She’s a first-time mother--"

"I know, I know, Neil. And first-time mothers give us staff the heebie jeebies. But that’s beside the point. She’s got something to be upset about, don’t get me wrong. Seeing her daughter lying, for all intents and purposes, dead on the floor had to throw her into a tizzy. But to blame Walter? Why?"

Neil sighed. "It’s a trifle difficult to explain Nikita sometimes."

"Try," Miranda all but barked.

"Well, for one thing, she expects bad things to happen...and of course, they do, to all of us, but when they happen to Nikita, she thinks she’s the reason. There’s always some connection in her head."

"Oh, thanks, that explains everything," she snorted.

"Short version, okay? She left the house with Michael this morning, and they were alone, for the first time in months. Translation: they made love. When she should have been home taking care of her babies, and making sure that Faith didn’t come down with some communicable disease."

Miranda nodded slowly. "So it’s her fault that Walter ended up taking care of the kids?" She whistled. "What a lesson in cause and effect."

"Only she’s in so much pain, she’s striking out at Walter, primarily, because he’s an easy target. But now, she’s pushing Michael away, too."

"Why?"

"That’s for Maddy to figure out. In the meantime, we have to find out what happened to Faith and help her get well."

Miranda almost saluted Neil. His assessment of the situation seemed accurate enough to her. It must be heart-wrenching for Michael, though, she thought. Watching his wife literally self-destruct before his eyes. No wonder he didn’t want to talk to Miranda.

***

Nikita sat in the darkened waiting room, a pillow in her lap. She kept clenching and unclenching her fists around the pillow. Michael stood in the shadows, watching her, but not speaking. She wouldn’t let anyone near her. For hours, she’d pushed everyone away, including him. He felt so bad now, he didn’t know if he could even tell Maddy.

"Nikita," he whispered, his voice barely audible. She turned her head towards the sound. "Michael?"

"Michael..." she said with a sob. "My baby...almost died."

"But she didn’t, doucette. She’s going to be okay. And she’s our baby, remember?" he corrected gently.

She pulled on the pillow in her lap. "She looked...dead, Michael."

"I know, love," he whispered, knowing he was crying. Alone. In the dark.

She heard the muffled noise, and she stood up, the pillow falling to the floor. "Michael!" She ran to him, throwing her arms around him, and he clung to her desperately. "I left you alone. I didn’t mean to, Michael. I’m so sorry..."

"You pushed me away on purpose, Kita. You don’t know how much that hurts."

She started crying again. "Michael, who was the first person I called for? You!" She swiped angrily at her tears.

"I was also the first person you left standing there when the ambulance drove away, Kita," he said bitterly.

He let go of her suddenly. He paced to the window and turned on his heel. "Faith isn’t just your child, Kita. You have to understand that. I needed to be with her just as much as you did."

She clapped a hand over her mouth, aghast at her mistake. "Oh, Michael..."

"And blaming Walter? That’s like blaming the sky because it rains! Or blaming the postman because he brings bills! Walter was an innocent bystander in all this, Nikita, and you know what? I know how he feels!"

Madeline stood in the doorway, hearing the last part of their argument, and she was sure that Neil had called her too late to prevent them from hurting one another. Especially when she heard the next few sentences.

"You know who you should blame? Blame yourself! That’s what you always do anyway! It must be your fault for being off making love, when you should have been guarding the free world against viral infection! Oh, that’s right! That was my fault! For making love to you! I kept you from being home! Now it’s my fault, too. Maybe it’s everybody’s fault, Kita!"

Michael was beyond upset. He had totally lost control, and that was something he rarely did anymore. But Madeline could see that the situation was extreme. She wasn’t sure if he was really to blame.

He turned away from her, not even registering Madeline’s presence. He leaned on the window sill and buried his face in his arms, sobbing every bit as hard as Nikita had earlier. Suddenly, with a wail of pain, he put his fist through the window pane, cutting himself. He didn’t even feel the wound he’d just inflicted upon himself. The wound in his heart was far greater. And it bled just as much, if not more, than the physical wound.

Nikita rushed towards him, but Madeline stopped her. "Haven’t you done enough for now?"

Nikita felt totally bereft. Michael had left her. Now Madeline. She couldn’t bring herself to speak to Walter. Who was left?

***

Birkoff knocked on Walter’s door. The older man was not asleep. No one was asleep in the Samuelle household tonight. "How’s the baby?" Walter asked anxiously.

Birkoff smiled. "Good news, Walter. They said she’s going to be okay. Neil said she just has a cold. Isn’t that amazing? But her nose and throat got all clogged up, which is what stopped her breathing. He wants us to keep a suction set up near the twins’ room at all times. Just for a while. To be on the safe side. He says it might be an allergy. So we should be on the lookout."

"A cold nearly killed her? Jeez...I’m getting way too old for this crap. Maybe I need to move on."

Birkoff looked askance. "You wouldn’t really go, would you, Walter?"

Walter looked more resigned than sad. "I might have to, Birkoff. I can’t live with what Nikita’s thinking, and know what? Neither can she."

***

Birkoff left Walter, immediately searching out Declan. Declan was lying on top of the bed, but he too was not asleep. He was staring at the ceiling, his grey eyes especially stormy tonight.

"Is Walter okay?" he asked Birkoff.

Birkoff nodded. "Yeah, but he’s talking about leaving. Declan, we’ve been through so much, and we’ve never split up yet. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?"

"I dunno, Sey. Things are getting mighty strange around here. Only this morning, things were pretty damn wonderful, if you ask me. And now...who the hell knows?"

Birkoff stared at Declan, his heart in his eyes. "Maybe I should have asked, are you okay, Declan?"

Declan sighed, and his breath caught on a sob. Birkoff was hovering solicitously over him a moment later. "What’s wrong? Declan, tell me what I can do! I’ll do anything! Only don’t tell me, you’re gonna leave me, too!"

"Did everyone in this house suddenly go mad? Faith nearly died, Sey, and there wasn’t a damned thing any one of us could have done about it! Thank God Walter brought Miranda here when he did. Otherwise, Faith would have died, and we’d all be blaming ourselves! But wait! She’s not dead, and look at us, we’re still blaming ourselves! If only this, if only that...it all leads to guilt, Sey! And where the hell does that get any of us but straight to Hell!"

Declan turned over onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. Birkoff leaned over him, longing to touch him, but not sure what to do, what he needed.

"Declan?"

"What?" came the muffled voice.

"I don’t know what to say. Just..." He shrugged. "I love you."

"And thank God you do, Sey! Thank God for you!" Declan turned onto his back, his eyes filled with tears, and Birkoff was at a loss.

Declan held out his arms finally, and Birkoff settled against his chest. Declan wept for Faith, and what might have been her fate. He wept for Walter, and what might still be his fate. And he wept for Chris, who even now was sleeping upstairs without knowing what had happened to his sister.

Birkoff had never seen Declan this overtly upset. Declan’s arms were around him. Even as Declan cried, he tried to reassure Birkoff instead of himself.

His tears running back into his hair, Declan stroked Birkoff’s hair, kissing it now and then, as if he found him to be the most precious thing in the world to him . In a world on the verge of collapse, he was.

Nikita was completely and utterly alone. She sat on the edge of her chair in the waiting room outside the PICU. The crisis was over. Faith would be fine. Neil had already reassured her that it was nothing more than an upper respiratory infection, in other words, a cold. But its onset had nothing whatsoever to do with Nikita’s illness. It was coincidence and nothing more.

Now, Nikita was waiting to take her daughter home. Home to what? Her husband was wounded, perhaps beyond repair this time. Madeline, her newly designated "Mom", had turned away from Nikita, disdain written in every inch of her classically beautiful face. Walter, she couldn’t even think of him without wincing. How would they ever close the gap between them? Such wounds could not be easily healed. What if she wasn’t given enough time to make things right?

Only yesterday, she lay in Michael’s arms, dreaming beneath the dawn skies. He said he loved her, enough to forgive her almost anything. She could only hope and pray that it was true. Without him, her life would mean nothing. She pressed her index finger to her temple. Her head was pounding with a tension headache. No wonder.

Nikita turned at the sound of footsteps in the hall outside. Maybe it was Michael? Coming back to her? Her heart skipped a beat. It was Neil. He carefully kept any judgmental expression off his face, regarding her with bland affect. He produced several papers for her to sign, handing her a pen. All without speaking a word.

Nikita looked up at Neil, her eyes still reddened from crying after Michael left with Madeline. She didn’t dare ask. She didn’t dare not ask. "Neil? Is Michael okay?" she whispered hoarsely.

His eyes closed for a second. It was his only concession to the emotion he felt for the couple. "Nikita...he sliced up his wrist pretty badly, which is why it bled so much. But he didn’t sever any tendons or muscles."

When in doubt as to what to say, Neil took refuge in the technical details or the physical description of a case. That way, he didn’t have to relay to Nikita just how bad things were between her and Michael right now.

***

The subject of this discussion was sitting in an exam room, grimacing as his wrist was stitched back together. He thought he looked more and more like Frankenstein’s monster. Maybe that was only fitting. Madeline stood in a corner of the room, her pregnancy seemingly more pronounced by the severity of the black dress she wore.

Madeline deeply felt the rift between her and Nikita. It was something she regretted having to do, but if the decision had to be made again, she would do the same thing. Choose Michael. That was the way of triage. Take the most wounded first. It wasn’t just the fact that Michael was literally spilling his blood all over the floor. It was the emotional damage Nikita had caused. When she looked into Michael’s eyes, she was actually frightened. He had directed his anger, his frustration, and his wounded heart into the blow that smashed the window pane. This time.

Still, she wasn’t afraid he would hurt Nikita. He would hurt himself first before he would allow that. And that was precisely what worried Madeline.

She moved closer to Michael as the stitching ended finally. Michael looked at Madeline, his face a study in how not to give anything away. "Did you check on Nikita, like I asked?"

Madeline shook her head. "I couldn’t. She left."

Michael all but jumped off the table. "She what? You let her go? Without telling me?"

She touched his arm, and Michael flinched, shaking off her touch as if it burned him. "You said you were on my side, Maddy. How could you do this to me? You knew I wanted to see her!"

Michael wiped at his eyes. He’d been alternately angry and tearful since the incident with Nikita. "She’s all alone, Maddy. That’s not right. She needs me."

"Michael, I’m trying to protect you. You’re very angry right now. Very hurt. If she provokes you--"

Michael’s eyes grew dull, the wetness of his tears doing nothing to illuminate their depths. "I thought you of all people understood, Maddy. I need her. I can’t live without her. She’s...the other half of me." Michael looked at the bandage on his right wrist and held up his wrist to Madeline. "This...means nothing to me."

Madeline nodded. It was true, Michael and Nikita did have a history of hurting and healing one another. Perhaps they were the only ones who could accomplish this. She could only help.

Michael swayed, a bit unsteady on his feet. Madeline helped him balance himself, saying, ""It’s the pain medication they gave you, Michael. You’re in no condition to drive home."

He turned his tortured green gaze upon Madeline once more. "You can’t mean to keep me here, Maddy. I need to be with Kita."

Madeline helped him walk towards the door, slowly. She opened the door, and much to her surprise, there was a figure slumped over in a chair just outside the door. No, it was two figures.

It was Nikita. And Faith.

***

She was waiting for Michael. She didn’t care how long it took. She didn’t care what he thought or felt about her being there. She had to see him, make certain he was all right. Oh, God, she couldn’t lie to herself. He was the other half of her. Without him, she could not go on. Or go home. There would be no home without him. No life for her and their babies.

She held Faith in her arms, and her baby girl, who tugged at her hair and her heart, especially when she looked so much like Michael, slept. Madeline stopped in the doorway suddenly, and Michael didn’t understand why. Madeline debated for all of two seconds. It must be fate. Who was she to argue with whatever God wanted these two to be together?

Madeline stepped away from Michael, releasing her grip on his body. "Can you manage by yourself?"

"Are you abandoning me, Maddy?" Michael looked stricken. He needed something or someone to cling to, he could admit that much.

She shook her head and pointed in Nikita’s direction. Michael turned and almost fell. Nikita heard the noise and looked up. Sapphires and emeralds. Blue eyes met green.

Madeline moved away, almost silently, and watched as the two struggled to say something at the same time.

"Ki-ta!" he breathed. "They told me you were gone."

"I couldn’t go without seeing you, Michael." She had no pride. She would openly beg his forgiveness, and she didn’t care who saw it.

He awkwardly pulled her to her feet, his right hand feeling as if it weren’t quite attached to his body. She immediately saw the size of the bandage and her face crumpled. More tears. "Oh, Michael...please forgive me..."

"Only if you forgive me." He searched her eyes anxiously, yearning to touch her.

"There’s nothing for me to forgive, Michael. You were right. I was wrong. I know it doesn’t really make up for anything, but I love you. Too much to let you go without a fight." Her mouth was set in a stubborn line congruent with her statement.

"You were sitting outside here the whole time?"

She nodded. "Along with Faith." She indicated the sleeping child in her arms.

Michael looked down at his daughter, tenderness bringing more tears to his already tear-drenched eyes. "Is she okay?"

Nikita looked at him, aghast. "Neil didn’t tell you? He told me. Oh, Michael, that’s too cruel."

Michael pulled the two of them into his embrace, taking care not to disturb the sleeping baby. "It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, Kita. As long as we’re together."

"We can work this out, Michael."

She sounded determined. He smiled through his tears. "We have to, Kita. We’re meant to be together."

"I love you, Michael."

"I love you so damn much, Kita." He kissed her, and she kissed him back, her heart dancing happily within her chest, rejoicing at their tearful reunion.

Michael was already feeling the effects of the pain medication when he found Nikita and Faith outside the exam room. That and his injured right wrist made it impossible for him to drive home. Nikita didn’t even ask Michael, she reached into his jacket pocket and felt around for the keys to the Jeep.

He smiled crookedly at Nikita. She took one look at his face and asked, "What did they give you, Michael?"

"Something to kill the pain, Kita." He sighed heavily. "Some of it, anyway." That inadvertently reminded her of what she had done. She hooked a long strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear, a self-conscious gesture that usually meant she was feeling uncomfortable.

She shifted Faith to her right arm and asked Michael to lean most of his weight on her left side so she could help him walk to the car. "I’m not out on my feet, Kita," he said, nearly slurring his words.

"Not yet, you mean," she said.

***

When they arrived home, a strange sensation came over Nikita. Maybe it was seeing that the lights were still on, even though it was nearly 3 AM. Maybe it was remembering the ambulance arriving in the driveway, sirens blaring, lights flashing. It was like an all-out Section alarm. It made her skin crawl.

She could barely hold onto Michael and Faith now. She stopped on the porch, to let Michael sit down on the steps to wait for her, so she could take the baby inside safely. She nearly ran upstairs, holding onto Faith tightly. When she approached the babies’ room, she slowed down, placing her into the cradle that bore her name shortly afterwards. "Sleep, Fee," she whispered to the sleeping child, "I have to take care of your father."

Moments later, she was back downstairs, trying to lift a nearly-sedated Michael up onto his feet again. It was not easy, but she managed. The only dangerous part of their trip was getting upstairs, but slowly, she was able to help Michael to the landing. Once there, they walked a bit more quickly to the master bedroom they shared.

Michael pulled at his clothing, frowning at the weakness in his right arm. "You’ll have to help me, doucette." She disrobed him with considerable alacrity, pushing him onto the bed when she finished. Michael looked up at her, his face as vulnerable as Faith’s now. That was when she realized how much power she held to hurt him. She had to be careful.

Clad only in his shorts, he reached for her, but she dodged his arms. Michael looked disappointed. "Sleep with me, doucette. I’m so tired."

"I don’t want to leave Faith alone, Michael. She needs me."

"I need you." It was true. He did. And somehow, under the influence of the drugs in his system, he couldn’t help but admit this to her.

"She can’t take care of herself, Michael."

"Neither can I, doucette. Not right now. I hurt so much."

"I thought the painkillers were making you sleepy."

"That’s not the pain I meant," he confessed.

"Michael, you’re not even capable." She knew she was rejecting him, but she couldn’t help it. She was too anxious about Faith to even consider staying anywhere but right by her side.

"I wasn’t suggesting we make love, Kita. I need you. Here. In my arms." Michael looked weary. "Please." He was pleading with her now. He needed to know he mattered to her. He needed to know he was more than just the twins’ father. A means to an ends. Someone to give her children, only to be forgotten.

"Michael, don’t make me choose between you and our children."

He winced. "Is that the way it is then? All or nothing? I give you the children you dreamed of, and I get lost in the shuffle?" He would cry, but there were no more tears. And some pain went too deep for tears to be shed.

She sank to her knees on the carpet, level with his legs, dangling over the end of the bed. She gave a little cry and gently placed her head on his knee, kissing it tenderly. "Michael, I love you. I’m not ever going to give you up. Not even for our children." He reached out with his good hand and stroked her hair.

Thank God, he thought to himself. If she’d said anything else, he didn’t know what he would have done. His hand moved rhythmically against her hair, and it was obvious that this gesture was one Michael found particularly soothing.

"Thank you, doucette," he said, meaning it. What limited energy he still had he wanted to expend on her.

He stood up, shakily, and Nikita tried to steady him. "Michael, what are you trying to do?

"You want to sleep in the babies’ room, doucette? I know you do. But I won’t let you stay there alone. You shouldn’t be alone...and I can’t be...not now."

Just when she thought there were no more tears left to cry, her eyes blurred with fresh tears. "You would do that for me?"

"I love you. I know what you need," he said simply.

"And I love you," she said, standing up and clasping his good hand. "And I know what you need."

They lay down on the bed, facing each other, their hands reaching for each other. Michael kissed her tenderly, while Nikita’s hands found his face, rubbing his cheeks with her thumbs. Slowly, he explored her mouth, feeling his breath catch in the back of his throat, if he stopped to think about how close he was to losing her.

They wrapped their arms around each other, as they kissed, their love for each other never more evident than now. "When I think I could have lost you..."

"Don’t," she said, pressing a finger to Michael’s lips. "No more pain."

He pulled her into his embrace, clumsily, because of the injury to his right hand. Everywhere he touched her, it felt bittersweet inside. Maybe the pain overshadowed the good they’d created out of love. That worried him.

Then she touched him, her long fingers delicately moving through his hair, and he closed his eyes at the intense wave of sweetness it awakened in him. He grasped her wrist and gently turned it over, kissing the inside of her arm. He had no words, only gestures, to express his love.

She traced his face, lovingly, and felt the tears trickling down from the corners of his eyes. "I’m so...so...sorry, Michael," she whispered against his mouth, leaning her forehead against his.

"Heal me. Please. I don’t want to hurt anymore."

She closed his eyelids with her fingertips, one at a time. "Then sleep, Michael...and when you wake, the pain will be gone..."

"If I close my eyes to sleep, Kita...you’ll go away...won’t you?" He sounded so lost, so forlorn.

She couldn’t lie to him. Not now. Not when he gratefully placed his heart in her keeping. How could she leave him? She had never been so torn.

"Yes..." came her sibilant whisper.

He cried in her arms, and she held him, repeatedly kissing his hair, his forehead, his cheeks. "Michael, please don’t. You’re breaking my heart."

He buried his face against her neck, his lips warm but dry, as if he were thirsting for something. "I love you," he said, brokenly. "Please stay."

That he, who was normally so strong, was now so vulnerable, was not lost on her. She had done this to him. Made him fear losing her. Made him feel less important than the children. Made him feel like her love had conditions upon it.

She raised his face to hers and kissed him as sweetly as she could. "I love you, Michael. I don’t want to lose you. You’re too important to me."

She cautiously sat up in bed, reaching out to Michael to bring him with her. He could barely focus his eyes. He needed to sleep, but he would resist as long as she would not stay.

She pulled him against her, and together, they stood up, much more unsteadily now. Nikita grabbed the blankets off the bed and wrapped them around Michael. Using the blankets to pull him behind her, she took his good hand and led him into the twins’ room. She built a cozy little nest of blankets on the floor between the cradles, and then she tugged on him, to settle the two of them inside that nest.

She wrapped her arms around Michael, kissing him thoroughly. "Now you have me. And I have you. And we both have the kids. Is this okay?"

He nodded sleepily. "O-kay."

"Stay here with me till I fall asleep, doucette."

"We can both sleep now, Michael."

He smiled, almost as if it were against his will, and she knew he had used the last of his energy on that smile.

They both slept, huddled together like two children playing house under the blankets.

Walter heard them come in, of course, but he lay on his bed, listening as they moved through the house, then upstairs. For the longest time, he fought with himself, knowing he wanted to see that Nikita was all right, that Michael was all right, that Faith was all right. But he couldn’t seem to move. It was if his pain chained him to the bed. When he could hear no more movement upstairs, he cautiously ventured outside his room.

Almost stalking through the upper level of the house, Walter finally paused outside their bedroom. He didn’t hear anything. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. If they were inside, the door would be locked. He tried the door, and it opened under his hand. He looked into the room, and he saw at once the evidence of their earlier visit. Clothing strewn on the floor, blankets missing from the bed. Ah, now he knew where he would find them.

Walter stopped outside the babies’ room, knowing this room would not be locked, for it was imperative that everyone have access in an emergency. It took every bit of courage he could summon up, but he gently pushed open the door, hearing it creak every so slightly. That was how he found them. Asleep. On the floor. Wrapped in blankets. Their arms around each other.

He slowly backed out of the room, closing the door as he went. He would not disturb them. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway.

***

Declan, too, heard them come in. Like Walter, he registered their movements throughout the house until they went upstairs. But unlike Walter, he had his own reasons for not letting them know he was awake or aware of their return. The main reason was lying in his arms right now, finally asleep. Seymour.

Birkoff had listened to Declan cry without saying a word, but he was visibly anxious. Declan was his rock. Nothing got to him. Till now. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, to help. He only knew to offer his love, which Declan gladly accepted. Birkoff fell asleep, finally, more from exhaustion than anything else, and Declan was loath to move him. Both still fully clothed, they were lying on top of the bed, where they had gone when the incident with Faith first occurred.

Declan sighed. It would be time to get up soon. He didn’t know what to expect. Part of him wanted to stay right here and hold Seymour, forgetting about anyone or anything else. But he knew that wouldn’t work for long. Sooner or later, they all had to confront the consequences of what happened, and how things had shifted within their makeshift family.

***

When Nikita opened her eyes again, it was late morning. She found Michael already awake, his green eyes studying her. "Good morning."

"How come you didn’t wake me, Michael?"

"You looked like you needed the rest, Kita. I changed and fed the babies, and they’re anxious to see you." With that, Michael turned over onto his back, cautiously moving his right arm, wincing at the obvious pain still present.

"Michael! Did they give you a prescription for pain?"

"Yes, but we left the hospital so late, we never had it filled, Kita."

His eyes were clear, he wasn’t blaming her, but she felt guilty nevertheless. She took his right hand in hers, very gingerly, and kissed his fingertips, which were the only part of his hand exposed from the bandage. "I’ll go get it filled, Michael. As soon as I get dressed."

He smiled at her eagerness to please him now. "You don’t have to treat me any differently, Kita. Just don’t take me for granted. I don’t want to fall between the cracks again."

Here she was, wondering how much of their early-morning interlude he remembered, and apparently, he had perfect recall. As if reading her mind, he said, "I was tired and in pain, Kita, not confused."

She nodded. She kissed him, her hands framing his face, and he responded by kissing her back, his own hands covering hers gently.

"As much as I would like to make love to you, I think we need to go downstairs and start working on getting things back to normal around here. Some people are still very upset, Kita." His emphasis was unmistakable. He meant Walter.

She shuddered at the thought of having to face Walter. It was not going to be easy.

***

When Michael came downstairs, there was movement in the kitchen. Walter was alone, getting a cup of coffee. Declan and Birkoff were nowhere to be seen. No evidence of a meal either.

"Walter?"

The older man turned to face Michael. He had aged overnight. He looked terrible, his eyes sunken into his face, his face all the more ravaged for the emotional stress and strain he’d suffered. And by the looks of it, he continued to suffer.

"Michael." His tone was flat and very uncharacteristic of Walter.

Michael didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t good with people, and he knew it. But he felt a special bond with Walter. He didn’t want to lose that. He reached for Walter’s hand and shook it. "Thank you for saving Faith’s life."

Walter’s eyes filled with tears. "I didn’t do anything, Michael. I brought Miranda, that’s all. That’s the luckiest thing I ever did, too. That is one amazing woman."

"Walter, you’re not responsible for what happened to Faith."

"I know. But does she?" Walter suddenly looked behind Michael to where he saw Nikita peering into the room.

"I think she realizes she was wrong, Walter."

"Well, I can’t forgive that easy, Michael. I’m not you."

When Nikita finally managed to get up the nerve to join the two men, Walter gave her the cold shoulder. She tried to apologize to Walter, but his manner was so aloof, she didn’t know what to say to reach him.

She put her hand on his arm, and he looked down at it, as if she were a stranger who walked in off the street. That hurt. She drew back, stuttering, "D-dad, please don’t shut me out, I need to talk to you."

Walter wrenched his arm away from her, his boots clattering loudly as he stalked away. "Don’t you ever call me that again...Nikita."

When Walter left, Nikita started to cry. Michael held her, and she lay her head on his shoulder. "Michael, what am I going to do?"

"He called me Nikita, Michael. Not Sugar. He doesn’t want to be my Dad anymore."

"It’s up to you to make another move, Kita. You’re the only one who can heal the rift between you two. No one else can do it for you."

Broken-hearted for the second time in as many days, Nikita sobbed on Michael’s shoulder. "I don’t know what to say..."

He stroked her hair lightly. "You’ll think of something, doucette."

***

But she didn’t think of something. Not that day. Or the next. Or the next. The bitter silence between Walter and Nikita went on and on. It upset everyone, not just the two involved, because it was a symptom of what had gone wrong within the household. Trust had been violated. Factions formed in its wake. People took sides. They didn’t want to, but they did.

Declan made breakfast, slamming his pots and pans around with a curious disregard for their welfare nowadays. He was seldom on the edge of his control like this, and he disliked the feeling intensely. But Nikita never called a house meeting, and so, things that should have been discussed never got discussed...and the emotional stalemate between her and Walter continued.

To make matters worse, the tension was beginning to tell on the older man. He just didn’t look like himself anymore. It was a tragedy in more ways than one.

Declan served breakfast, but it was clear he didn’t care what Nikita ate, or even if she did eat. Which it didn’t appear she did. Even under the best of circumstances, she had little appetite, but now, under this kind of stress, Nikita barely ate at all, a fact only noted by her husband thus far. Michael tried to coax Nikita to eat something, but she resisted, tears not far away as usual.

Finally, something within Declan snapped. "Look at you! Being treated like a child! If the woman doesn’t want to eat, don’t make her eat, Michael! She can bloody well starve to death, for all I care!"

Michael turned steely grey eyes on Declan. "You’re out of line, Declan. I know you’re upset--"

"You’re bloody right I’m upset! Does anybody care whether or not Walter eats? The man you called your father, Nikita, is sitting in his room, day after day, fading away to nothing! Just because you can’t bring yourself to apologize!"

Michael stood up, his body clearly in a protective stance. "I said that’s enough, Declan."

Declan spun away on his heel, all but running into the kitchen. He didn’t want trouble with Michael. This whole thing was spinning wildly out of control. He leaned over the sink, feeling sick at his stomach from emotional turmoil. He needed everything to be all right again. This roller-coaster they were on right now was destroying him.

Birkoff walked into the kitchen. "Nikita’s crying again. Did something else happen?"

"Yeah, I happened, Sey! How do you like that? I just tore her head off for not apologizing to Walter! And you know what? I’ll probably do it again! What she’s doing to that old man is just...unfair!"

Birkoff stared at Declan. This could not be the same person he had fallen in love with. "It’s killing her, Declan! She tried to apologize, but Walter won’t speak to her! How is she supposed to get through to him if he won’t talk to her?"

"How the hell would I know? All I know is, Walter’s in a bad way, and you, of all people, should be on his side, Sey! You’re practically like his son!"

"That doesn’t make me blind to his faults, Declan! He’s abusing Nikita now! I can’t believe I have to defend her to you!"

"I can’t either! You’re preaching to the wrong man, boyo! I don’t care what happens to her, but I can’t stand what she’s doing to Walter!"

"You don’t mean that, Declan!"

Declan took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yeah. I do."

"You love Nikita!" Birkoff cried, pain ripping through his heart.

"Not anymore!" Declan shouted back.

Birkoff stopped dead. If Declan didn’t love Nikita anymore, if he could become disenchanted with someone that way, what did it mean for him and Declan? Their commitment was only as good as...as what? Today? Next month? Next year? He’d thought they had always and forever. Was that all a lie?

Declan watched as Birkoff’s feelings played across his all too expressive face. He reached out a hand to Birkoff, but Birkoff stepped back quickly. "Is that what you’re going to tell me someday, Declan? Sorry, Seymour, I don’t love you anymore? I thought we were about forever, Declan! Or was that some dumb lie we made up to justify sleeping with each other?"

"No, no...Sey, you’ve got it all wrong. I love you. This thing with Walter and Nikita, it doesn’t have anything to do with us."

"Maybe it does, Declan." Birkoff trembled at the thought of losing Declan. When he left the kitchen, his eyes were wet.

***

Nikita put her head down on the table and cried. Michael rubbed the back of her neck, feeling how tight her muscles were. "Michael, everything is breaking down. Falling apart. Everything we built here. The way we’ve always counted on each other. It’s all coming apart. Spiraling out of control."

Michael couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. Hearing Declan and Birkoff argue like that, through the kitchen door, was heartbreaking. Here were two people who finally found each other, and now what? They were going to lose each other? Over what?

Michael kissed the back of Nikita’s neck. He didn’t have the answers. He wished he did.