Michael refused to let Nikita or the new baby out of his sight, even for a moment. He cradled the new baby in his arms as he and Nikita approached the door to their room. Nikita looked pale to him, but Neil was convinced that all Nikita needed was some rest in her own bed for a few days to recover. Michael trusted Neil enough to bow to his superior judgment in this area, but he disliked seeing Nikita at anything but her best.

"Michael, you’re going to wear yourself out, worrying about me," she said with a weary smile, not a bit upset that Michael cared that much.

"I just want to take care of you, doucette," he said, kissing her quickly on the mouth.

"I’ll be fine, just as soon as I hit that bed." Once the door was open, she moved through the room like a sleepwalker, absently pulling at her clothing until she was completely disrobed. She yawned expansively as she pushed on the bathroom door.

Moments later, after Michael put Skye down to sleep in her new cradle, he found Nikita. In the bathroom. Sitting on the commode with the seat down. Asleep. He smiled at the picture she made, knowing how much she would hate to be discovered like this. He picked her up as if she were one of the children and carefully carried her into the bedroom, eventually depositing her on the bed.

After he finished arranging and re-arranging the covers around his sleeping wife, Michael kissed her as softly as possible, so as not to waken her. She barely stirred. "You did good, Kita," he whispered, stroking the hair away from her face. She smiled in her sleep.

***

Walter sipped at his hot cup of coffee, made just the way he liked it. He was enjoying being catered to, even if he was more or less fully recovered from his injuries. His wife Miranda persisted in treating him as though he were an invalid, but he hadn’t reached the point of feeling smothered yet. He loved the attention. All of it.

"Whatcha makin’ there, Honey?" he asked, pointing to the blob of dough on the floured cookie sheet.

"Birkoff’s favorite. Double chocolate chip cookies," she said, proud that she was not only fitting into this family, but she was starting to catalog everyone’s likes and dislikes without any difficulty.

Walter grinned. "I thought his favorite was Oreos. Double-stuffed Oreos," he offered gently, trying not to hurt her feelings.

She leaned over and whispered to Walter, "To be honest, I think Declan likes them, but Birkoff is the one who asked for them."

Walter whistled. "Must be planning a picnic or something," he said in a low husky growl that indicated what he thought of that idea.

"Or something," Miranda nodded.

***

But Birkoff wasn’t planning anything. He just wanted to please Declan. He grinned unabashedly at his lover. "Hey, you. The big Irishman with the red hair!"

Declan took exception to that characterization. "Excuse me? I may be tall, but I’m not big!"

Birkoff laughed. "Umm, that’s not entirely true, Dec," he said, tickling Declan’s ribs.

"You little tease! I should smack your pearly white butt for that!"

"You have to catch me first!" And with that, Birkoff took off down the road at a fast clip, stopping only when he hit the chateau’s wrought-iron gates with a fierce clatter.

Panting, he turned around to face Declan, his dark eyes gleaming. Declan looked like he was ready to choke the life out of his partner, for sure, but instead, he kissed him. Hard. He pushed Birkoff up against the wrought-ironwork, pulling Birkoff’s arms way over his head. Birkoff was helpless under his sensual onslaught, but all too soon it was over.

"Hey, no fair," Birkoff pouted. "You think I’m cheap or something? I can be had for a few kisses?"

Declan raised his eyebrows at Birkoff, grinning rapaciously. "I know you can."

Birkoff’s mouth curved upwards in a charming half-smile. "Well...maybe." His fingers laced through the ornate ironwork on the gate, Birkoff leaned forward to kiss Declan. Declan opened his mouth and allowed Birkoff to take the initiative for a change.

Birkoff ran his hands down the front of Declan’s jeans, cupping the bump there. "I see you can be bribed, too."

"Aye," Declan said, nudging his body against Birkoff’s. "But I don’t come cheap," he finished in a whisper.

Declan kissed the side of Birkoff’s face, watching as he flung his head back against the gate. "But I’ll tell you something, boyo. You can put your tongue in my mouth anytime, and I’ll follow you anywhere."

Birkoff’s eyes glittered. "Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse."

***

Miranda watched from the window as the couple approached the chateau. The air was redolent with the smell of cookies baking. Double chocolate chip cookies. "Birkoff’s coming to collect his cookies, love."

"About time," Walter snorted. "What the hell was keeping those two out there?"

"Oh, they were just...playing," Miranda said with a knowing smile. "You know, it might be nice if we took the kids for a change, Walter."

"Why’s that?" Walter asked, taking another bite of freshly-baked cookie.

"Oh, I think that Birkoff and Declan have been throwing themselves into this whole parent thing so wholeheartedly, they’ve lost their sense of themselves as a couple. They need to re-discover each other." Miranda studied her husband, then gasped when she saw the significant dent he’d made in her plate piled high with cookies.

"If they re-discovered each other any more, we’d need to fireproof this place." Walter chuckled.

"Still..." Miranda began, but Walter held up his hands. "Enough. We’ll take the kids."

Walter stared out the window, watching Birkoff acting like a puppy with a brand-new owner. All helpless laughter and stolen kisses. His weathered face creased in a grin, his mischievous blue eyes twinkling. "Come and get your cookies, Seymour, so’s you can go out and play."

Birkoff came into the kitchen, drawn by the odor of cookies. "Mmm, Miranda, those smell great!"

Declan leaned on Birkoff, his face a carefully arranged mask of neutrality in front of Walter and Miranda. Miranda held out the plate of freshly-baked cookies, letting their aroma waft under Birkoff’s nose.

After Birkoff took several, stuffing them into a paper bag, he offered one to Declan, who declined. "Aww, I thought you liked these, Dec!"

Birkoff sounded so disappointed, Declan felt bad. "You eat them, love," he said softly.

Birkoff shook his head silently. Damn, Declan thought, now his feelings were hurt.

Walter watched the exchange with interest, realizing his wife was right. They had become so involved in parenting Emmy, their own relationship as a couple was feeling the strain.

He glanced at Miranda, who nodded imperceptibly and left the room. He smiled kindly at the two young men. "Guys, we need to talk."

Birkoff blinked. "About what? We have to pick up Emmy."

Declan sighed, studying the toe of his boot, which had somehow grown quite dusty from kicking up his heels outside.

Walter looked at one, then the other. "About this."

Birkoff shrugged. Declan shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"When’s the last time you two just went out and had fun?"

"I dunno," Declan answered finally, after a long pause. "We can’t go out, really. Emmy’s too small to take to a restaurant and--"

"That’s what I mean!" Walter said, pouncing on what Declan said. "Don’t get me wrong, you guys are great parents! But you’re more than just parents."

"But Emmy needs us, Walter," Birkoff protested. "She’s so little."

"Yeah, I know. But you gotta love each other, not just the baby!"

Birkoff dropped his gaze to the floor. "That’s what Nikita said. When we first got Emmy."

Declan glanced at Birkoff, his storm-grey eyes filled with loving concern now. Despite his initial discomfort in speaking his feelings before Walter, he couldn’t help but reassure his partner. "I love you, Sey. I love Emmy, too, but I never wanted you to feel you came second."

Birkoff looked up, startled. "No! I love you, too, Declan! That’s not ever going to change!" Birkoff looked away again.

"But?" Declan prompted.

"We just don’t seem to spend any time together. Like we used to."

Declan looked distinctly uncomfortable now. He glanced at Walter, his pale eyes flickering back and forth, not unlike Michael’s when he was considering what to say. He shrugged, as if he was struggling to get his body back under conscious control.

Declan finally leaned over and whispered into Birkoff’s ear, "You mean sex, don’t you?"

Birkoff colored furiously. "Not exactly."

Walter smiled. "Now that you two are talking on the same wavelength, you don’t need me anymore. Miranda and I are gonna take the kids for the rest of the day. Go out, have some fun! Have a picnic! Eat cookies till you get cavities! Do something for yourselves for a change!"

Birkoff bit his lip, as if momentarily conflicted. Suddenly he threw his arms around Walter, giving him a big hug. "Thanks, Walter!"

"Anytime, Birkoff. You’re still my favorite techno whiz," replied Walter, a curious catch in his voice. "I want you to be happy." He ruffled the younger man’s hair and left the couple alone.

Declan searched Birkoff’s face uncertainly. "You’re not happy?" Now Declan sounded hurt.

Birkoff put the paper bag full of cookies down on the table so his hands would be free. He reached up and framed Declan’s face with both hands. "I am happy, Dec," he insisted. "And I love Emmy, as if she were mine--"

"She is yours, Sey. You’re her Daddy. I’m just Da, who happens to be related to her through an accident of birth. But you, you’re hers, through your wonderful, expressive heart."

"Declan, you shouldn’t say such beautiful things to me. I might start to believe them."

"I wish you would, Sey." Declan pulled Birkoff’s hands off his face and kissed them. "The point is, we both love Emmy. But we’re losing each other. That’s what you were trying to say, wasn’t it?"

Birkoff nodded sadly. "Sometimes it feels that way, Dec. I want..."

Declan grabbed his shoulders, almost driven to shake him. "What do you want, Sey? I’ll get it for you, I swear."

Birkoff’s eyes grew wet and shiny. "I want you. Sometimes it feels like you went away, and I’m waiting for you to come back to me," he whispered.

Declan closed his eyes in pain. "I never meant for you to feel that way, Sey. Ever."

Birkoff’s long, slender fingers caressed Declan’s cheek, touching the muscle anxiously working beneath his fair skin. "We need more time together, that’s all. It’s not the sex I miss." Birkoff laughed, and Declan’s eyes flew open, their color bright silver now.

"Then what?" Declan said in a low voice.

"It’s the play. What we were doing outside a few minutes ago. We need lots more moments like that."

Declan smiled hesitantly. "Lots more, huh?"

"Yeah. I’ve got your love, Dec, I know that. I want your affection, too. I need it more than anything else."

Declan kissed him. Softly. Sweetly. "You’ve got it. You just let me know how I’m doing, okay?" Declan slid his tongue expertly between his lover’s lips, and Birkoff made a tiny sound that might have been a gasp.

Birkoff smiled sunnily, almost resembling the fair Irish princess who claimed his heart and soul. "I said, I didn’t miss the sex."

"Does that mean you don’t ever want to make love with me again then?" Declan stared deeply into Birkoff’s bittersweet chocolate eyes.

Birkoff was the first to break eye contact, giggling. "What would you do if I said yes?"

Declan settled his mouth over his. "I’d have to find some means to convince you of the error of your ways."

Declan was amazed that Walter let the old Harley out of his sight long enough to allow Declan to look at it, much less actually drive it. "Now, listen, guys, this is a very important piece of machinery here. I don’t care what you do, but bring her back to me in one piece. Okay?"

Declan nodded wordlessly, knowing that his name would be mud for certain if he let Walter down.

He turned to Birkoff as he pulled on his black leather gloves. Although he was sure it was for cosmetic effect only, he had dressed as Birkoff requested. Head-to-toe black leather. He felt damned conspicuous. As if everyone in the immediate vicinity knew what they were going to do. Or hoped to do. "I mean, it’s daytime, for God’s sake," he muttered to himself.

Birkoff smiled mischievously. "You’re not one of those people who can’t make love in the daytime, are you, Dec?" he whispered so that Walter couldn’t hear.

Declan’s eyes grew dark. "Is this some sort of bloody test?"

Birkoff grasped his paper bag full of cookies. Picking out an especially chunky double-chocolate chip cookie, he offered it to Declan. This time, Declan bit into it, without taking it from Birkoff’s hand. His full lips closed around the cookie, and Birkoff sighed, enviously wishing that he was that cookie.

"You’re teasing me, Dec..." Birkoff pouted.

"Hell, yes. It’s just minor payback for making me announce that we’re going to have sex today," Declan snapped.

Birkoff grinned despite Declan’s sharp tone. "Is that what wearing black leather means?"

"Well....I mean...." Declan found himself suddenly at a loss for words.

Birkoff’s tongue flicked out and licked an errant cookie crumb from Declan’s lower lip.

"Jesus," said Declan.

With that, Declan slung his long legs over the seat of the Harley, kick-starting the old motorcycle with a furious roar. He revved the engine loudly. Vroom. Then again twice more. Vroom vroom. His upper thighs encased in buttery-soft black leather, Declan slid back against the seat, feeling Birkoff wrap his arms around his middle.

"Hang on, Sey. I have no bloody idea where we’re going or what we’re going to do when we get there, but you wanted adventure....and you’re going to get adventure."

"No, Dec, I said fun, not adventure."

"Same thing, boyo. Oh, and one more thing..."

Birkoff sighed. There was always one more thing. "What?"

Declan revved the engine one more time. Vroom. "I did miss the sex myself." Vroom vroom.

***

The wind was blowing Declan’s long red hair back into Birkoff’s face. Hair that was streaming out like a scarlet banner, alternately stinging and caressing his face. He smiled beatifically, rubbing his cheek against Declan’s black leather jacket. The smell of the leather was wonderful. An earthy smell. A smell he had learned to associate with Declan.

Eventually, Birkoff’s hands slid down Declan’s body to cup the bump trapped inside the soft, warm leather. He felt the bump grow bigger under his hands, and it seemed to throb with a life of its own for long moments before Declan would acknowledge it.

Declan was so startled by the touch of Birkoff’s hands on his arousal, he nearly drove off the road. It was a lovely day, he thought, wondering just how much torture he could subject Birkoff to without driving himself quite mad in the process.

But that’s not how it happened.

***

Declan put the kickstand down on the Harley, well aware that Walter would know if he put so much as a scratch on his baby. No lying on its side in the dirt for this bike. Striding away from the motorcycle at a brisk pace, Declan seemingly gave no thought at all to his lover, struggling to keep up.

"Hey! What’s the rush? You on a clock or something?"

"Nah, just looking for something," Declan said tersely.

"Like what?" Birkoff asked.

Declan whirled around, so suddenly, so swiftly, that Birkoff had all he could do not to collide with him. "You." Declan pulled Birkoff into his arms, kissing him with an almost alarming intensity.

It was like being swarmed by honey bees. Except instead of stinging him, Declan’s kisses were biting him, tiny love bites that left their mark on his skin, his face, his mouth. Each kiss sweeter than the honey such bees might carry. A groan escaped Birkoff, and Declan swallowed it heatedly. "God, I missed you."

"Declan..." Birkoff said, breaking away.

Declan stared at him, bereft, his lips swollen. "You really don’t want me?"

The feeling that went through Declan’s body was half-shiver, half-shudder. Part excitement, part horror. He trembled almost visibly. Tears ready to burst from his eyes at any moment, he looked overwhelmed. "I love you, Sey. If you--"

"Declan, shut up," Birkoff said softly but authoritatively. "I need...no, I demand...your complete surrender."

Declan stood there, tall and lean, his body outlined in black leather, long legs apart. All at once, Birkoff knelt between his legs, his jean-clad knees sinking onto the grass. Where they were was isolated. Unable to be seen from the main road, yet exposed, outdoors, in the middle of the day, it was as arousing as it was private.

Slowly but steadily, Birkoff began running his hands up and down Declan’s leather-clad thighs. The texture of the material was so soft beneath his hands, but the skin it covered was firm, even hard with underlying tension. "Let me love you," Birkoff whispered.

Declan didn’t answer, but he placed his hands over his lover’s, and together, their hands moved up and down his thighs. When Birkoff leaned forward and rubbed his soft cheek against the even softer leather straining to hold back Declan’s arousal, Declan flung his head back, the muscles in his neck distending.

Releasing Declan from his leather prison, Birkoff cupped him in his hands. Warm, so warm. Declan gasped at the silken feel of his partner’s hands on that tender skin. Suddenly weak-kneed, Declan was incapable of supporting himself. His knees abruptly locked, holding him in place, but Birkoff’s arms, sliding up the backs of his legs, were what kept him on his feet.

Birkoff rubbed his cheek against the hard length of him. Declan’s hands sought Birkoff’s hair, his thick, dark, shoulder-length hair. When he found purchase, he unconsciously pulled Birkoff to him, his near-explosive need overcoming his desire to remain in control.

Hands clutching restlessly at Birkoff’s hair, Declan’s hips moved involuntarily, pushing him deeper into his lover’s waiting, welcoming recesses. He was blindsided by the tingling sensation that crept up the backs of his legs and into his lower body. He was on the edge, on the brink of discovering something so inexplicably wonderful, it frightened him.

His hands curled under Birkoff’s hair, tensing around the back of his neck. That was when he felt it, the touch of his lover’s tongue, licking, all the while his mouth, so warm and wet and tight around him. He tried to hold back the tide of feeling that swept over him, but it was futile. It was too powerful, even for someone who valued control above all else.

"Please, oh, please!" Declan’s cries faded into incoherence. When the last vestiges of control slipped away from him, those feelings too intense to ignore, he nearly wept.

"Sey!" His mouth open, head flung back, Declan cried out his release as his lover held him gently but securely.

***

Declan came to his senses with tears in his smoke-grey eyes. He looked vaguely disquieted, as if something troubled him, but he couldn’t speak of it yet.

He pushed Birkoff away from his lower body, laying him down gently in the grass. Slowly, in an almost painstaking manner, Declan undressed his lover, eventually freeing both of them from their clothing. Declan stared deeply into Birkoff’s dark eyes before letting his own eyes slide shut of their own accord. They kissed, so softly, so sweetly, and Declan gasped as he tasted himself.

He rubbed his cheek against Birkoff’s, in much the same manner as Birkoff had rubbed against him, love and affection very much evident. "I love you," Declan murmured, over and over again, the soft chant set up like a litany in his brain and in his heart.

Their tongues entwined gently, so gently, never harshly, as their mouths repeatedly claimed one another. This was everything the first time was and more. Slow, aching, bittersweet, yet ultimately so loving, it moved them both to tears.

Declan clung to Birkoff, burying his face at the base of his throat. "I love you so much, Sey. Please don’t leave me."

Birkoff held Declan, stroking his hair with trembling fingers. "Oh, Dec, whatever gave you the idea that I would leave you?"

Declan raised pain-filled eyes to Birkoff’s, shaking his head. "I know I’ve made mistakes."

"We both have, Dec. So what? It’s part of life."

Declan lay his head across Birkoff’s chest, rubbing his cheek against the spot where his heart would be. "I love you, Sey," he kept repeating, his breath catching every few seconds, as if he were holding back tears. His body lay on top of Birkoff’s, his naked back exposed to the warm air and diffident sunlight. Birkoff slid his hands down towards Declan’s bottom and closed his eyes.

Eventually they slept.

***

Whatever insecurity had been re-awakened in Declan, it did not re-surface again that day. Sleep was healing. Sleep in his lover’s embrace even more so. Their lovemaking had helped. There was no question that they loved each other. What both of them needed was to act on that love, everyday, in every possible way.

Birkoff awoke to Declan kissing him. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself." Declan looked younger, more relaxed, as though he had passed through a crisis of some sort, but come out on the other side.

Birkoff’s dark eyes kindled with sleepy fire. He kissed Declan. "I love you, Dec." He didn’t know why, but he felt empowered. As if their roles were reversed. As if he were the one being leaned on, instead of having to be supported.

"Come here," Birkoff exhorted. Declan moved against him, ever so briefly, and he could feel Declan’s arousal, pressed against his thigh.

Declan kissed Birkoff’s cheek, his lips still swollen from all those earlier kisses. He nuzzled the side of his neck, then his ear.

Comfortable where he was, Declan was reluctant to move away from Birkoff, even for a few moments. But he did, finally sitting up to comb through his unruly hair with his fingers. Birkoff smiled. "You feeling better, sweetie?"

Declan almost growled in response. "Hey, who are you calling ‘sweetie’? I’m not one of the kids, y’know."

As if to emphasize that last point, Declan rubbed his arousal against Birkoff’s abdomen. "Mmm, I guess I had you mixed up with someone else, huh?" Birkoff asked, laughter in his voice.

"I guess." Declan raised an eyebrow as he studied his partner. "We’d better work on making sure you know exactly who I am, then," Declan said, a curiously serious note working its way into his voice.

Declan kissed Birkoff possessively, his tongue working its way inside his mouth. "God, I love your mouth, y chree."

Birkoff responded by wrapping both arms around Declan’s neck, pulling him as tightly against him as possible. One hand stroking Declan’s cheek, Birkoff said, "You like my honey-mouth?", knowing that it was one of Declan’s favorite expressions, in Gaelic or out.

"Mmm, I love your honey-mouth." Declan leaned close to Birkoff’s ear and whispered, "I want to pour myself into your honey-mouth...."

Birkoff bit his lip, the feeling of wanting to be with Declan so strong, it actually hurt. "I want that, too...."

With that, Declan slid himself gently into his lover’s mouth, arching his back so far, his long red hair touched Birkoff’s abdomen. His hair danced madly, like wildly flickering flames, tongues of gold and red licking at Birkoff’s body. Birkoff ran a long, slender finger under the length of him and the feeling that engendered was at once so powerful and so intense, he climaxed immediately.

Moments later, Birkoff, in one movement, reversed their positions. Suddenly Birkoff sat astride his lover, demanding and forceful for all his ingenuousness. In fact, his artless fervor was touching, something that was not lost on Declan, who still felt the aftershocks of his earlier peak. "It’s my turn," he said.

Declan shook his head. "Do what you will with me, Sey. I’m pretty much incapable at this point." He ran his thumb across Birkoff’s mouth, gently tracing his lips until they opened.

"I don’t need you to do anything...except kiss me," Birkoff whispered. "I want your mouth on mine...hot...and wet..."

Declan might have been incapable, but that didn’t mean he was unaffected by Birkoff’s inadvertently arousing love talk. Their bodies unconsciously straining to become one person, they kissed again...and again. Declan’s hands stroked his partner’s back, clutching at his hips, feeling his arousal against his abdomen.

When Birkoff too groaned his completion, he spent himself against Declan’s body. He collapsed weakly atop him, his fingers tangling in Declan’s by now impossibly unruly curls. "I love you," he panted with what little breath he still had.

Declan kissed him tenderly, cherishing the silken feel of him in his arms. His vision blurred. He was his own sweet heart. "Y chree..."

Nikita tossed restlessly back and forth, unconsciously sighing her distress. Michael’s eyes snapped open, the sight of his wife so upset tearing at him. "Kita! Wake up!" He shook her gently, then more urgently as she seemed difficult to rouse from her dream state.

Nikita sat up in bed, her heart pounding, her chest heaving as though she’d been running. "Michael?" she said in a quavery voice.

"I’m here, doucette." He shifted around in bed so he could hold her, and she felt rigid in his arms. Yet for all her stonelike inflexibility, there was a fine tremor underlying her fair, smooth skin.

"Is Skye all right?" she barely managed to get past the lump in her throat.

"Yes, love. I just checked on her myself a few minutes ago. Why?" He was perplexed by Nikita’s anxiety. Well-experienced with raising children now, she rarely suffered from ‘nerves’.

She raked a hand through her hair, heaving a long sigh. "Must have been a dream. A very bad dream." She sounded as if she were on the verge of tears. Even though it was a dream, it must have seemed very real indeed for Nikita to react this way.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Michael asked softly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She closed her eyes. "To be honest, all I want to do is forget about it."

"Okay." Michael thought it was probably better to talk about it, but if Nikita was reluctant, he wasn’t about to push her and make things worse.

Heaving what seemed a genuinely long-suffering breath, she threw back the covers and stood unsteadily on her feet. Michael watched her sway gently for a moment before she regained her balance. "I’m just going to make sure Skye is all right."

It was on the tip of Michael’s tongue to reiterate his earlier statement that he had just checked on their youngest child himself. But he kept his silence.

When she did not immediately return, Michael got out of bed and retraced Nikita’s path into the children’s adjoining bedroom. He found her leaning over the cradle that held their littlest one. "Kita?"

Nikita turned slowly, and Michael could see the tears coursing down both her cheeks, the dim room light catching the sheen. "She’s o-kay, Mi-chael...."

He wrapped his arms around her, and instantly she collapsed against him, as if she bore a weight too great to sustain alone. "Oh, Michael, she’s so...little...so helpless...."

"Kita, tell me what’s upsetting you," Michael exhorted, feeling a familiar pang in his heart whenever the love of his life was in any kind of pain.

She looked up, a terrified look on her face. "It was the dream, Michael. The dream that comes almost every year. The dream about the Man in Black."

"What about the Man in Black, Kita?" Michael asked, real dread growing in his heart.

"He’s getting closer," she said, panic-stricken at the thought of him getting to their children.

Michael knew better than to treat this as any ordinary nightmare. It was a prescient dream, everyone in the family thought so, and he knew if he was to ask Birkoff or Declan, one of them would confess to having a similar dream.

"If he is, Kita, we’re in the safest possible place," he said, trying to reassure her.

"No, we’re not, we’re trapped here," she replied, certainty in her voice. "I want to go home, Michael."

"Kita!"

"I want to go home. To our house. If he knew where we were before, he’s already eliminated it as a possibility. He wouldn’t expect us to go back there."

Michael looked as if she’d struck him. "I knew we’d go back someday, but..."

"Oh, love, I’m so sorry," Nikita cried. "I know how much this place means to you. I love it, too. If it were just you and me, I would stay here forever with you."

"But we can’t hide here forever, Michael. Putting our lives on hold."

"I didn’t think what we were doing here was hiding, Kita," Michael said, obviously hurt. "I thought we had finally begun to live our lives." He released her abruptly and turned away.

When he got to the door, he stopped for a moment, a feeling very like grief dragging him down into its depths. "I guess I was wrong," he whispered harshly.

Nikita stared after her husband in abject despair. It felt like an unbridgeable gap lay between them now. How to cross it, she could not see. Yet.

Michael strode into the bedroom, pulling his clothes on in such haste, he couldn’t have said what he was wearing. He needed to get out. Out of the room. Out of the chateau. Out.

Swiping angrily at both cheeks, he realized he was crying. Damn fool. He caught himself before he slammed the door behind him, closing it with a polite but distant snick. He all but ran down the main staircase, nearly colliding with someone at the bottom.

It was Declan.

Michael pushed the younger man away as soon as he smelled his breath. "You’re drunk!"

Declan grinned. "I sure am! What was your first clue, Mike?"

Michael blinked. No one ever shortened his name. Not even Nikita. He gritted his teeth and shook his head in an effort to clear it.

"So what’s your problem, Declan?"

Declan swayed back and forth, but not enough to lose his balance. "The problem? Hmm...let me shee...see. The problem is...this bottle is empty." He held up an empty bottle of wine. God, he was not only drunk, he was drunk on wine. He was going to be as sick as a dog in the morning.

Michael laughed shortly. "What’s the matter, Declan? You couldn’t find the whiskey? Not much of a nose for liquor for an Irishman."

Declan’s eyes nearly crossed as he struggled to focus on Michael’s face. "Not much of an Irishman either," he said with an impolite hiccup.

All at once, Declan sat down on the bottom step of the staircase, nearly missing in the process. "I’ll have you know...I never drunk...drink." Declan nodded his head up and down.

"Then what brought this on?" Michael asked, despite his impatience to get outside. He wanted nothing more than to walk for hours, walk until he was exhausted. He felt a powerful destructive urge inside, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He wanted to be somewhere else when it erupted.

Declan’s pale grey eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I just had the mosht...beaut...afull...sperience o’ my life."

"Then why are you drunk?"

"Cause I screwed it up. I always do," Declan wailed. "I haven’t had a drink since I was a teenager, Mike. You know that?"

Michael ignored the way Declan shortened his name again and concentrated on what he was trying to say. "What did you do?"

"God, I feel so...bad."

Michael sighed. That much was obvious.

Declan staggered to his feet, one hand clutching the bottle, the other steadying himself against the wall. Michael reached out a hand to help, but Declan brushed him off. "Nope, nope, nope. Got to do thish all by m’self, Mike. Got to get ushed to that."

Michael frowned. "Used to what?"

Declan looked tearful again. "Ushed to being...alone...again."

Michael broke eye contact with the former Section operative. It was just too painful to maintain. Declan was far too much like looking in a mirror. Especially now. He clapped a hand to Declan’s upper arm and turned away brusquely, forcing himself through the main doors.

It was barely dawn. There was a long day ahead.

***

Another bottle of wine later, Declan lay sprawled across the bottom of the stairs. He could barely speak coherently now. But that didn’t matter. There was no one to speak to. However, there was still a compelling reason to drink. Guilt. Grief. Either. Both.

At the end of the next bottle, Declan was joined by Walter. They traded war stories from Section One, and they drank. Mostly they drank. But Walter could hold his liquor. Declan had zero tolerance. And he was about to turn into a maudlin caricature of himself. Any moment.

"God, why don’t dey tell ya dat drinkin’ makes ya depresht?"

Walter cackled wildly. "Hell, Declan, you’re an Irishman. Your natural state of mind is somewhere between depression and tragedy, isn’t it?"

Declan fixed him with a pointed stare. Or it would have been if Declan could have focused his eyes. "Don’ conn...fush me, Walt-er."

Suddenly Birkoff was standing there. In front of the two of them. To say he was angry would have been a major understatement. "Where the hell are your brains? In your ass?"

That woke up Walter, who was merely slightly the worse for wear. Declan snorted derisively. "Yup, yup, dat’s zackly where dose brains are, my love."

Walter laughed. "Ooh, ooh, fight, fight! My money’s on Declan, Birkoff. Sorry, but you couldn’t punch your way outta a wet paper bag!"

Birkoff almost screamed in frustration. "You’re drunk!!! You’re a freaking disgrace!"

Declan snickered. "Yup, yup, dat’d be me, the freaking disgrace."

"And stop agreeing with me like that, it’s annoying!"

"Ooh, you’re a right nag, you are! Go to hell!" Both drink and depression were having their way with Declan’s mood, which was growing curiously labile.

"I’ve been there!" Birkoff snapped at him angrily. "Waiting upstairs all night long, for you to come back from wherever the hell you went. You’ve been gone for hours, Declan! Hours!"

Declan smiled suddenly, the effect as comical as it was inappropriate. He leaned over to Walter, who was watching the proceedings with an avid gleam in his eye. "Aw, he’s so cute when he’s mad."

Walter hooted and hollered. "I’ve always thought so myself, Declan!"

Birkoff glared at both of them. "I don’t know which of you is worse."

Declan bit his lip, looking like a fractious child being called to task. "I’ll tell ya when I finish dis here bottle." He picked up the bottle, noting it was nearly empty, too.

"You’ve had enough!"

"Oh, no, I haven’ had near enough, dat’s God’s honesht trute!"

Birkoff fumed.

"Ya know how I can tell, Sey?" Declan leaned closer to Birkoff, addressing him in a conspiratorial whisper. "Cause I ain’t anestht-ta-tized. Hell, I can still say anestht-ta-tized," he said, looking puzzled.

"Declan!" Birkoff wailed in frustration.

Declan clambered to his feet, barely able to stand, but his intentions were obvious. He reached for Birkoff, his hands raking his lover’s body as if they were alone. "C’mere, Sey, I jes wanna kish ya!"

Birkoff pushed Declan away with both hands. "Well, I don’t want to kiss you. You smell like a brewery!"

"Gimme a proper kish den, boyo...please...." Declan slid his cheek next to Birkoff’s, but Birkoff eluded his grasp, easily done given the amount of alcohol Declan had consumed.

Birkoff gave Declan another push, and Declan unsteadily thumped his bottom on the floor as his long legs gave way at last. He looked up at Birkoff, his normally pale eyes the shade of dull pewter. "Acushla?"

"What the hell does that mean, Declan?" Walter asked gruffly, starting to feel like he was in the middle of a civil war.

"Darlin’. Sey’s my darlin’ boy, aren’t ya, Sey?"

When Birkoff didn’t answer right away, Declan looked crestfallen. He turned to Walter and said, "I never told anyone...not even Sey...but when he called me ‘shweetie’ yeshterday...I really liked...it."

Walter groaned and held his head. "That is definitely more information than I needed to know about you two. Thanks for the floor show, guys, but I gotta go see a wife about a doghouse. Later."

After Walter left, surprisingly under his own power, Declan tried to follow, but he couldn’t quite manage on his own. Birkoff reluctantly put Declan’s arm around him and pulled him to his feet. Slowly, they made their way back upstairs.

When they finally reached their room, Birkoff undressed Declan with the aloofness of a total stranger. Declan, even in his inebriated state, registered the difference. "Sey?"

"Don’t strain your brains by talking, Dec. You’re gonna need ‘em all when you wake up with the mother of all hangovers."

Birkoff didn’t sound as though that possibility distressed him. At all. Sitting Declan on the bed, he pulled off Declan’s boots, one at a time, muttering to himself all the while.

"I don’t know why you had to ruin a perfectly good day by going out and getting drunk, Declan! I’ve never even seen you drink!"

"I don’t. I haven’t. In yearsh."

Pricking his ears up at the despondent tone in Declan’s voice, Birkoff sighed. "So why now?"

Declan rubbed his stubbled cheek thoughtfully. "Sey..."

How could Declan explain the burden of guilt he routinely carried, just by being alive? His brother dead, his mother dead. All the Section dead. By his hand. How could he explain that he felt personally responsible for Birkoff’s happiness? That he wanted to protect him from whatever was out there, seeking, searching, sharpening its ugly teeth on the bodies of others until it could get to them?

"I’m not happy with you, Dec. Just so you know," Birkoff complained.

Declan looked tortured. "I know."

Birkoff heard the baby cry and sighed. "And now you’ve managed to wake Emmy."

Birkoff bustled into the other room, picking up the little red-haired sprite. He rocked her back and forth until she stopped crying, speaking to her in a low voice. "You want a piece of advice, Emmy? Never get married. He won’t respect you, Em. He’ll drive you crazy when you least expect it. He--"

Declan stood in the doorway, so unsteady he was forced to brace himself with both arms. "He’ll love ya till he dies, acushla."

Birkoff put the baby down in her cradle, glaring at Declan, moved to tears despite his resolve. "I’m not sleeping with you, Dec."

Declan sniffed, his own eyes wet. "I know."

"And this better never happen again," Birkoff warned.

"Never. I swear," Declan vowed.

"Okay then. You take the bed, I’ll sleep in here with Emmy."

Declan didn’t move. He couldn’t. He felt as if every muscle in his body revolted at the thought of being separated from his lover. "Can I stay here wit ya?"

Birkoff blinked. "Don’t go using that cute Irish accent on me, either."

"Acushla?"

"And don’t speak Gaelic to me. You’re trying to get on my good side, dammit."

"You want a divorce?" Finally. Finally it came out of Declan’s mouth. His worst fear crystallized in that moment.

"God, no! Can’t I get good and angry without you jumping to the wrong conclusion? What did you do, Dec? You obviously think you did something, or you wouldn’t have gotten drunk in the first place. So spit it all out!" Birkoff crossed his arms and waited impatiently.

Declan’s mouth worked, but little came out. "I--I saw dis guy in the mall--"

Birkoff’s mouth dropped open. "You cheated on me?" he whispered.

Declan’s reddened eyes flew open wide. "No! I would never--"

Birkoff closed the door to Emmy’s room behind him and pushed Declan back, gently, with both hands, guiding him to the bed. Declan promptly fell onto the bed with a general flailing of arms and legs. Birkoff sat on the bed, next to Declan.

Declan clutched at Birkoff’s hands. "I’ve never been unfaithful to ya, acushla. Never. I swear on my mother." Tears sprang into Declan’s eyes, and Birkoff knew he spoke the truth.

Birkoff nodded slowly.

"But dis guy came on to me...and I wasn’ even tempted...I dint do nuffin. But I felt so..."

"Guilty?" Declan nodded. "Dec, you can’t be responsible for everyone. Just you is plenty."

"Den ya forgive me?"

"There’s nothing to forgive," Birkoff said softly, brushing Declan’s hair back from his face.

Declan kissed Birkoff’s hand. "I love ya, acushla."

"I love you, too." Pause. "But I’m still not sleeping with you. Get under the covers."

Declan laughed. Birkoff wouldn’t go far. He never went far from his side.