There was no real reason to keep Nikita in the hospital beyond the first 24 hours of observation. Because her surgery was laparoscopic, she merely had a tiny scar within her navel. Her insides still hurt, as if a blender had been turned loose within her, but the pain was minimal compared to the wounds she had suffered during her years at Section.

The day she came home, she was accompanied by Michael, Neil, and Madeline. She never took a step without Michael at her side. If she were feeling up to par, she was sure she would have felt smothered. But as it was, she simply felt cherished. It wasn’t just guilt driving Michael now, it was fear. Fear that God might change his mind, and take her away from him. If she was out of his sight, he couldn’t bear it. His presence was a constant comfort to her anyway, so she let him have his way.

When they came to the front porch, all four of them stopped. Neil and Madeline watched as Nikita struggled to get up the steps by herself. Determined and headstrong, Nikita wanted to maintain as much of her independence as possible. Neil knew the futility of arguing with her. He could quote her chapter and verse on what she was doing to herself and Michael, but it was no use. She was going to do whatever she wanted to do.

When she teetered alarmingly on the first step, however, Michael took the decision out of her hands. "Kita, wait!" He picked her up, meaning to carry her into the house, but she protested. "Michael! Put me down!"

He stared at her in disbelief, the hurt in his green eyes almost palpable. "Doucette..."

Their eyes met in a silent tug-of-war. Moments passed, but it seemed like years to Neil and Madeline, who could only look on. Michael finally backed down, placing her on her feet as gently as possible. Taking another step backward, he moved away from his wife, his eyes shadowed with pain. She clumsily managed to navigate the rest of the way up the steps, but when she got to the top and turned, Michael was gone.

"Michael?"

Neil cleared his throat, uncomfortably watching the play of emotions across Nikita’s face. "He went around back, Nikita," Neil said, not offering any further explanation of Michael’s disappearance. The truth was, Neil was surprised Michael had lasted as long as he did without needing to sneak off somewhere and lick his wounds in private.

The three of them went inside, and Nikita dropped the subject for the time being.

Meanwhile... Michael rounded the corner of the house, spotting the place in the backyard that he and Nikita considered almost sacred. It was the altar where they were married. It was the place where Nikita was shot and kidnapped. It was the place where they renewed their vows, making love beneath the heavens. He wouldn’t desecrate such a holy place now with his unworthy presence.

Slumping against the back of the house, Michael wrapped his arms around himself and cried. He never made a sound, but tears flowed freely down his face. Tears that even he couldn’t bear to acknowledge. He closed his eyes, willing them to go away, to no avail.

Declan watched Michael from inside the house. The window of Walter’s workshop looked out onto the back lawn, and Declan stood at that window, knowing he was witnessing the disintegration of someone he deeply respected. More than that, he had come to care about Michael, as if they were brothers. Michael’s pain moved him to tears, but he didn’t see any way to offer support to such a private person without embarrassing him.

Birkoff crept under Declan’s arm, nudging his shoulder with his cheek. "Hey..."

Declan turned to his lover, tears in his storm-grey eyes, and Birkoff frowned. "Dec? What’s wrong?"

Declan soundlessly indicated what he was watching. Birkoff’s soft dark eyes watered. "Ohhh..."

"Would you understand if I went out there to be with him? Just for a few minutes?" Declan asked almost anxiously.

"Of course, love." Birkoff kissed Declan lightly.

***

When Declan opened the back door, Michael flinched, as if shot. It was a telling gesture for an operative, even a former operative, to reveal. Michael had been an operative far longer than Declan. For him to demonstrate such flayed-open emotion showed Declan that Michael was incapable of regaining control right now. Maybe the kindest thing he could do for Michael was to validate those feelings. He might not accept this kind of support from anyone else, but from a fellow operative, someone not unlike himself, it might be different.

"Michael..."

Michael turned his back on Declan, automatically protecting himself from further prying. His emotions might be out of control, but he chose not to inflict them upon anyone else. "Go away," Michael said hoarsely.

"I know how you must feel," Declan offered.

Michael turned around suddenly, eyes blazing, his face fierce with anger as well as pain. "You couldn’t possibly know how I feel!"

Declan would have given up on Michael then, but he knew just how alike the two of them were. He would have pushed everyone away, too. "I do, you know. I’ve had more than my share of grief, most of it in the past two years, too. So you can say what you will, Michael, but I can assure you...I bloody well do understand."

Michael stared at Declan, this tall, lean Irishman with the deceptively soft manner and quiet intensity. "You do." It sounded as if Michael were not quite questioning Declan anymore, but he was uncertain whether to believe him or not.

"Aye." Declan gave a slight twitch of his head, indicating his agreement.

Michael took a calculated risk. That someone could understand how badly he hurt, that someone could see his pain and not call him weak for it. His eyes flickered back and forth for a moment before he determined that he could indeed trust Declan.

He dropped his head, taking a cautious step forward, and Declan met him halfway, embracing him without reservation. Michael lay his head on the younger man’s shoulder, his eyes wet. "How did you deal with the pain?" Michael asked quietly.

Declan thought for a moment, wondering just how much to admit. "Well...if Sey wasn’t there...I dunno what I would have done."

"You’re telling me to lean on Nikita." Michael drew back, his hands still grasping Declan’s shoulders.

"Your pain is different. Your grief is her grief. That’s not empathy, that’s fact. You’ve got to be there for each other, or you’ll lose what you have together."

Michael agreed with Declan, but that was part of the problem. Nikita was even now pushing him away, forcing him to feel like this was happening to her, not to them. Making him feel as though he were on the outside looking in, instead of with her.

Still, he had to try. He was willing to die trying.

Nikita trudged slowly upstairs to the master bedroom. Once inside, she leaned back against the door. Her insides ached. As painful as it was to bear, she preferred feeling the pain. Neil repeatedly offered her painkillers, but she refused to take anything, even acetaminophen. This had nothing to do with martyring herself for some futile cause, but it had everything to do with the loss of the baby.

Without the pain, she would feel nothing but a great, gaping emptiness inside. It was a void that both drew and repelled her. Part of her would like nothing better than to jump into its depths and cease to be. But part of her was appalled at the fact that she could even contemplate such an act. She pressed her hands to her suddenly hot cheeks.

What an incredibly selfish act that would be! To leave her babies. To leave Michael. All alone. Oh, God, Michael. She didn’t mean to push him away. She didn’t want to hurt him. Slowly she drifted towards the rocking chair. The chair that seemed to have restorative powers, remarkable healing powers that made bad things bearable.

She sank down into the chair, savoring the pain inside her. It meant she was alive. It meant she still had a chance to make things right between her and Michael. She could not let him blame himself for this. As Neil had said, it was no one’s fault. It just happened.

Gently, so gently, she began rocking back and forth. The rhythm was soothing, the movement slight enough not to add to her pain. Something niggled at the back of her brain, making her feel restive and discontented. But she couldn’t quite focus on what it was. It couldn’t be that important. Could it?

***

Michael sat on the floor of the sitting room, handing Faith a different color crayon each time she asked for one. Her latest interest was coloring books. Of course, she didn’t have the eye-hand coordination to color within the lines most of the time, but it was the act of coloring that she found so much fun. She loved mixing different colors and attempting to draw.

"Unca Dec is teachin’ me drawin’," Faith proclaimed proudly.

"He is, petite? Is he a good artist?" Michael inquired politely.

"Yep," she nodded, sticking her tongue between her teeth as she colored avidly. Right now, she was enamored of Beauty and the Beast. It didn’t matter that the coloring book, like the movie, was a few years old. She loved the romance between the big, hulking beast and the petite beauty who captured his heart.

For his part, Michael enjoyed his time with his daughter. She was so easily enthused about the littlest things, and sometimes, he wished that he were more like that. It was a characteristic she shared with her mother. Michael’s eyes shadowed. He had not seen Nikita since their return earlier that day. He wanted to see her. The urge to see her was almost a compulsion now.

But he forced himself to take what little solace he could with the children. He was strangely at peace here. He couldn’t forget, no, never that. But for long moments, he could cherish the fact that Fee was learning to color, or Chris was building towers of blocks almost ten blocks high.

He hadn’t told the twins what happened to Nikita, beyond saying that she had been sick, but she was better now. He didn’t have any idea how to broach the subject of her miscarriage. He wasn’t even sure it was necessary that they know that much.

"Daddy?" Faith held her latest creation out for her father’s perusal.

Michael smiled. "Tres belle, petite."

"Thanks, Daddy," Faith replied. She knew that her father was still sad. Fee wanted to help, but she had a feeling this was something that kids couldn’t do anything about.

***

Walter knocked on the bedroom door, startling Nikita from her reverie. He came inside, without waiting for an answer, his anxiety having risen to an intolerable level in the past few hours. "Sugar! There you are!"

He flicked on a lamp near the bed, casting some much-needed illumination upon the room. "What are you doing, sitting up here, alone, in the dark? For Christ’s sake, where’s Michael?"

Nikita whispered, "I don’t know." She looked into those blue eyes, so like her own, Walter might have been her real father, and started to cry.

"Well, for Heaven’s sake, why don’t you know, Sugar?" Walter’s frustration and anxiety were revealing themselves through an irritable, almost challenging tone of voice.

She bent over, holding her abdomen, for the first time wishing she had taken one of the painkillers Neil offered. Dragging a breath past her lips, she shuddered. "I’ve made such a mess of things, Dad. Oh, God, I wish I were dead."

"Goddammit, Sugar! You got no right to say such things when you came this close to dying! Don’t you know how important you are? Not just to Michael, but to...me...and all of us," Walter stopped shouting when his voice started to strangle from the emotion pouring through him.

Nikita stared at him, stunned at his vehemence. "I-I’m s-sorry, Dad."

"I’m not the one you need to apologize to, though, am I? Goddammit, Sugar, you’re lucky you’re alive to be sorry!"

Walter knelt down and took both of her hands in his. "Sugar, I almost lost you, and I know how that makes me feel." An errant tear fell from Walter’s eye, spilling carelessly down his weathered cheek. "I can’t even imagine how Michael feels. All I know is I had to hold onto him...while he cried like a damn kid...cause we all thought you were gonna die...."

Nikita buried her face in her hands, sobbing, disregarding the pain this produced in her abdomen. Walter pried her fingers open, straining to make eye contact with her. She looked beautiful, his Sugar, even at her most devastated. "You...and him...gotta go through this together, Sugar... Without blaming each other. Without hurting each other. There’s no other way."

Nikita’s sobbing lost its intensity, and gradually, she fought for control and won. "Do you think Michael and I can survive this, Dad?"

Walter nodded. "If you’re the reason he’s not up here with you, though...you’d better fix it."

Walter struggled to force his arthritic knees to a standing position. Grunting slightly with the effort, he said gruffly, "Damn, if I don’t love that boy. But don’t you tell him I said so."

Nikita looked past Walter’s shoulder with a watery grin. "I don’t have to, Dad. You just did."

There in the doorway stood Michael, his infant daughter Skye clasped tightly in his arms.

Michael didn’t appear surprised to know that Walter loved him. His green eyes flickered mysteriously, but he didn’t say anything, perhaps out of an effort to spare the older man embarrassment. Walter patted Michael on the shoulder. "You need someone to take Skye for a little while?" he asked, casting a backward glance at Nikita.

Michael blinked. "No, I was just bringing her up so Kita could feed her."

Nikita gasped. "Oh, my God! That’s what I was trying so hard to remember!"

Michael turned his somber gaze upon his wife. "You forgot you needed to breast-feed Skye?"

"Well," she stammered, feeling totally unfit for motherhood. "I was...um..." She broke off, her eyes wild, thinking that Michael and the rest of them would be better off if she were gone.

Walter saw the look in Nikita’s eyes, and he could see what her distress was doing to Michael, too. Without thinking twice, he plucked Skye out of her father’s arms, saying, "Look, Skye needs to get used to a bottle sometime. This seems like as good a time as any to me. You two sit down and talk. Now."

In a flash, he was gone.

Michael looked at Nikita, his heart in his eyes. The fact that he was willing to risk revealing himself so easily showed how desperate he was to be with her. "Kita..."

"Michael..." Nikita dropped her head to her chest, unable to bear the pain in her husband’s eyes. Grief, they could share. Heartbreak, she had put there herself.

She stood up shakily, her legs still wobbly after her recent ordeal. "I’m s-sorry, Michael...so...so...sorry. I didn’t mean to push you away. I s-swear."

"You hurt me, Kita," he said softly, the words somehow more damning than if he had shouted. "I didn’t expect your support...but I do expect your love."

Nikita gasped again. Echoes of that long ago time in Section. The Armel mission. When they had pretended to be man and wife.

"You’ve always had both, Michael," she said sadly. "Even then."

He closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, that was one of his fondest memories. Nikita lying beside him in bed, telling him that she loved him. He knew she meant it. His heart always knew. Though he could not be with her then. Echoes. Shadows. Of the people they once were.

"What you needed to hear, I couldn’t tell you then. But it had nothing to do with the way I felt about you."

More echoes. Shadows. Nikita could feel the presence of the love thieves. Their evil laughter rang in her ears. Clapping both hands over her ears, she cried out, "Stop! Stop them!"

Michael grasped her gently by the shoulders. "Kita! What is it?"

She clung to him, burying her face against his chest. "Oh, Michael. The love thieves are back. They’re back, and it’s all my fault," she sobbed.

He pulled her away from his body, trembling fingers splayed across her jawline. "No, doucette, they can never have what we refuse to give them." He kissed her then, his lips tracing a delicate path along her cheek to her mouth. His kiss was filled with the wonder of first love, with the discovery of how well they fit each other, heart and soul. What he could never articulate...found its way into that kiss.

And it saved both of them.

***

They sat on the floor, the carpet soft and warm beneath their bare feet. Like children, they had sat down, pulled off their shoes and socks, and clung to one another artlessly. His hands restlessly, ceaselessly stroking her brow and her hair, Michael pressed a kiss to the top of Nikita’s head. She leaned against him, her body resting within his embrace.

"I thought I’d lost you, along with everything else that mattered," she whispered.

"I told you. You can never lose me. Ever."

Nikita burrowed more deeply inside Michael’s embrace. He sighed. "I gave you the power to hurt me, Kita, when I told you I loved you. The moment I claimed you as my own, we both gave up something."

"Do you know what I gave up, doucette? My loneliness. What did you give up?"

"My freedom."

Michael gave a soft cry, tenderly nudging her lips apart for his kiss. "Freedom? Oh, doucette. You’re determined to wound me."

She clung to him possessively, wrapping her arms around his neck. "No, Michael, listen...remember Lyons? I dreamed of freedom for three long years, and then when I had it, it wasn’t everything I hoped it would be."

His eyes gentled as they lit upon her face. "It’s an illusion, Kita."

"Yes," she agreed. "It was. I had freedom, but it was the freedom to be alone. To live out a perfectly wretched life. Poor. Unable to trust anyone. Unable to stop running. Or looking over my shoulder."

Michael nodded, burying his face against her long, pale hair. "Unable to be with me," he murmured.

Nikita’s eyes slid shut. "Oh, yes, Michael. That, most of all. How could I miss what I gave up, when I’ve gotten so much?"

He shook his head, as if considering the question seriously. "Kita...it’s like Operations once told you...you basically understand the way it works, you just need an occasional reminder." He smiled bemusedly.

"Are you my reminder, then, Michael?" Nikita asked wistfully.

"Oh, yes." He slid his hands through her silky hair, framing her face, his thumbs resting on her cheekbones. "I’m here to remind you of something very, very important."

"What’s that?"

"How much I love you."

Michael hunched his shoulders against the cold spring wind. March was coming in like a lion, as the old saying went. In the two months since Nikita’s miscarriage, things had more or less gone back to normal. Nikita suffered an occasional nightmare, but the acute grief that had nearly destroyed the two of them had faded to a more manageable level.

Slamming the front door behind him, Michael stamped his feet to warm them. "Doucette!"

That was perhaps the only change in their relationship. Michael admitted that he needed to know where Nikita was, at all times, and Nikita found herself more than willing to oblige.

"Hello, love," she said softly, coming out of the kitchen to kiss Michael.

His green eyes gleamed as he took in the picture of domestic bliss she presented. The apron. The dish towel flung over one arm. Her pale hair pulled back into a slapdash French knot. "What are you up to?"

She rubbed absently at a smudge of flour on her nose. "Declan was trying to teach me how to make cookies."

"But?" Michael didn’t see Declan, so he assumed that Declan had finally realized the futility of trying to teach Nikita to cook.

"He said he needed to take a break. Honestly! Isn’t that silly? I mean, making cookies isn’t hard work," she harrumphed.

Michael wisely avoided commenting upon that statement. He dug into the carryall he had slung over one shoulder, producing a sheaf of blue and white papers. "Look, Kita, I got the blueprints for Madeline and Neil’s house."

He sounded excited. Nikita thought it was wonderful the way Michael extended himself to the rest of their makeshift family. When Neil’s house burnt down, Michael was the one who insisted that they stay with them, even though he sometimes found Madeline a bit hard to take in large doses. But now, he had done something truly magnificent. He had bought the property next door, and once the land was cleared, contractors would begin building a brand-new house for the unlucky couple and their family.

He spread them out over the dining room table, pointing out the low wall that would separate the two properties. "This will be enough to keep the kids from running back and forth."

Nikita didn’t agree. She knew Faith. If Faith wanted to get to where Connor was, she would. A low stone wall was no obstacle to Nikita’s daughter. But Chris, law-abiding Chris, would be deterred. Michael’s son had an inner morality all his own, and yet, he would follow the rules, if they made sense to him.

The major difference between Chris and Faith was the tone of voice you used and the length of the message imparted. For Chris, you had to be calm and logical, outlining step-by-step what was supposed to happen. He liked explanations. It didn’t matter how long they were. He would listen.

But Faith...ha! Faith was strong-willed, and she wanted to do what she wanted to do. For Faith, you had to be firm. In fact, it was said that she didn’t believe you really meant it unless you yelled. Loud. As for the length of the message, the shorter the better. She was like a recalcitrant puppy. Sometimes you had to get her attention by smacking her in the head. Figuratively, of course.

Nikita pored over the blueprints with Michael. "They’ll have less room than we do."

"Well, we have more people than they do, Kita. They don’t need as much room."

Nikita nodded. "Have you mentioned this to the others yet?"

"Last night."

"Anyone trying to jump ship, so to speak?" She wondered if some of the others would choose to move in with Madeline and Neil.

Michael laughed. "Walter’s reaction was something to the effect of, Over my dead body."

"And Declan? I know how much Declan cares about Mom."

Michael gave her an enigmatic smile. "That’s true, Kita. But he’s married to Birkoff."

Nikita knew Michael was teasing her. He was enjoying making her drag every last syllable past his lips.

"And?"

"And," Michael said, rolling up the sheaf of papers, "his significant other said...not on a bet."

Nikita grinned. "And Declan goes where Birkoff goes, etc., etc."

Michael smiled bemusedly. "Must be true love." He leaned forward and kissed Nikita, his eyes wide open, savoring the way she seemed to melt when he kissed her.

She caught his face with her hand, holding him fast. Deepening the kiss, she let her tongue roam freely within his mouth. When she broke away, she looked stunned, as if the intensity of the love they shared always took her by surprise. Staring at his mouth, her blue eyes grew heated, her voice quite husky. "I love you, Michael."

He hooked an arm behind her head, sweeping her into a tight embrace, only too delighted to kiss her several more times. "I love you, too, doucette."

Birkoff closed the door to Emmy’s bedroom. Crossing the hall, he was about to enter his own room when someone grabbed him. Suddenly a prisoner of two strong arms, Birkoff struggled to escape. It was futile. It was Declan.

His breath fanning across the nape of Birkoff’s neck, Declan bent close over his lover. "So you heard that the house is coming along real well next door?"

"Yeah, that’s what they tell me," Birkoff said, sounding bored with the whole subject.

Declan kissed his lover’s neck, his lips tenderly caressing the skin there until Birkoff leaned back against him, sighing. "Ummm...we’re in the hall."

"Aye?"

"Where anyone could see us," Birkoff hissed.

"And what would they see, boyo? Me kissing you? Ooh, pretty scary stuff, eh?"

Birkoff twisted around to face Declan, abruptly stealing a kiss himself, but this one from Declan’s mouth. Declan’s eyes closed involuntarily as he continued the kiss, wrapping his arms around his lover. When he drew back, his eyes were the color of molten silver. "We could have gone to the new house, but you didn’t want to go, Sey," Declan said almost lazily.

"I let you have your way," he added, kissing the side of Birkoff’s mouth. "Doesn’t that make you feel important?" He kissed him again, this time with more intensity.

Birkoff’s mouth opened under Declan’s, and the couple traded warm, open-mouthed kisses for several moments. Declan’s eyes slid hotly over Birkoff’s face, as if they were savoring every inch of him. "Even powerful?" he continued, as if ardent lovemaking hadn’t interrupted the conversation.

Birkoff’s dark eyes glinted warmly, a tiny smile creasing the corners of his lips. "Are you trying to seduce me, Declan?"

Declan raised both eyebrows affirmatively, then proceeded to lick his lover’s lips, bottom to top. "Is it working?" he asked huskily.

"What do you want?" Birkoff asked, a suspicious glimmer entering his eyes.

"Just you," Declan replied, trying to unbutton his partner’s shirt.

Birkoff wrapped his arms around Declan’s neck, staring into those pale grey eyes he loved so well. "No strings?"

Declan laughed, burying his face against the side of Birkoff’s neck. "Only the ones I’ll use to tie you up with."

Birkoff frowned in mock dissent. "I don’t think so."

Declan sighed. "That’s not what you said when I married you." Birkoff burst into a fit of giggles. "Stop..."

Declan pushed Birkoff against the opposite wall, pressing his lower body insistently against his partner’s. Birkoff felt Declan’s arousal come to life, his lover’s hardened length gently abrading his own growing arousal. Declan rubbed his hands against Birkoff’s chest, feeling the sharpened points of his nipples through his shirt.

"Are we going to do something about this, then, acushla?" Declan whispered into Birkoff’s mouth, his tongue playing with his lover’s. Birkoff reached out and grasped two handfuls of Declan’s long red hair, pulling him closer, if that were even possible.

"You want to go back to bed? In the middle of the day?" Birkoff sounded as amused as he was excited.

"I’ve never had you during the day, acushla," Declan growled.

Birkoff reached behind him and unlocked the door with one hand, feeling Declan’s body lean heavily on his. Their mouths met once more, and Birkoff stumbled backwards, into the room, bringing Declan with him.

"If you’re not careful, you’ll fall," Birkoff whispered.

"As long as I land on you, I don’t mind," Declan countered.

"If you break something important..." Birkoff began, but never got a chance to finish. It was hard to talk when he was having the stuffing kissed out of him.

***

"What the hell--?" Walter exclaimed impatiently to his wife. Miranda was in the middle of combing her hair, but she put down the comb to contemplate her husband.

"Something wrong?"

"Yeah... The Queen is moving into the new house next week, and she expects all of us to dance attendance on her."

"Say that again in English, sweetheart," Miranda said, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Madeline’s throwing a housewarming party," he intoned with something of a sour expression on his face.

"Walter, I’ve always meant to ask you. You and Madeline go back a very long ways, yet you don’t seem to trust her as far as you could throw her. Why is that?"

Walter sat down on the end of the bed, drawing Miranda onto his lap. "It’s a helluva long story, Honey."

"I’m not going anywhere. Are you?"

Walter smiled rakishly and kissed her soundly on the mouth. "I’d rather make love to you any day, sweet thing."

Miranda avoided his lips coquettishly. "You’re avoiding the subject."

His mouth dropped open. "You don’t wanna make love? Oh, Honey, what am I doing wrong?" He cackled wildly at his own antics, and Miranda let herself be persuaded that some things were really not worth knowing.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, untying his ponytail, dislodging his bandana. "Oho," he said with a quiver, "you’re seriously on the make now, aren’t you, dear heart?"

Her mouth claimed his in a passionate kiss, and they sank down onto the bed, their arms wrapped around one another. As his hand crept up her thigh, he whispered, "I love a woman with ideas."