Declan actually managed to whistle while he contemplated how best to approach cleaning up the kitchen. It was a new day, a beautiful morning, and even the fact that the flour and water had now set and congealed in an alarmingly unappealing manner across the chateau’s kitchen did not daunt him. He didn’t anticipate getting any help. So he was surprised to see Michael stop in the doorway.

"Michael! You must be hungry. Sorry, but the kitchen is still a bit of a mess."

Michael shook his head, a rare smile gracing his lips. "I didn’t come here to eat, Declan. I came to talk to you."

Declan suddenly looked afraid. What had he done? Was he being asked to leave? Things had been going so well again... As if sensing Declan’s disquieting thoughts, Michael hastily reassured him that he had good news for him.

"For me?" Declan almost squeaked. "From who?"

"A special friend, apparently. Madeline."

Declan smiled in relief. "Oh." That single word said it all.

Michael had been thinking about this for a long time. It gave him the utmost of pleasure to be able to say this to Declan. "Declan, Madeline wanted you to know that she is re-naming her son in your honor."

Michael was very careful not to mention Justin’s name or that Madeline had mistakenly tried to honor Declan through his brother. "She’s chosen a new name."

"Oh?" Declan blinked. He wasn’t sure that he much cared for surprises anymore.

"The baby’s new name is Connor. After you." Michael paused and waited for Declan’s reaction.

Declan looked as stunned as he felt inside. "You’re kidding."

Michael laughed. "Sorry, I’m not noted for my sense of humor."

No stranger to self-deprecation, Declan chuckled at that. "She’s really naming him after me?"

Michael nodded. Declan pondered a moment, trying to figure out how Madeline found out his middle name.

Michael answered Declan’s question even before he could voice it. "Birkoff told her."

Suddenly Michael found himself communicating with Declan with a shorthand usually found between operatives who worked on the same teams for months or even years. Operatives close enough to live in each other’s pockets. Operatives like Michael and Nikita.

Declan wanted to hug Michael, but he felt slightly awkward about it. Michael felt no such compunction. He went ahead and embraced the younger man, clapping him heartily on the back with both hands.

"I’ve been waiting for a moment like this to tell you something, Declan." Michael’s mouth quirked at the corner and Declan speculated about what that tiny gesture might mean.

Declan nodded encouragingly. "And?"

"I never had a brother. Just the one sister. And she was much younger than me. Our relationship was understandably different than the average brother and sister. When our parents died, I raised Rose. So I was more of a father than a brother to her."

Declan smiled, still uncertain why Michael was telling him this. As if he were reading Declan’s mind, Michael said, "I respect you, Declan...no, it’s a bit more complicated than that. I sometimes see myself in you, and maybe it’s just because we were both field ops in Section, but...I see you as part of the family now."

Declan couldn’t find the words to respond to that. What an incredible day this was, and it just kept getting better.

Michael hugged Declan, whispering, "You’re like the brother I never had, Declan. I really care about you."

Michael was still shy about expressing certain feelings, even within the family, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to use the word ‘love’, in relation to Declan, though he was equally sure it applied.

So it was that they came to be hugging one another in the middle of the flour-encrusted kitchen. That was when Birkoff saw them together. He literally walked between them, forcing them apart. Then he stood there, bobbing his head up and down slowly, as if he’d come to some sort of conclusion.

"Excuse me...anyone remember me? Nice to see the two of you getting so...chummy."

If Michael didn’t know better, he would swear that Birkoff was...well...jealous. "Birkoff, it’s not what you think."

That was when Declan saw Birkoff’s eyes twinkle. "And they say the wife is always the last to know..."

Michael’s eyes widened in astonishment. He looked from one to the other, and then he laughed. "You’re more understanding than Kita would be, Birkoff."

Declan stared at Michael. "I think it would kill her, just between you and me."

Birkoff snickered, and suddenly all three of them were laughing. Until Nikita appeared in the doorway, obviously searching for Michael. They all stopped laughing at once. Which, of course, raised all the tiny little hairs on the back of Nikita’s neck.

I was looking for you, Michael. What’s up?"

"I was just sharing some good news with the family."

"And what am I? Invisible?" she snapped.

"Doucette!" Michael said, taken aback at Nikita’s response. He could only stand there and wonder what was wrong, like the others.

Nikita flushed angrily, unable to put into words what she had just discovered. She stormed off, not even looking back at Michael.

Michael looked helplessly from Declan to Birkoff. "I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into her."

Birkoff nodded at Michael, then met Declan’s amused glance head-on. "Some wives are so emotional."

"Or unpredictable," Michael supplied.

Declan laughed and said, as he put an arm around Michael’s neck, "If I were you, I’d save myself the heartache and go find her now. Less wear and tear on the old psyche."

Michael grinned. "You’re right."

***

Michael found Nikita. Sprawled across the floor of what passed for a laundry room at the chateau. There were two washing machines and dryers in the room, and evidently, Nikita had been busy, for there was fresh laundry stacked neatly on top of two of the dryers. The room was terribly warm, and it had no outside window, which made it difficult to ventilate. It was one of the things that Michael wanted to renovate.

He stared at where Nikita lay, her body draped across two huge piles of clean clothing. At least the room smelled fresh and clean, if it was a bit humid. "Kita?"

"Go away," came the muffled response.

She burrowed her way deeper into the pile of clothing. It smelled heavenly, and the clothes were soft beneath her face. It would have been quite enjoyable except for one thing.

She wasn’t pregnant.

Michael knelt amongst the clothing, touching Nikita on the shoulder. She turned suddenly, so suddenly, he nearly jumped back. Her sapphire blue eyes rapidly filled with tears at her first sight of Michael. "Oh, Michael..."

In an instant, he was at her side, lying right next to her. "Kita! What is it, doucette?"

She looked down, and he ran both his hands under her hair, lifting her face up to his. "Tell me, belle amante."

When she met his eyes, it was only with great reluctance. She knew how much he wanted this to happen, too. It would not be something that either of them would take lightly. "Oh, Michael, I’m not pregnant."

He looked puzzled for a moment. Then he knew. He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. If he shed tears, too, they could not be seen. "It takes time, doucette. It wasn’t so long ago, you stopped taking the pills."

"But I wanted it to happen, Michael. The first time, it happened so quickly...I thought--"

He kissed her. As tenderly as he possibly could. "The first time was magic, Kita. It doesn’t often happen that way."

"But we’ll keep trying, won’t we?" Nikita asked anxiously.

He kissed her again, this time much less chastely. "We’ll keep trying till we get it right, Kita." He licked her mouth, and she smiled. "No matter how long it takes."

She tingled all the way down her spine. Michael pressed her back into the soft, deep pile of clothing, and her arms gradually crept around his neck. She stared at his mouth, fixed with a longing she couldn’t express any other way. His face came closer, and before she closed her eyes, she saw that he had cried, too. That had the effect of heightening the sensation of closeness they shared.

She opened her mouth, and he sweetly made his way inside, penetrating her ever so slowly. Their faces were so close, his eyelashes swept across her cheek as he kissed her. She held his face in her hands, her fingers splayed against one cheek, as he took his time exploring her mouth.

"I love you, doucette."

Her body cramped and wept for its loss. There would be no child this month. But their love transcended this.

"I love you, my Michael."

"You’re sure you feel up to this, Declan?" Birkoff asked nervously as Declan adjusted and readjusted the tie he insisted on wearing.

"Yep," he said, snapping the tie into place one last time.

"It’s not going to be a pretty sight, you know."

"I know."

One might have thought that Birkoff and Declan were contemplating going to a funeral instead of a restaurant. But then again, this was not just any restaurant. This was a first-class French restaurant. Declan had bravely suggested another attempt at dining out. With the twins in tow.

"Maybe we would be better off trying McDonald’s first. That way we could always work our way up to a really classy place like Chez Jacques."

"You have no confidence in us, do you?" Declan sighed.

"It’s not that, Dec. But jeez, you know how they can be, even under the best of circumstances. Why French food?"

"Maybe cause we’re in France, Sey?" Declan reached out and tweaked Birkoff’s nose, and Birkoff managed a chuckle despite his misgivings about the evening.

He whistled when he saw the final result of all of Declan’s fussing. "You look...pretty damn good, Dec."

"All dressed up and no place to go?" Declan grinned at Birkoff. "Only we’ve got a place to go, Sey. We’ll be fine. You worry too much."

"I hope you’re right." Birkoff kissed Declan lightly.

"Not that I mind, but what was that for?" Declan asked with a devilish grin.

"Might be the last chance I get. If this place is as posh as they say."

"What? They don’t allow people to kiss each other?" Declan snorted inelegantly.

"Not people like us, Declan." Birkoff looked troubled.

Declan gripped Birkoff’s cheeks with both hands. "Don’t you ever say anything like that again, Sey. I swear." Declan risked mussing his splendid evening attire by pulling Birkoff into a tight embrace. Pressing Birkoff’s head to his shoulder, Declan closed his angry grey eyes and clenched his teeth.

"You’re every bit as good as any of them. Better." He didn’t care what anyone said to him, but he wouldn’t ever subject Birkoff to the same kind of torture he’d undergone as a young teen confronting his alternative sexuality.

"Is this why you don’t want to go? Then we won’t go, Sey." Declan clipped off each word sharply, fueled by an anger he was just now allowing himself to feel.

"Declan, we can go, it’s okay. We just need to be, you know, discreet." Birkoff shifted uncomfortably in Declan’s arms, idly playing with a strand of Declan’s long red hair.

"Oh, I get it. Now you’re telling me to back off and not kiss you."

"Well...in a word...yeah. I don’t like it anymore than you do, Declan, but frankly, we’ve been living a dream here. Out in the real world, people aren’t as accepting as Michael and Nikita. You and I both know it."

Declan wanted to deny what Birkoff said, but the truth was staring him in the face, and he’d never been one to hide from the truth. "Yeah," he said softly, releasing Birkoff from his embrace and taking a slow step back.

Birkoff raised his eyes to Declan’s, intentionally stroking his cheek as he stepped closer. "Hey, we’ve got it pretty good, you know? Some people don’t ever get this lucky, Dec. But we did. And I love how you’re willing to fight for us. But you’re the one who told me it was important to pick your fights. This isn’t one of them."

Declan nodded reluctantly. "Let’s go."

***

Declan smiled as he put Faith into the car seat behind him. She loved to go for a ride. Especially with her uncles. Declan and Birkoff made a point to take the twins out for a drive at least once a week. The result was, they were well-used to traveling in the Jeep, and they rarely fussed about anything. Declan was hoping that the same approach would work with eating out in a restaurant. But he didn’t hold out much hope that this would happen. There were simply too many variables. This was a whole lot more complicated than passively sitting in a car seat could ever be.

Faith smiled at Declan. "Unca Dec!" she chortled at him, her beautiful but mutable eyes taking on a decidedly jadelike color at the moment. He leaned over and gave Faith a kiss. She used the proximity to grab a handful of his hair and put it into her mouth.

Apparently deciding that his hair didn’t taste quite the same as it looked, Faith spat it out. "Ugh! Bad!"

"You’re a fine one to talk, miss. You greedy little princess, you." Faith giggled when Declan talked. Declan assumed it was his Irish accent. It was so very different from her father’s softly accented voice.

"Are you going to be a good girl for Uncle Declan then?" Faith stopped giggling as if she were considering this. He wasn’t sure how much she understood, but she was surprisingly precocious for her age. As was her brother.

Declan looked over his shoulder and saw Birkoff approaching with Chris in his arms. "Here’s the little prince himself," said Birkoff as he handed Chris to Declan. Declan fitted Chris into the other car seat and made sure he was fastened in securely.

"How does Chris seem today?" Declan asked hopefully.

Birkoff replied, "Fairly quiet. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all."

***

Famous last words. That’s what Birkoff was thinking later. It all started with the arrival of the food.

The twins were at the age where finger foods were appropriate for them. They liked to eat and run. Sometimes it was even difficult to slow them down enough to give them something nourishing to take with them, but normally, they were no more active than any other child their age. But this was clearly not the place for that kind of behavior, child or no child.

To head off that kind of restlessness, Birkoff strapped Faith into a booster chair at the table. Chris was similarly confined for the same reason. But just because they couldn’t run and play hide ‘n’ seek with the restaurant patrons didn’t mean that they were sitting quietly. Oh, no, not Michael and Nikita’s children.

Birkoff’s food lay untouched so far while he struggled to get Faith to eat something. "No!" Faith cried, turning her head so that the spoon Birkoff held missed her mouth.

Birkoff despaired of ever eating again. He was starving now and all he could do was to look longingly at his plate. "But Faith, you like applesauce, sweetie," he said, trying to cajole her into tasting her food.

"No!" Faith shook her head vehemently.

Birkoff sighed as he put the spoon down. He looked at Declan, to see if he was faring any better, and he saw that Faith’s resistance was becoming contagious.

Declan wiped a blob of food from his eyebrow carefully. "If anyone else did that, I’d have to kill them. But you, my fine princeling, are being churlish and contrary. Hardly the behavior of an up and coming prince."

Chris laughed delightedly. This was a great game. He never got to fling food at home, but here it was allowed. What fun! Chris didn’t realize that Declan was restraining himself from reprimanding him because of their surroundings. If they had been at home, this would never have been an issue.

Some of the patrons were regarding their table with obvious disdain. Birkoff placed a hand on Declan’s arm, as if reminding him that they were here for the children, not to make a scene. Declan glanced at Birkoff sharply, hissing, "What the hell are they looking at anyway? They don’t have children in their circle?"

Birkoff suppressed a grin, whispering back, "I think it’s considered gauche to acknowledge that they even have children."

Declan chuckled at that. "Ah, children should be seen and not heard. Well, fie on all of them. We’ve got great kids."

"We do?" Birkoff giggled.

Declan frowned. "Well, except for the fact that they won’t eat food that’s costing the bloody earth." Another bit of food hit Declan’s ear. He stared at Birkoff, then glanced warningly at Chris. "Chris, that’s coming out of your allowance now."

Birkoff doubled over with laughter. "At the rate he’s going, Chris won’t even get an allowance until he’s left home."

"You think it’s funny, do you? Well, wait till one of his shots hits you, Sey. See how funny you think it is then."

Birkoff stopped laughing a moment later. Chris hadn’t flung food at him. Faith had. He narrowed his eyes as he contemplated what kind of limit-setting was possible in a place like this. "Jeez, this place is worse than church, Declan. Nothing short of excommunication for the most minor offense."

"You noticed," Declan said dryly.

Declan removed his napkin and picked up Chris. "I vote for packing it in now. What do you say, Sey?"

Birkoff nodded. "You’re right, Dec. None of us is enjoying this. Including the holier than thou types sitting over there."

They both turned to look at the table across the way. Two couples, elegantly dressed, were staring at Declan and the twins. It was obvious that they found the children distasteful. So obvious, Declan took exception. He stared back at them, and both couples looked away nervously. Birkoff was in awe of that look. Declan was almost as good as Michael at intimidating people. Better sometimes, because his appearance was far more at odds with his manner.

"Let’s cut our losses and get out of here now. Before I say something I regret." Declan waited for Birkoff to get Faith.

While Birkoff was struggling to get Faith out of her booster seat, the maitre d’ approached their table. He coughed politely and said, "We would like you to leave. Your presence is disturbing our regular clientele."

Declan’s eyes grew stormy. "Oh, and why would that be?" He managed to say this with almost complete equanimity, despite his inner turmoil.

Declan counted to ten while he waited for the maitre d’ to answer. When no answer was immediately forthcoming, he counted to ten again. In the interest of not drawing attention to themselves, Declan maintained control over his all-too-emotional reaction to this affront.

"The children are too..." The maitre d’ winced as he looked at the mess that was left on the table. "...active."

Declan ripped the napkin from Chris’ chest and threw it down on the table. "So sorry. We prefer our children that way."

Declan drew in a harsh breath and turned to Birkoff. "I should have listened to you, Sey. These people are nothing but arrogant pigs."

Birkoff wrapped his arms around Faith, almost protectively, as if he could prevent her from knowing what was going on. "Declan, just pay the check and let’s go, okay?" he said in a low voice.

The maitre d’ caught part of what Birkoff said and, thinking that the bill might be holding up things, told Declan that the restaurant would write off the check, if they would simply leave.

Declan’s face looked like it was carved in stone, but a tiny muscle jumped beneath his cheek, alerting Birkoff that he was anything but completely impassive. Birkoff laid a hand gently on Declan’s arm again as a reminder. The maitre d’ glanced at Birkoff and muttered something unpleasant in French.

Before he even thought about it, Declan punched the maitre d’, right in the face. The man went down at once, his body hitting the table behind him. The disparaging patrons, watching from the table across the way, gasped. Declan shifted Chris to his hip and kissed the top of his head.

Birkoff was stunned. He never thought for a moment that Declan would lose his cool like that. And in a public place. Declan leaned over the man, and Birkoff struggled to hold him back, thinking he was about to make things ten times worse.

But no. Declan merely had a bit of wisdom he wished to impart as a parting shot. "Next time you insult the riff-raff, make sure they’re not fluent in French."

Declan grabbed Birkoff by the hand and all but dragged him away from the scene. Security was coming. He could hear them running from the back of the restaurant. Birkoff looked worried. "Declan, what are we going to do?"

"Blend, Seymour, blend." He walked slowly towards the exit, Chris in his arms, Birkoff tagging along, his arms carefully hanging onto Faith.

When Security approached the foursome, Declan looked at them with utter contempt. "M’sieur, do you know anything about what happened at that table?" The guard pointed to the table they had just left.

Declan replied, quite haughtily, in fluent French, "I cannot believe you let such people in here. Our children know how to behave."

The guard bowed, a cursory smile in place, before taking his leave of them. Declan whispered under his breath, "Now move, Seymour, and don’t stop till I say so."

When they reached the outside of the restaurant, Birkoff felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from him. They walked quickly back to the Jeep in silence. Once the children were safely secured in the back, Declan leaned his forehead on the steering wheel, unable to believe that he had let someone, anyone, slip under his skin like that.

Birkoff kept to himself, wisely surmising that now was perhaps not the best time to approach Declan about this. He thought he’d changed the subject when he said, "How come you never told anyone you speak fluent French, Declan?"

"There’s a lot yet you don’t know about me, Sey."

When Declan didn’t volunteer anything further, Birkoff dropped the attempt at conversation. He stared silently out the window on the passenger side, wondering why it felt as though there were an ocean between them again. Eventually, Birkoff simply could not hold back his tongue. "Okay, Declan, what did the maitre d’ say that made you hit him?" He assumed that the man had commented on the children.

Declan regarded his bruised right hand with something like disgust. "I’m sorry I hit him. But I’m not sorry I said what I did."

"Declan, what did he say?"

Declan shut his eyes for a second, wondering how long he could protect Birkoff. How long would it take an intuitive soul like Birkoff to figure it out?

"There’s only one thing he could have said that would make you react like that, Dec. It was about me, wasn’t it?" Birkoff studied Declan’s face in profile, noting how tightly he was guarding his emotional reactions now.

"Yeah," came the soft whisper.

"Tell me what he said."

"You don’t need to know, Sey."

"If it was about me, Declan, I need to know. Now tell me."

Declan turned to face Birkoff, unshed tears in his eyes. "No."

Birkoff would have argued with Declan, but he saw how highly strung he was now. He noticed the way Declan glanced towards the children in the back, and he briefly wondered if that was the reason he refused to reveal what the maitre d’ said. He would accept that explanation. For now.

Birkoff reached over and turned off the key in the ignition. Declan jammed his foot on the brakes. When they came to a complete stop, Declan shouted at Birkoff, "What the hell did you do that for?"

"To get your attention. I see I’ve got it now." Birkoff looked deadly serious, his eyes dark yet strangely calm, considering what he was feeling inside.

Declan looked in the rearview mirror. There was no traffic to speak of at the moment. It was still early evening, but they were far from the rush hour traffic one might find near a major city. In fact, they were not that far from the chateau, and it lay relatively buried in the countryside.

Declan finished his surveillance of the immediate environs and turned back to his lover. As cool as Declan appeared outside, inside, emotions he could not express were churning. "What’s your point?"

Birkoff glanced at the two children in their car seats in the back. "My point, Declan, is this. I don’t need you to tell me what the maitre d’ said now."

"Ah, you’ve figured it out for yourself, eh?" Declan was finding some relief for his anger in sarcasm, but he knew he was directing it at the wrong target.

"I don’t know exactly what he said, no, but I can guess. I realize that you want to protect me, Declan, and God, I love you for that. But..." Birkoff leaned closer, so he didn’t have to raise his voice and risk letting the children hear what he had to say.

"...I’m not going to let some snooty French smartass tell me who I can love. For two cents, I’d march right back in there and tell him so, too."

Declan chuckled. "He was, wasn’t he?"

"Yeah! A bloody great one, too!" Birkoff said, imitating Declan.

Birkoff laughed, his hands instinctively pulling on Declan’s hair and smoothing the unruly curls. "There’s nothing we can do about the jerks of the world, Dec. They’re all out there. But we don’t have to listen to ‘em. They can’t make us be something we’re not."

Declan sighed, sliding his hands through Birkoff’s hair. Knowing that the children were in the back, he was limited to what he could say. But he whispered "I love you" even as his hands tightened on Birkoff’s hair. He knew it was foolish, but he had been so afraid of revealing what the maitre d’ said for fear that Birkoff would be unable to cope and would run.

"I just don’t want you ever to hurt like I did, Sey. That’s all."

"As long as we have each other, Declan, I’ll always be okay."

Birkoff snuggled close enough to steal a kiss, certain that the twins could not see them. "I love you, Dec," he whispered, "and I don’t care what anyone says, they can’t ever know how happy you make me."

Birkoff was the first to draw back from their embrace. He smiled peacefully at Declan. "And not for nothing, but their food wasn’t all that great anyway! Move over, Dec, I’m driving!"

Declan complied, switching places with Birkoff. Then he looked puzzled. "But where are we going now?"

"It’s time we introduced the kids to...McDonald’s."

***

Munching amiably on a french fry, Declan said, "I’m sure this isn’t what we should be feeding the kids, Sey."

Birkoff grinned at his partner. "Oh, yeah? Isn’t this French food? We’re still in France, Dec."

Declan rolled his eyes. "Right."

They were seated at a table inside McDonald’s, each of them holding onto one of the twins. Chris loved the food. It was just the right size for his little hands to grasp, and he could feed himself the french fries. Declan opened the little cardboard box to reveal six golden chicken McNuggets. Again, they were just the right size and shape for small hands, and Declan wondered if that was what Chris liked about them. Finger food.

Declan wrapped an arm around Chris so he could not fall, but the toddler was avidly eating and did not even attempt to move around. "Can this possibly be the same child who was throwing food at his Uncle Declan?"

Chris blinked his dark blue eyes at Declan. "Me sorry, Unca Dec." Four words. That was a new record for Chris. Almost a real sentence, too. Declan felt his heart expand with love for his godson. He was such a bright spot in his life.

"I love you, Chris." Declan wrinkled his nose at Chris and the little boy broke into a big smile, wrapping his arms around Declan’s neck to give him a generous hug. "Love Unca Dec."

"You see how much more comfortable we are here, Declan? Even the kids feel it."

Declan laughed. "Are you trying to say we’ve found our milieu, Seymour?"

Faith stood up on the plastic bench seat and grabbed one of Chris’ chicken McNuggets. Giggling merrily, she sat back down with a thud, claiming her prize. "Sey-mour!"

Birkoff’s mouth dropped open. "No more Buh-Buh?"

Faith clambered awkwardly towards Birkoff, climbing into his lap finally. She sat in his lap, looking up at him, all of Nikita’s charm on her beautiful little face. "Sey-mour!"

Birkoff grimaced. "Well, that’s one word I honestly wish you hadn’t learned, Fee."

Faith cocked her head to the side as if listening. Poking him with a tiny finger, Faith tested out her new word. "Sey-mour?"

Birkoff sighed. "I don’t like being called Seymour, sweetness." He didn’t expect a child her age to understand that, but he had to try.

So he was surprised when Faith suddenly blurted out, "Unca Sey?"

"God, that’s scary."

Declan nodded, stopping in mid-chew. "She’s going to be one heck of a handful when she gets a bit older, Sey. She listens to all our conversations, you know."

Birkoff laughed. "Maybe she can tell off that maitre d’ in about a year or so, huh?"

"In French, no less," Declan added.

Declan picked up the container of french fries and emptied them on a napkin so that Chris could access them more easily. "Chris, you don’t tell your Daddy everything, do you?"

Chris grinned at Declan. "Daddy! Mine!"

"Yes, you little love bug, I know your daddy is yours. Possessive, aren’t you?"

Possessive? That was much too big a word for Chris. But he understood far more than either Declan or Birkoff thought he did. He didn’t have words for some things, but he was learning every day.

Birkoff leaned back in the plastic bench seat and thought how much more fun this was than dining out in that posh mausoleum. He loosened his collar and admired Declan from across the table. "You do look damn good, you know."

Declan stopped playing with Chris to stare at Birkoff. "You said that earlier, Sey. Are you trying to have your way with me?"

"Ooh, good choice of words, Dec. That way the k-i-d-s won’t know what we’re talking about."

"Spelling, the last refuge of the besieged parent," Declan said wryly.

Birkoff grinned. "And I am always trying to have my way with you."

Faith grabbed a french fry from Birkoff’s container, chortling to herself at her cunning. "You little thief. You don’t eat your own, you just eat everyone else’s. Do they taste better that way?"

Faith held out the french fry to Birkoff as an offering. "Peas, Unca Sey."

"Peas? Oh, please... Now you want to give it back? I don’t know about that, sweetie."

She stood up on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around Birkoff’s neck, giving him a big kiss. "Love Unca Sey."

"I love you, too, princess."

"Hey, Fee, your uncle’s not still giving you that line about waiting for you to grow up so’s he can marry you, is he?" Declan said with a sleepy smile.

Faith stared at Declan, and he grew quiet under her gaze. It was such an intense look coming from a child. But he knew where he’d seen it before. On her father’s face. "Well, hell, if she doesn’t understand what I just said, that was the weirdest coincidence I ever did see."

"I hate to break it to you, princess, but your uncle’s already promised to me, and I’m not giving him up."

Declan stuck his tongue out at Faith, and she laughed. "Dec!" she called, clapping her hands playfully.

Declan smiled, his grey eyes softening as he looked at the children. "You ever wish they were yours, Sey?"

Birkoff frowned. "But they are, Declan."

"You know what I mean, Sey," Declan said with a slight wince, as if he found the subject painful. "Do you have any...regrets? About what you’ll never have?"

Birkoff stopped eating his third cheeseburger. "You mean, like when I used to dream that I would marry someone like Nikita? And live happily ever after?" Birkoff sighed, his warm chocolate eyes gone all sweet and dreamy.

Declan almost choked on his Coke. "You’re still pining after Nikita?"

Birkoff snorted. "I never had a chance against Michael. No one did. She is something special, though."

"Suddenly I should be jealous?"

Observing Declan’s abrupt change of expression, Birkoff hastened to reassure the slightly older former Section operative of his continued fidelity to him. "How can you be jealous when you’re the one I love?"

Birkoff’s simple statement humbled Declan. He couldn’t think of a single reply to Birkoff. But Faith could. "Love Sey!"

Chris jumped up and down in place, seemingly in response. "Love Sey!" he echoed.

Declan smiled ever so slowly. "Yeah...me, too."

By the time Declan and Birkoff returned to the chateau, kids in tow, they had totally forgotten about the earlier incident in the posh French restaurant. If it were not for Declan’s obviously bruised right hand, there would have been no evidence of the event at all. But it was the first thing that Nikita noticed.

"Declan! What happened to your hand?" Nikita exclaimed, automatically grabbing his hand for closer examination.

"Ow! That hurts, Nikita." Declan winced. "And it’s a long story."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "That’s okay. I have nothing but time to listen," she replied, a tight smile on her face.

Faith went right to Michael, arms outstretched to be lifted up and into his arms. Michael picked up his daughter and held her. "Did you have a good time, petite?"

Faith lay her head on her father’s shoulder, glancing at her uncles as she stuck her thumb into her mouth. When she didn’t answer, Michael was not concerned, just curious. "You didn’t have a good time?"

She looked directly into her father’s green eyes, sometimes so like her own, and smiled. "Daddy! Went Donnells."

A puzzled frown crossed Michael’s face. "Fee? Que veut dire Donnells?"

Nikita’s head swung around. She had suspected that Michael was teaching the children French, but this was the first time she had caught him speaking French to them. Michael gave Nikita a sheepish grin. He didn’t realize how much she loved the fact that he was teaching them French. At one point, she might have felt left out because her French was sadly inadequate for more than very basic conversation. But the day Faith called her Mom-Mom for the French Maman, she knew how much of himself Michael was investing in his children. From that point on, she never looked back again.

"Sorry, Kita."

Nikita smiled patiently, waiting for Michael to register that she was not angered in the slightest. "Don’t be, Michael. They are half-French, you know."

Michael’s mouth curved upwards in a mischievous smile. His eyelashes fluttered lightly down to cover his vivid green eyes for a moment, then up again. "Well..." he drawled, "...actually, they are totally French, Kita."

Nikita blinked rapidly. "They are? How on Earth did that happen?"

"They were born in France, Kita. That makes them French citizens." Faith wrapped her tiny arms around her father’s neck and yawned sleepily. "But the fact that I’m French would also give them French citizenship. If I existed. Which I don’t."

Nikita laughed, sufficiently distracted from her examination of Declan’s hand to forego further interrogation of Declan or Birkoff. "You never mentioned this before."

"To tell the truth, belle, I thought it would probably upset you." Nikita could hear the uncertainty in Michael’s voice, and she realized that he still expected her to be disturbed about this turn of events.

Nikita bit her lip as she circled slowly around Michael. He tried to keep his eyes on her, positive that she was hiding some sinister reaction from him, but she pounced when he least expected it. From behind. She ran her fingers down the back of his neck, and he unconsciously tensed, raising his shoulders. "You are upset. Aren’t you?" Now he wasn’t so sure.

"That I just found out that I gave birth to French children? Noooo, Michael, why would that upset me?" Nikita’s voice was soft and oddly calm. She didn’t sound upset.

Michael raised an eyebrow at her. "You’re taking this too well."

"I know something you don’t know."

"What?" Michael wasn’t ready to hear this. He just knew it.

"The house we live in is in France. But the children weren’t born in that house, Michael, were they?"

She was leading him into a trap of some sort. With words. Carefully baiting him into following him.

"No. We took you to the nearest hospital, Kita."

"Which is in?"

"What, Kita? It’s in France. It’s not that far from our house."

She wagged a finger playfully at Michael. "Now that’s where you’re wrong, Michael. The hospital is not in France. It’s in Germany."

"You’re kidding." Michael’s mouth dropped open. Declan and Birkoff were fascinated by the way Nikita was manipulating Michael. Didn’t he realize that she was playing an elaborate game with him? Birkoff thought.

Nikita grinned. "Yeah, Michael, I am. But you fell for it."

Michael shook his head, chuckling at the way Nikita convinced him of something he knew to be untrue. "You’re not upset about the kids being French then?"

"They share the heritage of the man I love more than life itself. How could I be upset about that? I love you, I love them." She made a little moue with her mouth. "They are still a part of me, though, Michael. And I’m not French. Does that upset you?"

"Ask me something hard, Kita." He brushed her hair back with his free hand, and she gazed into his eyes, laying a hand gently on their now-sleeping daughter. Faith’s thumb was still in her mouth, but her head had slipped down, her cheek hugging Michael’s chest.

"She likes to listen to your heartbeat, too, Michael."

"Like her mother." Michael held onto Faith while he leaned over to kiss his wife.

Declan tried to use the fact that the couple was so obviously distracted to make good his escape, but he hadn’t counted on Nikita recovering quite so quickly. "Stop right there, Declan Connor McLaren. You owe me an explanation."

Declan sighed, trading glances with Birkoff. "You don’t need to hear about this now, Nikita. You’re in a good mood."

Nikita nodded. "That might be a good reason to tell me now. Would save having to cancel you later."

Birkoff shuddered. "Don’t even joke about that, Nikita. I hate that word."

"You’re the weak link in this chain, Birkoff. You tell me what happened."

"Or what?"

"Or else." Nikita winked at Birkoff.

"Declan hit someone. That’s all." Birkoff shrugged. "It’s not that big a deal."

"Learning the children were French was not that big a deal, Birkoff. Describe to me in what scenario Declan hitting someone is not that big a deal."

"Especially when the two of you were charged with taking care of our children, Birkoff." Michael added, his green eyes glinting dangerously. Declan saw that it was futile to lie. Michael would undoubtedly take him apart, limb by limb, if he lied about this.

"Could we put the kids to bed first?" Declan asked, indicating that it would be better if they could have an adults-only conversation.

"Declan, you’re not inspiring me with confidence here. Stop acting like you’re about to walk the last mile and tell me something."

Birkoff put his hand on Nikita’s arm, and she saw something in his eyes that she recognized as entreaty. "Okay, you can put the kids to bed first. But don’t take hours, Declan," she said, rolling her eyes.

***

"So what are you going to tell Nikita, Declan?" Birkoff hissed to his partner when they were alone in the twins’ bedroom.

"As little as possible."

"What if she asks--she’s gonna ask, Declan, you know she’s gonna ask."

"Maybe another miracle will happen," Declan said hopefully. But he clearly didn’t believe this.

"Maybe the kids will turn out to be German, after all." Birkoff snorted. "Jeez, what a mess."

"You’re telling me," said Declan glumly.

"Mi-chael...you were teasing about the children being totally French...weren’t you?" asked Nikita, as she played with the hair on the back of Michael’s neck. His arms were wrapped around her waist, and when he heard her question, he lay his head on her shoulder, unaware of the striking resemblance between him and his daughter.

When he didn’t say anything immediately, Nikita drew back. "I mean, I am their mother, Michael. They can’t be more than half-French unless I was abducted by aliens and someone else gave birth to my babies."

Michael smiled against Nikita’s shoulder, his lips twitching in the beginnings of laughter. "It does bother you, doesn’t it?"

Nikita pouted prettily, looking very much like her daughter in the throes of a good sulk. "The fact that you’re trying to negate my presence at their birth, Michael? I’ve been lots of things in my life, but I’ve never been invisible."

He kissed her shoulder, burrowing his face even more snugly against her. "I have a hard time imagining you as invisible myself."

"Then why--?" She felt a curious pang in her heart.

"I was trying to make light of something that I shouldn’t have, doucette. I’m sorry."

"I don’t understand." She looked hurt. Michael closed his eyes against that image of her.

"You don’t know where you were born, do you, Kita?"

She shook her head slowly, gradually beginning to understand what Michael had done.

"When you first came into Section, you were like this terrible woman-child. No past, no future. What else could you be, doucette?" Michael stroked her upper arm with his fingers, almost as if he could not bear to be this close to her without touching her in some way.

She swallowed. "Go on..."

"We didn’t know where you came from, Kita. We knew only where we found you. Your mother’s background was sketchy at best, your father’s a complete unknown."

She nodded. Michael hesitated to say what was next, but he hoped that she might understand. It was something he had given her without her knowledge long ago. It was something he never thought to tell her. But now, she had good reason to know. They were together. They were the parents of two beautiful children. French children. He had to explain...

"Nikita..." Nikita’s eyes widened at that. Michael never called her Nikita anymore.

"I...I saw that you had no past...and I thought, how terrible to grow up, not knowing where you came from. So I gave you mine."

"You gave me your what?"

Michael looked vaguely embarrassed at having been discovered for the sentimental type that he was. Under the skin.

"I gave you my past, doucette," he whispered. Along with my heart. Even then I knew. But the time that was wasted in my not admitting that can never be recovered. It is forever lost.

"But I never knew what your past was, Michael."

"Doesn’t matter, doucette. You had nothing, and I had something I could give you."

"What are you saying, Michael?"

"Oh, Kita, you’re either going to hate me or you’re going to think this is the most extravagantly romantic gesture you’ve ever heard." Michael looked worried.

"What?"

Pause. "I made you French, doucette. Like me." His hand fluttered anxiously near her face, as if he wanted most desperately to touch her, but was afraid.

She was stunned by the sheer irony of it. That she could never discover anything substantial about her past had been one of the great frustrations of her young life. That Michael should have given her a piece of himself, long before they ever became lovers, in any real sense, touched her heart.

"Then...then it wasn’t just a lie?"

"It was never just a lie, doucette," he whispered. "It was a way for my heart to speak to yours, silently, long before we knew we even had words we wanted to give each other."

"Oh, Michael...."