"Oh, shit!"

Birkoff stubbed his toe on the boxes piled next to the bed and hopped madly across the room, trying to grab his jeans off the floor. Bleary-eyed, he squinted at the clock. It was nearly 7 am. Emmy was sure to be up. Why hadn’t he heard her on the baby monitor?

He sat down hard on the bed, waking Declan at last, who rolled over like a cat who had partaken of too much cream. Sated. Sinfully so. Declan yawned and reached for Birkoff without opening his eyes all the way. Birkoff scooted away, like the proverbial mouse at play with the cat.

"What’s up?" Declan asked sleepily.

"Not you, that’s for sure," Birkoff quipped with a grin. "Boy, one late night and you’re ready to stay in bed all day!"

"Mmm...name me one good reason to get up now..." Declan said, hugging his pillow.

"I can give you two. Christmas and Emmy’s birthday. Not necessarily in that order."

"Christ! Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?" Declan shot out of bed like a circus performer out of a cannon. Pulling clothes from every possible direction, Declan fought Birkoff for the necessary means to get dressed.

"Probably cause I just woke up myself." Birkoff gazed bemusedly as Declan bustled around the room.

"Is Emmy up? Did you go in to her yet?"

"No...and no." Birkoff smiled at the sight of his lover, half-dressed and somewhere to be in about...five minutes.

"I’m impressed, Dec. You managed to pull yourself together. Sorta." Birkoff giggled, his dark chocolate eyes dancing playfully.

"How come you don’t look like you were up all night, love?"

"Must be old age creeping up on you, Declan...old man." Birkoff registered the exact moment that comment penetrated Declan’s sleep-impaired brain. Declan’s eyes narrowed and he began to move ominously in Birkoff’s direction.

Birkoff shrieked with laughter and made it as far as the door before Declan caught him. Declan took full advantage of the situation to wrap his arms around Birkoff’s upper body, willing him to stand still in his embrace. "Hey..."

"Hey what?" Birkoff said, a soft glint in his warm brown eyes.

"You still love me?" Declan said with a wink, his fingers playing restlessly with Birkoff’s hair.

Birkoff pretended to consider the question seriously, knowing he was driving Declan mad. "Nah...you’re too hard to get along with, Dec."

"Only when I don’t get my good morning kiss," Declan intoned in the manner of someone not to be crossed before breakfast.

Birkoff shifted in Declan’s arms, anxious to see Emmy’s expression when she realized it was her birthday. Finally. Emmy was too young to have any real concept of time, and it was hard to keep reassuring her that her birthday was indeed coming, but not today.

Declan sighed. "Oh, I can see where your mind is at, Sey. You’ve gone and left me flat for that precious little princess again." Declan pouted, but his expression was all for show, for no one loved that little girl more than he did, not even Birkoff.

Birkoff shrugged insouciantly. "Well, she is prettier than you are, Dec."

"You tease!" Declan chuckled at Birkoff’s cheekiness on so little sleep. "You like to play with fire, don’t you?"

"Oh, yeah," Birkoff assured him. "I’m a regular daredevil." Birkoff rolled his eyes as if to say that Declan was a few slices short of a full loaf.

"Kiss me, and I’ll let you pass," Declan commanded.

"Umm...is this gonna take long? I got a hot date with the little one in about three...seconds," Birkoff drawled.

"Kiss me, or you’re sleeping alone tonight," Declan threatened.

Birkoff sniffled. "Well, I guess I have time for one..." He reached up to pull Declan’s face closer and touched his lips gently to Declan’s. But Declan wasn’t settling for a paltry half-hearted kiss. He nudged Birkoff’s lips apart, his tongue gently penetrating the inner recesses of his partner’s mouth.

Birkoff responded by splaying one hand across Declan’s cheek, holding him against his mouth. Declan smiled. As if he wanted to move away from Birkoff voluntarily.

"Go ahead, Sey," Declan said. "You get to say ‘Merry Christmas’ first. But I get to say ‘Happy Birthday’. How’s that for fair?"

"Sounds good to me, Dec."

But a moment later, when Birkoff entered Emmy’s bedroom, he stopped and stared at the empty bed. He knew he hadn’t heard the baby wake up this morning. For a very good reason. Emmy wasn’t in her bed.

But where was she?

Chris was happy. He managed to sneak out of bed perilously early this morning, without disturbing any of the grown-ups, including his parents, who were fast asleep in each other’s arms.

He found his way down to the first floor without any difficulty. He remembered the way from the previous time, the night they arrived back home, the night he went searching for his ray of sunshine. Emmy. Even her name sounded sweet on his tongue. Like honey.

Chris didn’t question why he felt compelled to seek out Emmy at every turn. He just knew it was important to him. It was a feeling he had deep inside, where no one else could see. He didn’t even have a name for that feeling. But it was awfully close to how he felt about Mommy and Daddy. Only different.

Dragging the stuffed animal behind him, Chris made his way into the living room, where the Christmas tree stood in all its glorious array. He loved Christmas. It made everyone smile. The lights, the ornaments, the colorful presents under the tree. It was one of the most amazing sights he had ever seen in his young life.

But it wasn’t the Christmas tree. It was Emmy. Her bright red hair haloing her tiny face, she was struggling to open a box, finally dumping herself onto her bottom with a thump. But instead of crying, like some babies would, Emmy merely giggled. A delightful noise that made Chris smile.

"Allo, Soleil," Chris said shyly, trying to conceal the stuffed animal behind him. He waved the fingers of one hand at her in greeting, but his attempt to smile at her fell flat. His face felt frozen, as if the effort to shape his lips into a smile was simply too much for him. So he retreated, not unlike his father, behind a blank stare.

If Emmy could speak, she would have told Chris how glad she was to see him. She loved everyone in this makeshift family, especially her two fathers, but Chris was different. He went out of his way to talk to her, even though he knew she hadn’t said her first word yet. He didn’t think she was useless because she was a girl. In fact, if she were any judge, at her tender age, she would say that Chris loved the fact that she was a girl.

But if English was difficult for Emmy, French was even harder. Chris sometimes sat with her and spoke to her in French. She suspected it was because he didn’t want anyone to understand what he said if he was overheard. Well, that might be true, but it was also true that Emmy herself did not have a clue as to what Chris was telling her. He could have been pouring out his heart and soul to her, and she would be none the wiser.

Therefore, it was with a fair degree of confusion that Emmy met Chris’ straightforward gaze. "Allo, Soleil," he repeated, noticing the way Emmy’s forehead creased in thought. She was going to speak soon. He just knew it. He wanted to be there when she said her first word. He just knew it would be special, like her.

Who was Soleil? Did he mean her? Emmy? Her name wasn’t Soleil. At least, she didn’t think it was. She frowned.

Chris abruptly realized that he was probably confusing his fair princess. As much as she struggled to speak, she wasn’t ready yet. For English, much less French.

Chris held out the stuffed animal to Emmy, who stared at him, her thumb seeking her mouth automatically. "Happy Birfday, Emmy."

What kind of stuffed animal was that? It had a long, long neck, and it had a big hump in the middle of its back. It was definitely curious looking, and it wore a huge red bow around its neck. Emmy knew what that meant. It was a gift. But for who?

He pushed the stuffed camel at Emmy, willing her to take it from him. "For you, Em."

She stared at the object, perplexed at first, then broke into a beatific grin. Chattering unintelligibly, she pulled on the camel’s neck and it came forward, towards her. She clapped her hands excitedly and giggled. Suddenly, before Chris could move back, Emmy leaned forward and gave him a big kiss.

Chris didn’t know what to think about that. He just reacted. Stroking her cheek with one hand, as he’d done one night long ago to soothe her, Chris gazed at her intently, his dark blue eyes seeming to memorize every feature for future recall. He didn’t know what this feeling was, but it was stronger than ever before. In fact, it would change the entire course of his life. But he couldn’t know that.

Moments later, a large pair of arms scooped up Emmy. "There you are, you little minx! Thought you could get to the tree before anyone else, eh?" Emmy looked up at her father with genuine affection in her bright silver-grey eyes. Her father examined the stuffed animal, rightly surmising that Chris was the gift-giver.

"You gave Emmy a birthday present, Chris? That was such a nice thing to do!" Chris beamed under his godfather’s praise.

Turning to Emmy, her father asked, "So what’s his name, this camel with the wrinkly knees, Em?" When Emmy didn’t answer, he faced Chris. "Does he come with a name then, Chris?"

Chris nodded happily. "Yep. His name is George. You got’s to call him dat."

"George." Emmy’s father showed no outward reaction, but his blood chilled. What a name for such a happy-go-lucky critter. Couldn’t be farther from its namesake if it tried.

"You sure about this, Chris? Where’d you get a name like that?" He wondered if Chris had heard his parents talking about Section, or if this was just one of those innocent coincidences guaranteed to make a parent grey before their time.

"TV," Chris pointed to the television set. A look of realization passed over Emmy’s father’s face. Cartoons. Undoubtedly Bugs Bunny, if he remembered correctly.

"Well, Chris, Emmy has to go now--"

Chris automatically protested. "No! Emmy stay! Her birfday!"

"She has to get dressed, Chris," Emmy’s father patiently explained.

Chris managed to school his features back into a semblance of a mask. "Okay," he said, his voice almost breaking.

Emmy held onto the camel’s neck with a deathgrip, her tiny fingers almost white with effort. She wanted to stay, and she wanted to tell her father that. But the words were stuck in her throat. As always. She sighed.

"Merry Christmas, Chris. Emmy says thank you for the camel. Wrinkly knees and all." He smiled despite his very real concern for Emmy’s safety minutes earlier.

Emmy stared at her father, her little mouth working. Her father frowned. Was something wrong? Did she have something stuck in her throat?

Yes, as a matter of fact. There was something stuck there, something desperate to come out, and when it did, it shocked all of them.

"Da!" Emmy cried at full voice.

Chris jumped up and down, glad to hear his beloved princess’ voice at last.

But Declan cried. In front of both children.

By the time the cake was ready for Emmy’s birthday celebration, it was early afternoon. Declan never really recovered from his early morning surprise. Emmy missing from her bed. Emmy affectionately expressing her thanks to Chris. Emmy speaking her first word. And what a first word. Da.

Declan sighed, his preoccupation evident to Birkoff. "You’re still daydreaming over Emmy’s first word, aren’t you?"

"Yep." He stuck a finger into an unobtrusive portion of the cake, coming away with whipped cream, which he then proceeded to lick off his finger. He offered some to Birkoff, who gently nibbled on Declan’s finger for a few moments.

"I’m really happy for you, Dec." Birkoff seemed sincere. There wasn’t really any reason for him to feel as though they were competing for Emmy’s love or her first moments as she grew older.

"You’re not upset that her first word was ‘Da’, are you?" Declan chewed nervously on a fingernail until Birkoff stopped him.

Birkoff shook his head. "How could I be jealous of you when Emmy loves you as much as I do?"

Declan made a tiny sound, his storm-grey eyes wavering on his lover’s face. Suddenly burying his face against Birkoff’s shoulder, Declan hugged him as tightly as he could. "Th-thanks."

When Declan released him, Birkoff gave him a crooked grin. "Besides...you can’t spell Daddy without Da."

Declan chuckled, ruffling Birkoff’s hair. Birkoff protested mildly, smoothing his hair back into some semblance of order. "Hey...I don’t want anyone to think we’re fooling around back here."

Declan kissed him tenderly, his lips a bit salty from all his tears earlier. "I never fool around where you’re concerned, Kieran. I’m always dead serious about loving you."

***

After the last Christmas present had been opened, the last bit of wrapping paper saved, the last ornament jangled from its precarious perch atop the tree...there was peace. Nikita lay her head sleepily on Michael’s shoulder, and his arm crept around her body to embrace her. "Well, we survived another Christmas, Michael."

Michael smiled faintly, attempting to cover a yawn. "Yes, but next year, we should try sleeping the night before and see if that helps."

She looked up at him, a mischievous glint in her warm blue eyes. "Why break with tradition?"

He gave a startled laugh and kissed her. "Why indeed?"

***

Emmy struggled to walk with the weight of the stuffed camel pulling on her. It was nearly as big as she was. She loved it already, dragging it everywhere she went, all day long. Just because it came from Chris. It could have been anything, but she was glad it was a stuffed animal. She could hold it and kiss it, and it followed her, just like a puppy.

She spied Chris sitting under the tree with his sister, Faith. She wanted to join them, but she felt curiously shy. That wasn’t like her. She usually jumped into things with a whole-hearted enthusiasm that the others envied and admired. But now, she held back. Something had changed. She wanted his attention, if for no other reason than to reassure herself that he still felt the way he did this morning.

Chris felt her presence. With an unerring sense, he turned and saw her, standing there, swaying slightly on her increasingly steady feet. "Emmy!" Chris cried, unconsciously smiling before he could regain control of his natural inscrutability.

Faith looked in Emmy’s direction, but she wasn’t interested in the younger child in the same way that Chris was. "Hi, Em," she said politely. But her mind was preoccupied with where Connor had managed to scoot off to.

Chris clambered over his pile of goodies and stood uncertainly in front of Emmy. Emmy stared back at him, one hand wrapped firmly around the camel’s neck, the other in her mouth.

Nikita sighed contentedly. "Did you know this was going on, Michael?"

Michael nodded, pressing a kiss to his wife’s hair. His hand absently stroking her back, he seemed half-asleep, when in reality, he was watching everyone and everything. "It’s sweet, isn’t it, doucette?"

"I think they’re in love, Michael," she said, rubbing her cheek against Michael’s.

"You might be right, Kita. But how can you tell? Chris gives nothing away..."

"Like his father." Nikita kissed her husband and snuggled closer. "But I can tell you love me, even without the words..."

"How?" he whispered hoarsely, his green eyes suddenly riveted to his wife’s face.

"Your eyes..." she breathed. "Sometimes I think...the love was always there...if I had only looked," she said with real regret, perhaps thinking of time wasted.

Michael shook his head. "Don’t torture yourself that way, Kita. There was no possible way for us to be together this way back then."

"Then you didn’t love me then?" Nikita asked tearfully.

"If I tell you I did, would it change anything? We can’t go back and live that time over again, even if we wanted to. If we had admitted we loved each other then...it would have killed one or both of us to be kept apart."

"But at least we would have had--"

"What, stolen moments? Clandestine meetings? Don’t romanticize Section in your imagination, doucette. It was never pretty, and it was always hard. Don’t make it sound as though you would have stayed, if we could only have been allowed to be together. If I had told you I loved you then...it would have been unbearable."

Michael choked on the last word, and Nikita realized he spoke the truth. For him, it would have been truly unbearable. Yes, the feelings were always there, but for them to act on them, to make them real to each other, would have driven them both mad. Wanting what they could never have.

Nikita ran her hands lightly over his face, catching the glint of unshed tears in Michael’s eyes. "We had no life there, Michael. I know that now. By bringing us here, you gave us both back our lives. How can I ever thank you enough?"

"Just love me...forever," Michael whispered. He closed his eyes, and Nikita lamented the loss of those beautiful green eyes that told her so much. She stroked his cheek with her finger, and he nuzzled her hand lovingly.

When he opened his eyes again, he had regained control. But the love he felt for Nikita and their family still shone brightly in his vivid green eyes.

***

Moments later, Michael shuddered, a very visceral response to what he’d just heard. "What did you say, Chris?"

Chris and Emmy were now sitting next to each other on the floor. Chris gazing raptly at Emmy, Emmy seemingly transfixed by his obvious affection. Her grip on the stuffed camel loosened itself involuntarily after a while, and Chris was stroking the animal’s long neck.

Chris looked up at his father, unperturbed by the question. "Dis is a camel, Daddy."

"I know, Chris. But what did you say after that?"

"Ohh..." Chris nodded. "His name is George."

"Why George, Chris?" Michael asked, suppressing a visible moue of distaste.

"Dadddddyy!" Chris rolled his eyes, like his twin, Faith. "Dat’s jes his name."

"You don’t know anyone named George?"

"Jes on TV."

Michael nodded. Another gap in his knowledge. He had finally made the acquaintance of Fozzie Bear, the Count, and all the other Sesame Street characters. But any other reference to TV was lost on him. Thank God. He had enough brutal reminders of Section and the life they’d led before their escape stuffed away in his memory. He had absolutely no nostalgia for those days. Even though it was the only life he and Nikita ever really had.

"Chris?"

"Yes, Daddy?" Chris looked up expectantly.

"Would you mind calling the camel something else?"

"Christmas was wonderful."

"Emmy’s birthday, too."

"Yeah. G’nite, Dec."

"G’nite, Kieran." Kiss. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Pause. "Acushla." Giggle.

***

Michael strode into the kitchen, noting immediately that there was no fresh coffee. That was odd. Even on days when Declan was sick or off, he made coffee. He knew how Michael felt about coffee.

"Declan?" he called out. There was no one there.

Turning to leave the kitchen, he walked straight into Neil. "Good morning, Michael. What’s up?"

"Morning, Neil. No one’s up and about yet. No coffee."

Neil shrugged. "Well, it was a pretty exciting day yesterday. Christmas and Emmy’s birthday at the same time. Probably took its toll on the young lovers."

Michael grinned. "Emmy and Chris? I didn’t know you’d seen them together. Aren’t they sweet?"

Neil blinked. "Um, no, I haven’t, Michael. I meant Declan and Birkoff."

"Oh, them." Michael dismissed the couple with a casual Gallic wave. "Declan’s absence is the reason there’s no coffee yet."

"You do have a one-track mind, don’t you, Michael?" Neil gave Michael a bemused smile.

"Before I’ve had my morning coffee? Yes," Michael commented tersely.

"I can make a fair cup of tea, if that would help?" Neil offered.

Michael shook his head, an amused gleam entering his grey-green eyes. "No." He paused, as if considering his next words. "It’s got to be coffee."

"Maybe you should see someone about that, Michael," Neil quipped.

"You’re just saying that cause you’re married to Madeline," Michael retorted, quite enjoying the exchange.

"Are you accusing me of drumming up business?" Neil pretended to be aghast, a horrified look crossing his normally even features.

"In this house, you don’t need to look very far to find that kind of...business," Michael said, an insouciant tone creeping into his voice.

"Enough. I give up. Let’s go find Declan and get you some coffee." Neil volunteered to check Declan’s rooms, and Michael agreed.

***

Meanwhile...Declan placed a hand on Birkoff’s forehead. "Kieran, you’re burning up, love. You’ve got a bloody fever."

Birkoff sneezed. His nose was reddened, his eyes were watery, and his voice was a mere croak of sound. "I’m okay, Declan."

"You’re not okay, Kieran. You’re sick. You’re staying in bed. I’m getting Neil." Declan was adamant. He didn’t care how okay Birkoff thought he was, he was getting a second opinion, and the second opinion was coming from a doctor.

"Dec..." Birkoff groaned. "Please don’t call Neil." Birkoff wanted to stop Declan from calling Neil. He didn’t need a doctor. He had a cold. Neil would make him stay in bed, force him to drink tons of chicken soup and orange juice, and probably insist on Birkoff being waited on. Hand and foot. Wait a minute. That sounded like his idea of Heaven. Having Declan tend to his every need, all day and all night? What was he saying?

"Declan!" Birkoff’s rasp caught Declan at the door. "You can call Neil if you want."

Declan nodded. He had no intention of doing otherwise.

***

Declan and Neil literally met at the door as it opened. Neil was the first to recover his wits. "Declan! Michael and I were looking for you! There’s no cof--"

"Neil! Sey’s sick. Can you come and take a look at him?"

Neil shifted gears instantly. "Of course." That put a whole new light on things. Of course, Michael wouldn’t be pleased, having to wait even longer for his morning coffee. But Birkoff’s health clearly took priority.

Neil followed Declan into the bedroom. Upon first glance, Birkoff looked like a man down for the count. But when Neil examined him, he noted that his lungs were clear. No congestion. This was not pneumonia. Thank God.

And his fever wasn’t high enough for flu. It was probably just a virus, which meant they could make him comfortable, but that was just about the limit of what they could do. Of course, it went without saying that Declan could make Birkoff more comfortable than any of the rest of them. Neil didn’t want to say this aloud, for fear of embarrassing either of them, but he was certain it was true.

Declan looked worried. More worried than Birkoff, actually. "Is he all right, Neil?"

"Declan, he’s got a minor upper respiratory infection," Neil said patiently.

That did not assuage Declan’s anxiety. "English, Neil! Bloody hell!"

"A cold, Declan."

"See? I tol’ you, Dec," Birkoff croaked out.

Declan shot Birkoff a look of such tenderness, Neil coughed. "Listen, he needs plenty of fluids. Soup, juice, water. As much as he can handle. Oh, and keep him warm. In bed."

Declan blinked. Birkoff giggled. Neil shook his head. "That didn’t come out right." Neil started to leave, then thought of something. "One more thing. Don’t let Birkoff anywhere near Emmy."

It was hard to tell who was more horrified. Declan or Birkoff. "What?"

"It’s not that she would get that sick, but if she gets it, the whole house will probably come down with it. There’s just no way to keep a houseful of kids from spreading it."

Birkoff only had one question, and as usual, it wasn’t about himself. "Who’s going to take care of Emmy?"

"I will, Sey," Declan reassured his partner.

"But Dec, you’re taking care of me," Birkoff protested.

"That’s hardly a fulltime job, Sey," Declan said dryly.

Birkoff sniffled. "I don’t like being sick, Dec."

"I don’t imagine anyone does, Sey." Declan bent over his lover, adjusting the covers so that they came up to his chin.

"Neil, can you take care of Emmy?"

"Birkoff, as much as I’d like to help out, I’ve already got one of my own."

Birkoff looked so disappointed, Neil suddenly understood how he managed to wrap Declan around his little finger. He was darn cute.

Neil sighed. Birkoff chortled happily. Declan gave Neil an understanding look. "Thanks, Neil," said Birkoff in what passed for his voice under the circumstances.

"Don’t thank me yet. I have yet to break the news to Maddy."

Birkoff shifted uncomfortably in bed. His head ached, his nose was running, and he felt generally miserable. He wanted to be taken care of. By Declan. He didn’t care if it was childish or not. He wanted all of Declan’s attention.

Birkoff blew his nose loudly. Not normally one to wallow in self-pity, he couldn’t believe he actually didn’t want to share Declan with Emmy. God, he must be all kinds of low. How could he do this to his own daughter?

The next thing he knew, he was crying. What was wrong with him? Did he really feel that bad? Then he thought back to his childhood. With great reluctance and not a little trepidation. What happened when he was sick? His parents thought of him as little more than a thing. A thing of great value. But nonetheless a thing. A thing to be bartered or sold to the highest bidder. And oh, how Section paid for him. He supposed there was a certain irony in that, that Section ended up paying through the nose for him, only to find that their investment eventually escaped their grasp.

But back to his parents...Birkoff knew he had been abused, although he almost never let himself look back on those days. But sometimes when he least expected it, it would re-surface. Like now.

His mother was less sympathetic than his father. At the risk of sounding like a stereotype, he wondered if that was why he had turned out the way he had. Withdrawn. Asocial. No, worse than asocial. Phobic of social situations. Convinced that people could see inside him, see that he was really this impostor, that he was a product of his parents’ hype.

The reality was, Birkoff had so much love to give. But his parents didn’t want anything to do with him, beyond feeding and clothing him, and then only enough to recoup their losses when they finally managed to make his brains pay off.

His life here with Declan and the others had literally saved his life. His smartass attitude and even fresher mouth were a defense mechanism. Something he rarely used anymore. Oh, he still indulged his quixotic sense of humor, but the underlying streak of meanness was gone. He no longer needed to strike out at people, to keep them away, at a distance, where they could not discover just how vulnerable he was.

Sometimes that scared him. Thinking about how Declan scaled his defenses. How did he do that? How did he see the real Birkoff beneath the often-surly exterior? How come he liked what he saw? Enough to fall in love with him? And wouldn’t he just run away screaming when he saw the pathetic child he was reduced to when he was sick?

Birkoff knew why. It was because when he was sick, he was completely unable to hide, unable to use any of his normal defense mechanisms, even if he wanted to. The Birkoff who was still a seven-year old boy being physically and emotionally abused by his so-called parents couldn’t help feeling sorry for himself. Because he was the only one who cared about what happened to him. No one else did. Everyone who cared left him.

He knew in his heart that Declan was different. For one thing, Declan seemed to care more about Birkoff than about himself. For another, Birkoff had tested him, inadvertently, more than once, and Declan was still staunchly in his corner. He knew all of this. And still he cried.

Because he needed Declan to take care of him. The way his parents had not. The way Section had not. The past didn’t matter. Neither did the future. Only the present could give him what he needed.

Pulling the bed covers over his head, Birkoff wept. For all those times he never got picked for the softball team at school. For all those times his parents forgot to come to Parents’ Night to see how bright he was, outside of working with computers. For all the love he should have received, but never did. What an impossible situation he was making for himself and Declan. Setting them both up to fail.

How could one man hope to fulfill all his hopes and dreams and wants and needs? How could he put that much responsibility on Declan’s shoulders? Was that fair? No. But he couldn’t help wanting the impossible.

Declan entered the room, bearing gifts, so to speak. He put the tureen of hot chicken noodle soup down on the bedside table. Birkoff hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since he woke, and Declan had spent the morning trying to get things organized for the others, so that he could spend as much time as possible with Birkoff.

"Hey," he said softly, noticing that Birkoff had slipped under the covers as usual. It was a habit of his, probably dating back to childhood, though Declan never questioned him about it. He sensed instinctively that Birkoff had things in his past, like himself, that he would rather not remember. So it was not out of indifference or ignorance that Declan did not delve into Birkoff’s history, but out of kindness and love. He respected Birkoff’s right to keep some of himself private, just as he did.

"Kieran?" Declan said his lover’s name quietly, in case he had actually managed to fall asleep.

Suddenly Birkoff flung the covers back, revealing his anguished, tear-stained face. "There’s no one here by that name!" he sobbed.

Declan didn’t even think twice. He sat down on the bed and quickly pulled Birkoff into his arms. "Ssh, ssh, ssh...what’s wrong, acushla? Tell me, please!"

"I’m wrong! I’m all wrong! How can you even stand being in the same room with me?" Birkoff tried to pull away from Declan, but Declan refused to let him go.

Struggling to hold onto Birkoff, Declan realized that he was losing the battle, at least partly because he was unwilling to hurt his lover. All at once, he released his grip on Birkoff, knowing that the only way he could completely restrain him would be through force. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, do that to Birkoff.

"It’s okay, Sey. I let go of you," Declan said softly, a world of pain in his voice.

"Why?" asked Birkoff in that scratchy rasp that passed for a voice.

"Why what? Why did I let you go?"

Birkoff nodded silently.

"Cause I love you, Sey. I don’t want to hurt you," Declan said calmly.

"If you really loved me..." Birkoff managed to choke out in his ruined voice. "...you wouldn’t let go of me."

His dark eyes wet with tears, Birkoff tried desperately to make eye contact with Declan, but Declan had shifted away, to protect his own feelings now. The truth was, Declan couldn’t bear to see Birkoff in any form of distress, and it was tearing him apart. That he was sick was bad enough, but that he was lost in some netherworld fashioned out of the aftermath of his abuse was worse.

Declan couldn’t think. He stood up and poured some soup into a bowl. He left it by Birkoff’s side of the bed. "Here," he said without a trace of emotion in his voice, "I made this for you. It’ll make you feel better."

Birkoff’s lower lip trembled as he tried to hold back fresh tears. He knew he was consciously pushing Declan away, but why wasn’t Declan pushing back just as hard to stay with him?

"I don’t know if I can hold the spoon, Declan." The look he gave Declan was so wretched, it hurt Declan’s heart.

Declan looked down at the bowl of soup. "Mind you don’t burn yourself, it’s very hot," he said, as if Birkoff hadn’t said a word.

Birkoff gave a cry of pain. "Declan!" he said hoarsely.

Declan made it as far as the door before he gave in to the impulse to turn around and look at Birkoff one more time. Birkoff reached out to Declan, but Declan didn’t take his hands in his. There were tears in his dark grey eyes now. "I dunno what to do for you, love. I swear."

Birkoff’s bittersweet chocolate eyes melted their way through Declan’s blank stare and into his tormented soul. "Neil said you should...keep me warm...in bed."

"I dunno how that’s going to do you a bit of good, Sey."

"Come here. Please," he rasped.

When Declan tentatively sat down again on the bed, Birkoff wrapped his arms around Declan’s waist, burying his face against Declan’s stomach. "You’re all I ever need, Declan. But don’t make me beg. Please," he murmured.

"What do you want from me, Sey?" Declan asked, in a voice almost as sad as his partner’s.

"Just get under the covers with me...and hold me...that’s all."

Declan reluctantly slid under the covers, fully dressed except for his boots, which he pushed off at the last moment. "You need to eat or drink something, acushla," he whispered.

"I need you more than I need soup, Dec." Birkoff’s plaintive tone tugged at Declan’s heartstrings until he could no longer resist.

Settling lower in the bed, Declan pulled Birkoff’s head against his chest, where he could listen to the fitful rhythm of his heartbeat. Birkoff rubbed his cheek against Declan’s chest, over and over, in a repetitive motion that must have been soothing to him.

"Whatever you’ve done with my Kieran, please let him know that I love him," Declan said, trying not to give in to the tears that threatened.

Birkoff burrowed deeper into Declan’s chest, as if he were trying to hide himself. "I love you, Dec," he cried in a pitiful voice.

Declan held him, just as good as his word, and he cried mournfully, his tears seeping into Birkoff’s dark silken hair, long after his lover finally fell asleep in his arms.