"Mmm..." Michael kissed the nape of Nikita’s neck and she stirred restlessly in her sleep. He reached around her to cup her breasts and she struggled to avoid his touch.
"Kita, what’s wrong?" Michael said with a frown.
"My breasts feel a bit tender, that’s all."
"Why?"
"I don’t know. It’s probably nothing."
"Maybe Neil should take a look at you."
"Neil knows entirely too much about my body as it is," she said curtly, not even opening her eyes.
"Kita..." he said, warning flashing in his bright green eyes.
Nikita sighed, rolling over to face her husband. "You want me to see Neil," she stated wearily.
"Just to reassure me, please," he said, not wanting to beg, but willing to go that far if necessary.
***
Nikita stared at Neil in disbelief. "What did you say, Neil?"
Neil crossed his arms in front of him. "I said...you’re pregnant again."
"I can’t be!" she wailed. "It’s too soon! Skye is just seven months old! I’m still breast-feeding! How can I be pregnant?"
"Did you stop taking the pill?"
"Of course! I’m breast-feeding!"
"Well, that’s why you’re pregnant!"
"But I’m breast-feeding!"
"Nikita..." Neil paused before proceeding. What Nikita knew about her own body was difficult to ascertain at times. Evidently she believed that breast-feeding would prevent conception. She was wrong.
But she went from disbelief to anger with the lability of the pregnant woman. And who did she blame? Not herself.
"Michael!" she shouted, blood in her eyes.
***
When Michael heard Nikita scream, he raced to Neil’s room as quickly as he could. "Kita!" he yelled breathlessly.
He was immediately rewarded with Nikita pounding on his chest. "This is all your fault! Your fault!"
Michael was completely at a loss. He had no idea what was upsetting Nikita. Giving Neil a quizzical look, he asked, "What’s wrong? Tell me!"
Neil sighed. "Perhaps it’s better if I let you two work this out alone."
After Neil left, Michael had a sinking feeling this was one conversation he was not going to enjoy.
Nikita’s light blue eyes were chilly even as her anger burned deeply within her breast.
"What’s this about?" Michael said, sure he would regret asking.
"I’m pregnant!" she shrieked.
Michael looked stunned. "How can you be pregnant?"
"You should know! You sleep with me every chance you get!"
Michael’s eyes frosted over, becoming twin chips of green ice. "It takes both of us, Kita."
"But I don’t want to be pregnant this soon!" she moaned, her deep blue eyes filling with tears. Michael reached for her, to comfort her, but she evaded his grasp.
"I hate you! Get the hell away from me!"
Michael shut himself down. Nikita’s tears always upset him, no matter what the cause, but right now, he couldn’t deal with the sudden news of her being pregnant as well as the way she was pushing him away.
"Fine. I’ll let you be." Michael’s voice was cool. He was hiding his hurt. It was second nature to him.
"Michael! You’re happy about this, aren’t you?"
"About what, Kita?"
"My being pregnant! You keep making me pregnant! Are you going to keep trying until you recreate Adam?" she screamed. The silence that met her was deafening.
Michael paled. His face absolutely white, he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He turned his back on his wife and headed for the door.
She screamed at his departing back. "I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m...sorry!" She collapsed, sobbing, sinking to her knees.
"I’m...so...sor..ry...."
Michael slammed the front door behind him, the sound reverberating throughout the house. It was thirty degrees outside. Michael had no jacket. His bootheels crunched across the front lawn as he made his way towards the road. He had no idea where he was going, but he knew it had to be away from here.
He was like a wounded animal. Not crying. Not even breathing hard. Just in shock. He might very well have frozen to death before he managed to come to terms with what happened between him and Nikita, had it not been for Walter.
Walter caught up with Michael somewhere down the road. "Hey, Michael! Where you going in such an all-fired hurry?"
Michael couldn’t answer. His brain was still reeling from Nikita’s words. His heart was a gaping wound. He stared at Walter for several seconds, struggling to make a sound. But none came.
Walter frowned, his ravaged features creasing in a worried look. "Mi-chael? Does this have anything to do with the way Sugar is crying her eyes out upstairs?"
An infinitesimal groan made its way past Michael’s numb lips. Kita was hurting. But goddammit, he was hurting, too. So much worse than ever before. Though he could not cry, he recognized the overpowering feeling that was threatening to take him over. In every bone in his body, in every breath that he took, in every ragged piece of his heart, this felt like betrayal.
That someone he loved could throw his unresolved anguish over the loss of his son back at him like that was too terrible to comprehend. It was, in every way, unbearable for him.
Walter didn’t like the look in Michael’s eyes. Beyond pain. Beyond death. "Michael?"
Michael stood in the cold winter air and threw his head back, eyes closed, mouth open. Panting. Harsh breaths seemed to be the only sound that could cross his lips.
Walter saw that Michael was in bad shape. He didn’t know what Michael and Nikita had argued about, but he could see the aftermath, and it wasn’t pretty. He knew one thing, though. If he left Michael out here, he would undoubtedly freeze to death before he came inside the house on his own.
"Michael, you can’t stay out here. You’ll die. Is that what you want?"
"Yes..." Michael hissed, teetering forward to collapse in Walter’s waiting arms.
***
Madeline held Nikita as she sobbed pitifully. Glancing at Neil, she indicated he should leave the two of them alone. Madeline didn’t give much for her chances of forcing Nikita to talk about what happened, but she was willing to try.
Rocking her back and forth, Madeline hummed in a low, soothing voice to Nikita, much as she would a child. "Nikita..." she said in a sing-song voice.
Nikita rubbed her eyes and struggled to focus on her adoptive mother’s face. "Mom, I made a terrible mistake," she whispered, her voice shredded by her earlier screams.
"Neil told me that you’re pregnant, Nikita." She stroked Nikita’s long, pale hair. "You won’t be the first one to have an unplanned pregnancy, Nikita. You have to forgive yourself."
"That’s not the mistake I meant." Nikita began to sob again, burying her face against Madeline’s elegantly defined throat.
Grinding her teeth together, she told Madeline what she had said to Michael. In anger. Out of frustration. Unthinking.
Madeline gasped. "Oh, Nikita..." Her voice echoed her inner sadness.
***
Birkoff shook his head in puzzlement. "I don’t get it. The twins will be three years old in just a few days, and everyone is moping around here like someone died."
Declan winced at his lover’s choice of words. "Michael and Nikita had some sort of a fight, Sey."
"So? They’ll kiss and make up. They always do."
Declan looked skeptical. "I don’t think it’s going to be that easy this time."
Birkoff gulped. "You mean they might not...stay...together?" God, what did they fight about? And how could it be so horrible that they couldn’t even bear to be in the same room with each other?
Talk of separations made Birkoff uneasy. Any separations. But especially separations between the most important members of his family.
"We’ve got to help them, Dec."
"We’ve got to stay out of it, Sey," Declan corrected. "This is their problem to deal with, and we have to respect their decision, whatever it is."
All at once, Birkoff looked tearful. "That’s easy for you to say, Dec. You haven’t known them as long as I have. You don’t understand how special their relationship is. They’ve survived the most unbelievable things, just to be together the way they are. If they can’t stay together, it’ll kill Nikita. And Michael, too." Birkoff’s breath caught on a sob.
This was worse than upsetting. If they couldn’t stay together, what would happen to the family they had built? Where would that leave Chris and Faith? And baby Skye?
Declan pondered the possibilities. The makeshift family that Michael had so carefully constructed would never be the same if Michael and Nikita were torn asunder.
Walter held Michael for a long time, not even aware of what he was saying to him. His first loyalty was always to his Sugar. But Sugar had other people in her corner. Michael had no one. Not really. Originally a loner through no fault of his own, Michael clung to that persona, sometimes too fiercely. There was only him...and the other half of him. Nikita. Walter didn’t know how Michael could survive without her.
Michael’s breathing was erratic, as if he were struggling for control. But still he did not cry. He lay his head on Walter’s shoulder, his body fighting his mind for command. His body was all planes and harsh angles now, its resistiveness evident even to Walter. He couldn’t think. There was an endless movie playing itself out in his head, and with each pass that it made, he felt his emotions being submerged. Deeper and deeper.
Walter’s compassionate gaze fell upon the younger man in his embrace. "I’m here, Michael. Talk to me."
"You’re on her side," Michael said almost inaudibly.
"There are no sides where you two are concerned. Not anymore." Walter fought the urge to weep himself. Michael’s love for Nikita was a given. A constant in the universe in which they all lived. If it was threatened...so were they all.
Michael didn’t answer. Walter shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket and placed it over Michael’s shoulders. Michael looked at him blankly.
"What did you do that for?" he asked.
"You need it more than I do," Walter said kindly.
Michael’s face changed, the first animation Walter had seen in him since he’d found him. "I don’t need anyone’s pity," he declared coldly.
"Of course not," Walter said hotly. "And I wasn’t offering you any." Walter knew how to manipulate Michael. Years of practice had honed his skills in that area. You couldn’t approach Michael directly. He almost begged to be blindsided. His defenses were simply too good.
"Go ahead and get pneumonia for all I care." Walter turned slowly, away from Michael, and Michael didn’t move. Right away.
"Walter?"
"Yeah, Michael?" he asked gruffly, pretending an indifference he was far from feeling.
"Take good care of my Kita," Michael rasped, unaware that his eyes were full of unshed tears.
"Sure," Walter agreed readily, hoping this was one promise he wasn’t going to have to keep. "Uh...you going somewhere?"
Michael looked momentarily confused. "I--"
"Maybe you should come inside and think about it for a second," Walter suggested.
Michael barely nodded. Walter grasped the jacket, settling it more firmly around Michael’s body and tugged it closed. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Walter more or less pushed Michael back to the house, his freezing feet trudging through the snow.
***
Madeline pulled the covers around Nikita’s chin and kissed her on the forehead. Nikita rolled over onto her side, away from Madeline’s too-observant eyes, curling her above-average length into a fetal position. A lone tear traced its way down her too-pale cheek. She reached for Michael’s pillow and wrapped her arms around it, pressing it to her face.
She had never met anyone as strong as Michael, and yet, with her, he was soft, and gentle, and kind, to a fault. She closed her eyes against the pain and the shock of what she had done to him with a few careless words. There was no question in her mind that she was in the wrong. She freely admitted this to both Madeline and Neil. Madeline, because she was her Mom, and Neil, because he was forced to administer a sedative to her, despite the fact that she was pregnant.
Neil’s words, in particular, kept coming back to haunt her. "God gave you a gift, Nikita. Love is not in such abundance in our world that we can waste it."
For the first time in a very long time, Nikita prayed. For herself. For her unborn child. But mostly, for Michael.
Walter took Michael directly to the rooms he shared with Miranda at the back of the house. Nodding imperceptibly to his wife, he pushed Michael gently into the sitting room. "Here, sit down. Miranda, maybe a cup of tea?"
Miranda inclined her head to her husband, noting that Michael didn’t seem particularly aware of his surroundings.
Walter and Michael sat together in silence until Miranda returned with the tea. Walter waved at her anxiously, and she disappeared. She was concerned, but she agreed that Michael was unlikely to be comfortable if she stayed.
Walter cleared his throat. "You want to talk about what happened?"
Michael shook his head. He stared at the cup of tea, knowing there was something he was supposed to do with it. Sensing his confusion, Walter asked Michael if he wanted sugar in his tea.
"No," he said tersely. Suddenly he recalled what he wanted to do with the tea. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped. But the liquid was too hot and burned his mouth. Dropping the cup with an exclamation in French, Michael clapped a hand over his mouth.
All at once, Michael began to cry, burying his face in his hands. Walter jumped up and sat down next to him, wrapping him in a big bear hug. Michael was too distraught even to pull away from Walter.
The truth was, he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t even want to be touched. But more than that, he didn’t want to feel. Anything. It wasn’t merely a question of him getting in touch with his anger deep inside of him. He knew what it felt like, that blazing hot, almost liquid surge of acid scalding his throat. He didn’t want to feel that way again. Ever.
Walter was still in the dark about what drove Michael and Nikita apart. He sensed that if Michael was not ready to talk yet, he needed to find out what precipitated this. Quick.
But he didn’t dare leave Michael in this condition. His first duty was to protect Michael. He couldn’t do it himself.
***
A long time later, Michael lay sleeping on the couch in Walter’s sitting room. Walter watched over him, resisting the urge to touch him and make sure he was all right. He had to be all right. He would make certain of it, if it was the last thing he ever did.
***
Walter found out what happened. From Neil. From Madeline. Nikita was a shadow, a wraith that moved listlessly about the house, from the bedroom to the kitchen and back again. Instead of preparing for the twins’ third birthday, Nikita was contemplating a life without Michael. He never came back to her that day. Or that night. Or the day after.
Madeline was trying to protect Nikita as best she could. But she couldn’t stop the twins from laughing, or from asking for Daddy, or a hundred other things that brought fresh tears to her eyes. They didn’t understand. Neither did she. If she didn’t know better, she would swear that she was physically sick. With what, she hadn’t a clue. But this didn’t feel like pregnancy to her.
Maybe it was just the depression. Maybe it was the accompanying anxiety. But Nikita didn’t feel right. "Maybe I’m dying," she murmured to herself.
Madeline clasped her arm gently. "Of what, sweetheart?"
"Of a broken heart."
Nikita started to cry, and Madeline folded her into her arms, knowing there was little she could do but give support if Nikita would not speak to her husband. "Nikita...you need to talk to Michael," she encouraged, as softly as possible.
"How? He won’t see me. It’s like I’m not there for him. Maybe I’m not..."
Nikita wrapped her arms around herself, calling attention to how much thinner she had gotten, just in the past few days. She wasn’t eating, she wasn’t sleeping. According to Walter, Michael wasn’t doing any better than she was.
Madeline brushed Nikita’s hair back from her forehead, letting her hand rest upon her cheek finally. "Nikita, you have to work through this."
Guiding Nikita to the rocking chair in the bedroom, Madeline sat back in the seemingly magical rocker and held Nikita. Please, work your magic now, she prayed.
It was time for Madeline to don her therapist role. Merely supporting Nikita as her adoptive mother was fine. Up to a point. But Nikita needed more than support.
"Nikita, we’ve spoken about this before. How you felt about Elena. How you felt about Adam. Are you jealous that they came first in his life, before you? Or is it more complicated than that?"
"I didn’t hate her, Mom." Nikita’s face glistened with tears. "I liked her. She was a good person, a good wife, a good mother...."
"But?"
"I don’t blame her, Mom."
"But you blame someone. Who? Me? Operations?"
Nikita shook her head slowly. "She was an innocent. She didn’t know what was happening to her. To her life. How could I hate her? How could I be jealous of her?"
"Nikita, who do you blame for what happened to Elena?" Madeline cupped Nikita’s chin in one hand, and Nikita looked at her mother, her lower lip trembling so badly, it seemed as though her teeth were chattering from the cold.
"Michael..." she said in a barely audible whisper. She dropped her gaze to her lap and wrestled with her interlaced fingers.
"Nikita..." Madeline was surprised. She expected Nikita to blame her or Operations. Two very logical targets for her anger, her fear, her anxiety. But she hid her reaction well. "Do you believe that Michael had any control over what happened to Elena?"
Nikita glanced at her, startled. She frowned, thinking hard. "He could have done something. He *should* have done something. She was his wife. Adam was his son."
"Let me ask you something else, Nikita. Do you believe that Michael loved Elena?"
Nikita blinked, obviously discomfited with the question. Finally she said, "Of course."
"Why, of course?"
"He was with her for years. They had a child together. He had to love her."
"But not like he loved you, is that right? It was...different."
"I-I don’t know." Nikita looked lost.
"What about Adam? Do you think he loved Adam?"
"Of course, he did, Maddy. He was his father, for God’s sake. Do you think he didn’t love his own child?"
Madeline sensed she was getting somewhere when Nikita stopped crying and started to get angry.
"Would you love Michael just the same if he told you he didn’t love either of them? That it was all an act? For the sake of the mission?"
"He did love them, Maddy! I just told you that! How could you think something so terrible about Michael?"
"How could you?" Madeline countered.
"Me? I never said he didn’t love them, Maddy!"
"No," Madeline said quietly, "on the contrary, you believed that he *did* love them, so much so that he never resolved the loss of *either* of them."
Nikita hung her head, pressing a hand to her wretched eyes, eyes that looked more red than blue now, eyes that burned with brand-new tears. "No..."
"It’s true, Nikita. Face it. You’ve always felt that you were second-best, second-choice, also-ran."
"No..." Nikita wept.
"What you said to Michael...do you believe that? That he’s using you and your love and your body to have another son? To replace Adam?"
"No, Mom, no one could ever replace Adam. Not in his life. Not in his heart."
Madeline made a tiny noise, and Nikita abruptly registered exactly what she had just said. "No one could. No one ever will."
"Exactly, Nikita. So what would be the point of him trying?"
Nikita buried her face against Madeline’s neck, whimpering pitifully. "I didn’t mean to say it, Mom. I swear."
"But you did. Now you have to live with the consequences."
"I can’t. I can’t live without him, Mom."
"Then you need to tell him that."
"But he won’t talk to me."
"Tell him anyway."
"But what if he won’t listen?"
"Since when is Nikita a coward?" Madeline’s near-black eyes met Nikita’s cloudy blue eyes. "Nikita...I’m telling you this because I care about you and Michael. If you love him, you must convince him you do, because right now, Michael is doubting everything. Your love, your life together. Everything."
Nikita lay her head on Madeline’s chest, playing with a tendril of Madeline’s long, dark hair. "I’ve always loved him. I always will. If I have to beg, I will..."
"I hope you mean that, Nikita. Because you might have to."
Michael barely acknowledged Nikita when she entered the living room. He was helping Chris build a tower of blocks. No, not a tower, a veritable fortress. Chris was an overachiever, like his parents, and he saw absolutely no reason to stop at a mere tower, just because other children did.
Being with Chris soothed some of Michael’s pain. He still didn’t want to talk to anyone in the family about what happened between him and Nikita. But he spent most of his days now with the children, finding solace in their ingenuous hugs and kisses. The twins were too perceptive by half, sensing their father’s pain, but unable to understand it.
On some level, Michael knew he was sublimating the ache in his heart. He singled out Chris, not for the obvious reason, that he was his son, that he was here and Adam was not, but because Chris physically resembled Nikita. He still craved her presence with a hunger that refused to die.
So when Nikita walked in, Michael pretended to be aloof, but inside, he was trembling with the effort of staying on his side of the room. He wanted to run to her and hold her. He could see the way she was hurting, he could see the way her flesh was disappearing from her already too-fragile frame. He knew how impulsive she could be. She couldn’t have meant what she said. Could she? Or was he just making excuses? It scared him that he could love anyone that much. Michael knew he wouldn’t accept that kind of betrayal from anyone else. Why should he have to accept it from her?
Nikita stood there, swaying gently, unable to move forward or back. She was transfixed by the sight of Michael playing with his son. No, their son. Chris was her son, too. She knew Michael loved Chris with all his heart. He never made Chris feel as though he came second to another little boy, a dark-haired boy he would never know.
"Michael..." she said softly.
Michael turned his head slightly in her direction, not making eye contact with her. His voice, when it finally came, was cool. Almost accentless. "What is it, Nikita?"
Nikita. Her heart broke. He called her Nikita. Not Kita. Not doucette. She almost lost her resolve to break through the wall that separated them now.
Twining her fingers together anxiously, Nikita stared at her estranged husband. "I was...wondering what you wanted to do for the twins...for their birthday, I mean..."
Michael never looked up at her, concentrating instead on Chris’ blocks. "I don’t think a party is in order, do you?" he said coldly.
"No!" she said quickly, "of course not."
"Then what do you want?" he asked in clipped tones, as if to tell her that even holding this conversation was an effort he regretted.
Now there was a question she could answer. "You." She said it without thinking. She should have known how he would react, but she didn’t think he would argue with her openly, in front of Chris.
He stood up, facing her for the first time in days. His face expressionless, his tragic eyes the color of dark jade.
"My heart is not for sale," he hissed in a low voice. "I gave it to you, remember? Maybe you should ask yourself how you managed to lose it!"
Nikita nearly flinched at the intensity in his voice, a mere whisper charged with overpowering pain. "I-I didn’t lose it, Michael. I have it right here." She crossed her heart with two slender fingers, and his gaze was drawn to her breast, despite himself.
"I love you, Michael." There. She’d said it. Now he could make of it what he would.
His expression suddenly tormented, he stared at her in abject despair. "I love you, too," he said in a harsh whisper.
"But it doesn’t change anything." And with that, he left the room, leaving Nikita alone with Chris.
Chris turned his perplexed face up to his mother. "Mommy? Is Daddy coming back?"
"Of course, sweetie." Nikita swiped at the tears in her eyes surreptitiously, but Chris didn’t miss a trick. He knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know how to fix it.
"Daddy’s not leaving?" he asked, a bit anxiously. When people were angry, and doors slammed, it worried him.
"No, honey, Daddy’s not leaving." She ruffled Chris’ hair with one hand, realizing it was true. She would never make Michael leave. This was his house. These were his children. She couldn’t be so heartless as to take away his children. Take away another son? She stifled a sob.
He would get over losing her. But he couldn’t live without his children. She would have to be the one to leave.
It was the least she could do. She loved him too much to do anything else.