Each one taking an arm, the two men raised Michael to a standing position, and Nikita hoisted him over her shoulders. It was a good thing Birkoff had brought the car as close to them as possible. Walter opened the door to the back seat and climbed over to the other side. Nikita lowered Michael's unconscious form into Walter's waiting arms, tucked in his legs, and shut the door. She offered to take Walter's place, but he shook his head and said, "If you don't mind, Sugar, I think I'll just stay where I am. Why don't you ride up front with Birkoff?"

Surprised, she hesitated, then took a closer look. All unaware, Michael was now gripping Walter's jacket with both hands and had pulled himself as close as he could get to the older man's chest. She nodded silently to Walter, then walked around the car to the front passenger side and got in.

She held her hand out the window to Father Philippe and said, "Thank you, Father, for all you've done. We'll never forget your kindness and your discretion."

He took her hand in his and kissed it. "My child, I only wish I could take away the pain. But only time and God's healing grace can do that."

"I know, Father. But thanks to you, we have time and grace. We'll see you again."

"I'll count on it. It would be my greatest pleasure to sanctify your bond of love in marriage and to baptize your children. Just call on me when the time is right."

Her smile was radiant, even through her tears.

(It is no wonder Michel has fallen in love with her. She is impossible to resist!)

"Let's go," she said to Birkoff.

"Un moment, s'il vous plait, - one moment, if you please," interrupted Father Philippe.

"Certainly,Father."

He walked around to the driver's side of the car and tapped on the window. Birkoff opened it and peered out at him.

"Did you need something, Father?" asked Birkoff.

"No, young man. Au contraire, I have something you need. With your permission . . . ?"

Puzzled, Birkoff nodded.

Father Philippe extended his hands and placed them on Birkoff's head. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer.

(This is weird, but his hands feel sorta warm and tingly! I wonder what the heck he's doing!)

The priest saw the young man's eyes widen in surprise. He lifted his hands, then traced the sign of the cross on Birkoff's forehead. He smiled down at him.

"Wherever you are, know that God is with you, my son. May you always feel His presence and His peace. You are one of His favorites, you know."

Birkoff blushed and ducked his head back into the car. When he turned to Nikita she was amazed at the change in him. He gave her one of the sweetest smiles she had ever seen.

She smiled back at him. "All ready now, Birkoff?"

"Sure thing. But where to?"

"I'll let you know. Just drive."

Father Philippe watched the car until it left the village, then walked slowly back into the church. He lit a candle for each of the souls of the departed -- those departed from this earth and those who had just departed from Bienville. He had a strong feeling the living would need his prayers much more than the dead.

* * * * * *

Birkoff had been driving for nearly an hour when he turned to Nikita and said, "I kind of liked that old priest guy. He's not like anybody I ever met."

She ruffled his hair briefly.

"You're right, Birkoff. He's one of a kind. And I think he liked you too."

Then she added, "I want to thank you for being such a good friend to me and to Michael. You've shown a lot of courage. We won't forget it."

At her words, he stopped the car, and looking shyly at her from under long eyelashes, he stuttered, "I love you, Nikita."

She put her hand under his chin, forcing him to look directly at her.

"I know you do, Birkoff, and I love you too. You're family. You'll always be welcome in our home."

Birkoff knew that her reply was all he could have expected, if not all he had wanted. But, it was enough. He turned back to the road and asked, "How much longer?"

"About another hour. There'll be a turn-off onto a small farming road in another 20 kilometers or so."

She glanced over her shoulder. Walter still hugged Michael, rocking him slightly back and forth, humming a soft tune. His own eyes were closed, and he seemed lost in some other time and place. She turned back to the front, tears stinging her eyes, the image of the two of them burned into her heart and mind forever.

"Here's the turn-off," she instructed Birkoff. "It's another 5 kilometers down this road, on the left.

"What am I looking for?"

"An old stone farmhouse. It's set back from the road. You'll have to look carefully through the trees to see it."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

As they drove slowly down the deserted country road, a harvest moon rose, like a giant Chinese lantern, to light their way home. Birkoff spotted the house first, its chimney peeking through the trees lining the narrow path off the road. Then the clay-tiled roof came into view. The place looked run-down, as if the owners had abandoned it months or even years before. As they drove into the yard, however, he saw signs of more recent habitation. The house and barn had been recently painted, and the barn had a shiny new roof. Some kind of vine with large white flowers covered a trellis on the porch.

Birkoff stopped the car in front of the house.

"What's that?" he asked Nikita, pointing at the vine.

"It's a moonflower vine. It blooms at night. Can you smell it?"

"Is that what smells so sweet?"

"Yes."

Nikita climbed out of the car and went around the side of the house. She opened a breaker box and flipped several switches. Light flooded the porch. Next, she went over to a windowbox near the front door. Sliding out a tiny false panel in the bottom of the box, she extracted a heavy iron key and opened the front door. It creaked on ancient hinges as it swung slowly open. She reached inside and flipped a light switch.

Pocketing the key, she returned to the car and said to Birkoff, "Would you do me a favor and take some of that firewood inside? There's a pot-bellied stove in the kitchen and a fireplace in the main room. I'll light the fires when we all get inside, unless you'd like to give it a try."

"I think I can manage," he mumbled, unwilling to admit his total ignorance of things non-digital.

She smiled. "Thank you, Birkoff."

He eagerly set about the task she had assigned him, happy to have something impersonal to do. He was still not comfortable with being near this "new" Michael. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to witness the emotional meltdown of someone he had always seen as invincible. It made him question his own stability even more. And, if he were to be absolutely honest with himself, he was jealous of Walter's care for Michael. (Sibling rivalry at my age!) he snorted to himself. (But, I guess that's what being part of a family means - sharing affection.) And he had to admit it, Michael needed all the family he could get right now.

Nikita opened the door to the backseat. Walter had fallen asleep, his head bowed down over Michael's.

"Walter," she called, shaking him gently to rouse him.

"Wha . .?" He blinked a few times to clear his vision. "Are we there?"

"Yes. Birkoff's gone inside already."

They both looked down at Michael, who remained asleep, still clutching Walter's jacket. His eyelids fluttered rapidly, and Nikita realized he was in a deep dream state. She prayed it wasn't a nightmare for a change.

"We're going to have to wake him up. If I try to carry him again and he wakes up unexpectedly, he might unintentionally hurt himself or one of us. Why don't you try, Walter?"

He nodded. Bending forward a little, he put his hands over Michael's and squeezed.

"Michael, wake up."

But he only shifted slightly and murmured something unintelligible. Walter shook him several times, calling his name more loudly.

He spoke again, in a clearer voice. "I'll go check on him, Elena. Daddy's coming, Adam."

Nikita gasped.

"Shit," said Walter. He hated to do it, but he knew he had to wake Michael up quickly. The longer this went on, the worse it would be when he did wake up. He shook him roughly and shouted his code name.

"Jacques! Jacques!"

Michael jerked upright away from Walter. His eyes darted wildly around as he tried to orient himself. They could see the realization dawn of where he was and who he was with -- and whom he had lost. He slumped down in the seat, head bowed, as he fought for control. Walter got out of the car and Nikita took his place next to Michael. She wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him, but when she touched him he flinched away, sucking in breath in one harsh gasp. She removed her hand - instinctively aware of his acute embarrassment at his own fragile emotional state. For a few moments he teetered on the edge. Then, taking a series of slow, deep breaths, he turned to face her.

"I'm sorry."

"Michael, I keep telling you, you have nothing to apologize for. We're all here because we want to be."

Taking a lighter tone, she added, "Now let's go inside. Birkoff's been busy starting the fires. You know how enthusiastic he can be about conflagrations and explosions!

A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Vraiment."

Walter and Nikita let him walk a bit ahead of them toward the house. He seemed steadier on his feet. The sleep had helped. Walter whispered to Nikita, "Good going, Sugar. I think he's gonna make it now."

She squeezed his arm affectionately. "Thanks again for everything, Walter. I don't think we could've done it without you and Birkoff."

Michael paused, waiting for the two of them to catch up. He breathed in the scent of the night -- fresh damp earth, the fragrant moonflower vine, the drying hay in a nearby field. Looking upward, he saw the moon's orange glow.

(Adam would love -- would have loved it here,) he corrected himself. The pressure of his grief swelled suddenly, and his heart felt as though it would burst through his chest. His mouth opened in a silent cry. Nikita took one look at him and hurried up the steps to take his arm in hers.

"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" she murmured.

He looked at her, filling his senses with the sight and smell of her. He grabbed her and pulled her as close as he could. She could feel his arousal against her lower belly. They stood that way for a minute, until Walter called out in mock annoyance.

"You two may be generating your own heat, but I'm freezing my ass off out here! I'm going in that house, either with you or through you. Your choice."

Nikita quickly retorted, "I thought Operations had chewed your ass off a long time ago, Walter."

He mumbled to himself, "That's why I damn sure don't have any to spare."

"I hear you," she giggled, and even Michael chuckled. Surprised, she smiled at him and tucked a stray curl behind his ear. "I love you," she whispered, as she led him through the door. Walter scooted in right behind.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Birkoff was bending over the pot-bellied stove, stuffing in a wad of crumpled newspaper and small sticks. A fire was already roaring in the hearth.

"Hey Birkoff, not too shabby!" Is dinner ready yet?" Nikita teased. "We're cold AND hungry!"

He stared at her open-mouthed. "You're kidding, right?"

"Yes, Birkoff, I am definitely making a joke, she replied solemnly. "There is no way in this world that I would trust you to come up with anything even remotely resembling a well-cooked meal. Now make way for the chef!" And she playfully shoved Michael forward. To her relief, he offered no resistance, but went over to the tall wooden cupboard and looked inside. Turning back to Nikita, he queried, "Would soup and an omelet be all right?"

Birkoff piped up. "At this point, anything you feed me is all right. I'm starving!"

As if in agreement, Michael's stomach rumbled loudly. Nikita came up behind him and circled his waist, one hand rubbing his mid-section.

"Someone else is too, whether he knows it or not."

He put his arm over hers and leaned back into her.

Birkoff blushed at the obvious spark of electricity flowing between the two of them.

"Uh, if you guys don't mind I think I'll take a look at some of those old LP's I saw in the other room. You've got some real antiques there, Michael."

On hearing about the LP's, Walter said, "Just lead me to the vinyl, Birkoff. I'll bet I can show you a thing or two about antiques!"

While they poured eagerly over Michael's record collection, he and Nikita worked together -- cutting vegetables for the soup and whisking eggs for the omelet. The routine tasks were soothing -- allowing Michael to keep his grief at bay as long as his hands stayed busy and Nikita remained in sight. She sensed his need for her presence and circled in and around him, offering assistance and following his instructions. Now and then she would ask "Why?" or "How?" just to keep his attention focused on her and the job at hand. She knew sorrow lurked just around the corner, in the dark, and she was determine to keep him in the light as long as possible. The darkness would return soon enough. For now, let him rest.

"Is there any wine, Michael?"

"Yes. In the cellar. Why don't you choose something?"

"Come with me. You know I don't know one wine from another."

"All right."

"Hey guys," she said, "We're going to get a bottle of wine from the cellar. Any requests?"

Walter looked up from the early Rolling Stones album he was fondling. "Got any Mad Dog down there?"

Birkoff squeaked, "Mad Dog?"

Nikita looked at Michael. "I don't know. Michael, do you happen to have any Mad Dog wine in your cellar? Or perhaps a bottle of Mogen David Super Sweet?"

He deadpanned to Walter, "I do apologize, but Nikita and I drank the last bottle of Mad Dog this past summer." Then turning to Nikita, he continued, "I seem to remember you found it exquisitely piquant."

She followed his lead. "Yes, I did. And I believe you commented on its robust, fruity flavor -- a worthy rival of Grape Kool Aid."

Birkoff snickered. Grinning broadly, Walter rejoined, "Well, since you don't have the best, just bring up what you do have. I'm not picky." And he turned back to the record player, intent on hearing the album in his hand.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Nikita followed Michael down the narrow staircase to the small cellar. She remembered hiding here when they were being tracked during last summer's mission. She couldn't say she remembered seeing wine down here -- her mind had been preoccupied with avoiding detection and with hiding the field router from the team Section had sent out after her and Michael. Now, however, when Michael pulled the chain on the ceiling light, she noticed the floor-to-ceiling wine rack against the far wall. It was filled with bottles of various shapes and hues. She had been telling the truth when said she didn't know one wine from another. She had always drunk whatever Michael offered, and whenever he had asked how she liked it, she always replied, "It's fine." Frankly, it had all tasted pretty much the same to her, but she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings.

She watched him as he stood before the wine rack inspecting various bottles, putting some back and holding up several very dusty ones for her approval.

"Oh good," she said. "I see you chose a white one for the omelet and a red one for the soup."

He smiled at her lovingly and brushed his thumb across her eyebrow. "You score 100% in Wine Lore 101," he said.

"Yeah, well don't push it," she murmured, nipping his bottom lip with her teeth.

He very deliberately set down the bottles he was holding and stood passively, arms at his sides, allowing her to set the pace. She loved the fact that he was being totally open to her ministrations, and she took full advantage of the situation. She lifted his arms and placed them around her waist. Cupping her hands around his buttocks, she shoved him full against her lower belly. He gasped at the heat she engendered in him, as the blood rushed to his groin and his erection filled his pants.

"Feels like someone just blew up a balloon down there," she remarked. "Is it a purple one? You know that's my favorite color." And she fondled him knowingly, bringing him to an even more urgent state of arousal. He ground himself into her hand, unable to suppress a soft moan.

"Uh oh, I'd better be careful," she whispered. "It feels like it's ready to pop. Why don't you let me see if I can let some of the air out?"

And she stuck her hand inside the waistband of his pants and rubbed her palm against the bulge straining inside his underwear. At the touch of her hand he hissed, "Ni-ki-taahh! I can't hold on! I'm going to come in my pants if you don't let go right now!"

She released him immediately, watching avidly as he struggled for control. His eyes were closed, his face sheened with sweat. He stood trembling, his hands clenched. After a few minutes, he bowed his head and took a deep breath. He had won this battle, but from the pained expression on his face Nikita knew she would win the war. She glanced down and saw that he was even harder than before.

She nodded toward his erection. "That looks like it really hurts."

His own gaze followed hers. At the sight of his arousal, he groaned and closed his eyes again, holding his breath, directing all his energy toward stilling that pounding pulse between his legs.

"Let me help," she whispered in his ear. "Don't open your eyes yet, though."

Standing directly in front of him, she unzipped his pants as quickly as possible, considering the obstacle his swollen flesh presented. At the sound of the zipper he gave a deep, strangled moan and grabbed for her hand. (Oops!) she thought, all at once doubtful he would be able to hold off until she could release him completely. She swatted his hand away and jerked down his briefs. His erection caught on the elastic and his breath caught in his throat as he felt the electrical jolt that surged through his system.

Nikita had seen him aroused before, but not like this. It really WAS purple! The skin was stretched so tight that the knob was completely exposed, forcing the slitted entrance slightly open. Pre-ejaculate dribbled freely down and over the entire hood. A large vein, blood-engorged, ran up the length of his penis. The entire organ jerked in tiny spasms, mimicking the rapid pulse she saw beating at his throat.

"Oh God, Michael, I'm sorry!" she gasped. By now he was beyond coherent thought or speech -- the only sounds he made were soft grunts, forced out from between his clenched teeth with each spasm of the red-hot poker projecting from between his thighs.

"Just lean back against the wall and try to relax."

When he made no move to comply, she shoved him backward, guiding his hands to the metal railing running along the wall. He gripped it, white-knuckled, as if holding on for dear life. A rictus of a smile distorted his features as he sucked in noisy gasps of air.

At first, she tried manipulating him just with her hands, but he couldn't bear it. So, she knelt in front of him and oh-so-gently swirled her tongue around the knob, soothing and licking the hypersensitive tip. Then she licked all the way from tip back to root, up one side and down the other. Gently lifting him, she licked underneath as well, paying special attention to that male "G" spot between his balls and his anus. Licking and sucking all over his grossly swollen testicles, she lubricated the entire area to prepare him for her hand. He was emitting a high-pitched whine. He eyes were tightly shut, and a tear trickled down each cheek from behind the closed lids.

"Michael, look at yourself," she encouraged. "See how magnificent you are. Watch me love you. Trust me to bring you home now."

At her words, he opened his eyes and stared in wonder down at the vision before him. She was so beautiful -- her golden hair draped over his groin -- her blue eyes shining up at him -- her mouth open as she massaged the helmet of his penis with her lips and tongue. One hand was clasping him lightly around its base. The other cradled his sac, rolling the two aching, sperm-filled globes against one another. As he watched, she began to milk him gently, pressing and pulling, urging him onward. She tickled him again that little strip of skin leading to his bottom. (Oh the sweet agony of her touch!) He could envision his seed moving thickly downward, a river of lava following the path she cleared. The pearlescent liquid bubbled from the tip of his cock. At the last, she could sense the impending eruption, and she gave him one final harder suck, then shifted quickly to plug him into her other mouth.

"Mon Dieu, je ne peux pas l'arreter! - My God, I can't stop it!" he whimpered, as the load he had been carrying gushed out of him, in seemingly never-ending spurts, deep into the core of her.

She had barely had time to insert the tip of his penis into her vagina when she felt the powerful spasms begin to wrack his frame. He was jerking so wildly he would have popped right back out of her if she had not held on tight. The feel of that velvet-sheathed iron bar, pulsing with a life of its own, was enough to make her come. Her own muscles contracted in parallel rhythm, milking him dry.

"Mmmmn," she murmured in his ear. "Good to the last drop." This beats Mad Dog any day, doesn't it, Michael?"

He couldn't answer. He just leaned his forehead against hers and tried to catch his breath. His knees threatened to buckle, but he locked them in fierce determination. All he could feel was overwhelming relief from that painful pleasure he had been tortured by ever since they had entered the cellar. It had been a near thing. He wondered what Walter and Birkoff would have done if they had heard his screams. He still couldn't believe he had held them back. It had taken all his strength.

Nikita brushed his damp hair back behind his ears and said, "Don't you think we'd better get back upstairs?"

His eyes glittered. "Are you going to carry me?"

"Who's going to carry ME?" she retorted.

"Perhaps we could lean on one another," he whispered, smiling fondly at her.

"Sounds like a plan," she agreed, and arm in arm, they staggered up the wooden steps, each carrying a bottle of wine.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Well, it's about time!" teased Walter as they reentered the main room. "I see you found what you were looking for." The double-entendre was followed by a pregnant silence. Birkoff looked up from the record he was examining. He saw an evil grin on Walter's face. Nikita was blushing furiously. Michael appeared pale and drawn, but his lips were red and swollen. And there was a distinctive musky scent in the air. (I guess they sure DID find what they were looking for.) He hastily returned to his perusal of the LP collection. He was no Walter -- and he wasn't about to banter with Michael about his sex life! It was risky enough being here in the first place, without raising the stakes any higher for the sake of a wise crack.

"I'll tell you two what," Walter continued in a casual tone. "Why don't you make yourselves comfortable on the sofa, and Birkoff and I will finish fixing supper. After all, you've already done most of the work, right? All we have to do is scramble the eggs and slice the bread. I'll do the eggs," he reassured them "soto voce". Michael looked at Nikita with raised eyebrows. She nodded to him in agreement.

"Okay, Walter, you've got a deal. Michael does look a bit 'drained,' and I'm kinda tired myself."

Michael's face flushed at her emphasis on the word 'drained', and Nikita grinned at him mischievously. He glared at Walter, daring him to say another word.

Walter took pity on him and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"Come on Birkoff," he called.

"Where?" Birkoff had not heard their exchange, since he had been trying on a pair of headphones.

"We're on KP."

"What's that?"

"Kitchen Patrol. Looks like if we want to eat anytime soon, we're going to have to fix it ourselves."

"But . . . "

"I know, I know. You can't cook. That's why I'M going to do it. All you have to do is slice some bread and set the table. Think you can handle that?"

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled as he rose and followed Walter into the kitchen.

Nikita led Michael over to the sofa and pushed him down into the soft cushions. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. She noticed again the dark circles under them, accentuated by his pallor. His eyelids trembled slightly, and his hands twitched in his lap.

(His strings are still twanging,) she said to herself, borrowing a colorful phrase from one of the 'locals' they had encountered in that small Appalachian town while on a recent mission.

She sat down beside him. The fire was roaring, and the room had warmed nicely. She took his arm and pulled him gently toward her, cushioning his head in her lap.

"Rest now, Michael. Walter will let us know when supper's ready."

She stroked his hair, lightly raking her nails over his scalp. He stilled under her hand and his breathing slowed as he drifted into sleep.

At some point she too must have dropped off, because the next thing she knew Walter was shaking her arm.

"Sugar, I think Birkoff and I have done about all the damage we can to the soup and omelet. We went ahead and ate. You two looked so peaceful here I didn't want to wake you up yet."

"What time is it?" she asked groggily.

"Almost 11:00. I was tempted to let you sleep all night, but I figured you'd better eat something first.

"Thanks, Walter. You're right. Michael hasn't really eaten anything to speak of in the past 48 hours." She placed her palm on Michael's cheek. "He can't go on like this," she said, looking up at Walter.

He knew what she was referring to. It was an unspoken concern they shared. He had known Michael a long time -- had seen him deal with stress and grief so many times. Michael might be able to control the expression on his face, the tenor of his voice, but his body would betray him sooner or later. He was very circumspect about it, but Walter remembered the first time he had become aware of Michael's difficulty. It had happened a month or so after Simone's capture. Michael had become more and more silent and withdrawn -- and thinner. Rumor had it he never ate or slept. Walter had wondered how he kept going, apparently leading missions as capably as ever. The crisis had come when he had been required to attend a dinner with Operations, Madeline, and George. He had arrived in Section impeccably dressed and had stopped by Walter's station to obtain a PDA and a weapon. "Some dinner party," Walter had said to him at the time. Later that evening, Michael had come to return both items. He had placed them deliberately on the counter, politely said good night, then turned away and puked his guts up all over his expensive silk shirt and Italian shoes. It had happened so suddenly it took Walter a minute to react, but when he tried to help, Michael had shoved him away. When the attack was finally over, Michael had wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, turned to Walter and whispered, "I'm sorry. Please call Housekeeping," and walked away. Later, Walter heard the scuttlebutt that Michael had sat through the entire dinner, graciously accepting every course that was pressed upon him, and charmed all with his intellect and elegant wit. The dinner had been considered quite a coup for Operations and Madeline. George had been suitably impressed with the civilized manner in which Section was being administered. Only Walter had been witness to the aftermath of that farce, and he recalled it now in vivid detail as he observed Michael sleeping on Nikita's lap.

"I'll dish up the soup while you try to wake up Sleeping Beauty," he joked. "Go ahead, Sugar, give him a kiss. I figure if that doesn't do the trick, nothing will."

She grinned up at him, then rejoined, "Not Sleeping Beauty, Walter. A frog. Think it's too late to turn him back into a handsome prince?"

"Good come-back, Sugar. I KNOW that hard-headed Frenchman would really appreciate your calling him a frog."

Then he added more seriously, "And no, I don't think it's too late. Do you?"

She shook her head and pressed a feathery kiss to Michael's forehead. "Never."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Walter patted Nikita's shoulder and returned to the kitchen. There he found Birkoff asleep at the table, his head in his arms, his sleeve in a dirty bowl. Walter rubbed him on the head and said, "Hey kid, wake up and go to bed."

Birkoff raised bleary eyes to Walter and mumbled, "Where?"

Walter pointed to the rug by the fireplace. "Over there, I guess. From what I saw, there's only one bed in this place, and I KNOW who's going to be sleeping in it. I saw a couple of blankets in that basket in the corner. Why don't you grab one of those and a cushion from the sofa?"

"Aren't Nikita and Michael on the sofa?"

"Not for long. She's waking him up now, and as soon as I feed them I'm going to sack out on it myself. These old bones are entitled to a little padding, but I can spare you one of the cushions."

"Thanks a lot," Birkoff replied caustically, rising slowly from his chair

Meanwhile, Nikita had succeeded in awakening Michael, but an unforeseen side effect of her kisses was now making itself evident under her hand, which had unconsciously wandered over to his crotch.

She gave him a little squeeze. "How about let's take a little bathroom trip before we eat?"

"I think that would be an excellent idea." He feathered her cheek with the back of his hand.

"We'll be there in a few minutes, Walter," she called out as Michael rose and pulled her up off the sofa.

Walter glanced up and saw the two of them, arms around one another, hurrying toward the bathroom. He whistled softly under his breath.

"Now's your chance, Birkoff," he said. "Scoot on over there and grab what you need. I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay, he mumbled, half-asleep again already.

Walter continued ladling out soup into big crockery bowls and buttering bread. He also cut up several chunks of the hard yellow cheese he had found in the cupboard. Finally, he poured each of them a glass of the red wine.

"I guess that'll do," he said to himself, and sat down to wait. (I sure would like to be a fly on the wall in that bathroom.) He had no doubt at all about what was going on in there.

* * * * * *

"Michael!" Nikita hissed. "Stop that! Walter's waiting for us!"

He continued his urgent quest inside her panties. "This won't take long," he replied, satisfied at the dampness his exploring hand had encountered.

"Mmph!" Her groan was muffled by his tongue invading her mouth at the same time as he surged into her further down.

It had begun in earnest as soon as he had unzipped to take care of a more mundane need. He had looked up to find her licking her lips at the sight of him, and one source of tension had quickly been exchanged for another just as primal. This time he was the aggressor, and he was intent on taking his full measure of revenge for her earlier exquisite torture in the cellar. Ever the strategist, he had immediately initiated the two-pronged assault now underway.

However, Nikita countered his 'pincer movement' with one of her own. She wrapped both legs around his waist and hoisted herself onto him, nearly toppling them both.

He grabbed hold of the basin behind him and arched more deeply into her. She felt so good! But this time he was going to make sure she came before he did.

"Whatever it takes!" he groaned aloud, and she laughed hysterically at his use of Section's infamous motto in this particular situation. Her laughter set off contractions down below that pulled him inexorably toward the precipice. He teetered on the edge, desperate to maintain control. He curled his fingers around the rim of the basin as his toes curled on the shag floor mat. He gripped the basin tighter, concentrating on the feel of the cold unyielding porcelain under his hands, focusing intently on the tile pattern on the wall -- anything to delay the explosion he knew was coming.

Nikita knew it too. She watched their reflected image avidly in the mirror above the sink. Through slitted eyes she saw their private dance -- a rocking rhythm as old as time. She saw her hands locked around his neck, caressing the nape with its auburn curls, damp now from the heat rising within that powerful body. She saw the muscles of his buttocks bunch as he thrust into her, then release as he pulled out again. Bunch and release, bunch and release -- over and over, faster and faster, harder and deeper, as the music only they heard skirled ever louder inside their heads. And she saw herself looking over his shoulder, blue eyes glazed, one long blond strand of hair looped across her face, stuck damply to her cheek. She saw her heels digging into his lower back, then into his rear, forcing him as deeply into her body as she could. This was highly erotic performance art, and the climax of the performance was very near indeed, if she was any judge. As she watched, Michael gathered himself for one final devastating thrust. Hunching over her, he went absolutely still, every muscle clenched with an almost tetanic strain. Metamorphosis. Performance became tableau.

He groaned from so deep within that Nikita felt it before she heard it -- a rumbling which made its way upward from his gut at the same moment his seed made its way downward -rushing hotly from his sac through the steel pipe she was impaled upon, finally gushing into her hollow core. As his nether mouth opened to release the scorching liquid, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of utter ecstasy, and his groan echoed long and loud from the walls of the tiled room. She came in that same instant, her strong inner muscles sucking him dry, her own tenor wailing in sweetest harmony.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

By the time they straggled into the kitchen, Walter was well into his fourth glass of wine -- and in a pleasant state of "relaxation." He was not, however, so relaxed that failed to take notice of their disheveled appearance. Nikita's blouse was buttoned wrong, and Michael's fly was at half-mast. Both of them had that satisfied, sleepy-eyed look he had seen quite often in his own mirror.

"Well, hello there!" he bellowed jovially, leaping up to offer Nikita his seat. "Soup's on!"

"A soupcon de quoi?" queried Michael absentmindedly.

"Michael, Walter means the SOUP IS ON THE TABLE," Nikita repeated for his benefit. She turned back to Walter.

"He thought you were speaking French."

"Oh. What did I say?"

"Just a tiny bit," spoke up Michael.

"I know, but a tiny bit of what?"

Nikita laughed. "This is beginning to sound like that old Abbott and Costello skit, "Who's On First." Just forget it and let's eat. I'm starved."

Michael looked at the food on the table, but when he made no move to sit down, Nikita pushed him into the chair Walter had just vacated. Around his neck she tied one of the big white napkins Birkoff had placed beside each bowl. She sat down beside him.

"You're on your own now, kiddo," she said. "If you want any soup, you'd better get started, because when I'm done with my share I'm coming after yours."

He smiled and picked up his spoon. He dipped it in the bowl, stirring slowly while inhaling the rich aroma of beef and vegetables. Nikita snagged a thick slice of the French bread covered with butter. She ate neatly yet rapidly, emptying her own bowl of soup, sopping up the dregs with a crust of bread, then devouring several chunks of the cheese. All the while, however, she eyed Michael furtively. Walter also appeared unconcerned as he refilled his glass, but he watched Michael as well.

At first, it looked as though he were going to eat, but as minute after minute went by, and he continued to stir without actually raising the spoon to his mouth, the tension increased. After finishing off her own meal, Nikita sat and waited for this little charade to end. Finally, she called his bluff.

"Michael, if you're just going to play with it, hand it over."

Walter had to give her credit. She would make a good poker player. He was interested in Michael's response. The other man looked at her silently for a long moment, then picked up his wine glass and saluted her with it in acceptance of the challenge she had issued. He took a sip of the wine, then brought the filled spoon to his lips and took the first bite. He chewed slowly, then swallowed convulsively, as if forcing down the food by sheer willpower.

"Fine," she said. "Now finish it or I will." And she handed him a slice of bread, which he accepted politely. There was an almost imperceptible tremor in his hand, which he stilled immediately. He took a second bite, then a third.

(He's a stubborn bastard, I'll give him that,) thought Walter in silent admiration of Michael's tenacity.

By the time the bowl was empty, Michael's forehead was dotted with tiny beads of sweat. Without a word, Nikita cleared the table. She dampened a clean tea towel and wiped his face, then draped the cool cloth over the back of his neck. He sat very still, head bowed, struggling to keep down the bread and soup. Nikita stood behind him, distractedly rubbing his back. Her touch seemed to help, for Walter noticed that his fingers released their cramped hold on his wine glass. After a few minutes he gave a trembling sigh and leaned his head back against Nikita. She spoke as casually to Walter as if the past half-hour's ordeal had never happened.

"Walter, it was kind of you to sit up with us. I know how tired you must be. Why don't you sack out on the sofa now? I'll clean up in here."

By this time Walter had finished off several more glasses of wine, so he was quite amenable to Nikita's suggestion. He scraped back the chair and rose, weaving slightly. He came over to Nikita and gave her a hug, then squeezed Michael's shoulder in quiet support.

"Thanks, Sugar, I believe I will."

Nikita heard a definite slur in the "S."

"But just leave the dishes until tomorrow morning. I'll make Birkoff do them." And he giggled at the picture that conjured up -- Birkoff in an apron, sleeves rolled up, complaining about his dishpan hands. With that image in mind, he shuffled into the other room and collapsed on the sofa. His snores began immediately.

"Walter loves you," said Michael.

"He loves you too, Michael," she replied, kissing the top of his head. "Now let's go to bed."

Taking him by the hand, she led the way upstairs.

"Brrr, it's freezing in here!" Nikita exclaimed as she opened the door into the tiny bedroom. She dragged Michael over to the bed and sat him down on the edge. Then she quickly knelt and took off his shoes, then her own.

She scrambled back to her feet, chafing her arms with her hands, and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm not taking off any more clothes tonight! Move over and let me in before we both turn into blocks of ice!"

He held the covers for her and she jumped in and snuggled close, rubbing her socks frantically against the sheets to generate a bit of warmth. He clung to her, nuzzling his chin between her breasts as they huddled together under the blankets and coverlet. They feel asleep in a tangle of arms and legs, like two worn-out children.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That was how Walter found them the next morning. He had sent Birkoff to knock on their door, but the kid had come back downstairs shaking his head in disgust.

"I knocked, but nobody answered. I'm not even sure they're still in there. And I am NOT going to open that door to find out. It's YOUR turn!"

So he had trudged up the stairs and knocked several more times, with the same result. Then he called out to them. No response. Not a sound. He was beginning to worry.

(Well, I'm not gonna just stand out here and stew about this. Ready or not, here I come!)

At first all he saw was a jumble of bedclothes -- lumpier in some places than others. Then one of the lumps twitched, and a purple sock poked out of one side of the covers. Inside it, toes wriggled. He tiptoed closer and saw auburn curls peeking from underneath the blankets. No blond head in sight, though.

(Now I wonder where HER head is.) His mind was definitely in the gutter now -- not that it didn't have good cause. This was going to be embarrassing. But he and Birkoff couldn't wait much longer for these two to get up. He reached down and thumped the bottom of the purple sock. Nothing. He thwacked it harder, and this time it jerked back under the covers and he heard a muffled "Ow!" from Nikita. There was a shifting of the bedclothes which reminded him of some burrowing creature moving through its tunnel. Suddenly, Nikita' head popped out from under the coverlet.

"Walter!" she groused. "What the HELL are you doing?"

He took no offense. After all, he would have been mad too.

"Just trying to wake you up, Sugar," he said mildly. "Me and Birkoff have got to get out of here pretty quick. Operations will have a hissy fit if we're not back at Section by noon. Of course, he's probably having one anyway," he added.

Her expression of outrage faded as she came more fully awake and realized the implication of what he was saying. She looked down at the curls peeking out of the covers. She ran her fingers through them absently, nodding in agreement.

"I know, Walter. I'm sorry We'll be down in a minute. Thanks for waking me." Then she looked up at him and frowned again. "But next time, knock first, okay?"

He grinned back at her. "We DID, Sugar. Believe me, we DID." Then he turned and sauntered out, whistling.

Nikita uncovered Michael's head, hoping that the cold air in the room would rouse him. No such luck. He slept the sleep of exhaustion -- deep and dreamless. It would be a shock to wake up, but they owed it to Walter and Birkoff to say a proper goodbye. She stroked his cheek. It felt like sandpaper.

(Damn, his stubble always turns me on!) she complained as heat unfurled in her lower belly. She pressed her legs together, trying to still her body's natural response to her lover. It didn't work.

(Well, I can think of ONE sure-fire way to get him up,) she rationalized. (Of course, it might be a bit noisy, but Walter and Birkoff can just get over it.) She shoved the covers further back. As she gazed down at him with hungry eyes, her hand drifted down to his groin. She cupped her palm over him and waited for the heat and pressure to work their magic. It didn't take long. He blossomed under her touch.

* * * * * *

Downstairs in the kitchen, Walter and Birkoff were drinking coffee. They weren't used to the quiet here, so when they heard the first sounds from above, all their attention became helplessly focused in that direction. It was the rhythmic squeak of rusty bedsprings. "Chank-a-chank-a-chank," faster and louder, until in the sudden silence they heard mingled cries of "Mon Dieu!" and "Oh my God!"

Birkoff turned beet-red and took a long swig of coffee.

"Morning prayers," said Walter nonchalantly.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Walter?"

"Yeah kid?"

"It's been nearly half an hour. Maybe they've gone back to sleep."

"Not a chance, Birkoff."

"How do you know?"

Walter took another slurp of his coffee. "Been there, done that."

"But what's taking them so long?"

Walter snorted. "Ever hear the term 'dieseling'?

Birkoff shook his head.

Walter recited as if reading from an auto repair manual: "Dieseling - the continued operation of an internal combustion engine after the ignition is turned off."

"Uh huh," said Birkoff, looking completely mystified.

"Think about it kid. It'll come to you."

* * * * * *

"Michael, we HAVE to get downstairs! Walter and Birkoff need to get back to Section! Oohh, Aahhh!"

"I can't help it," he ground out between his teeth. "Every time I try to pull out, you grab me again."

"I don't MEAN to. I can't help it either!" she hissed. "What are we going to do?"

His only response was yet another deep-seated spasm, jerking inside her, triggering her own aftershocks.

"All right," she said, sweeping damp tendrils back from his forehead. "On a count of three we are going to disengage, do you understand? WHATEVER IT TAKES!"

He stared back at her wild-eyed, then gave a jerky nod.

Together they counted.

"Un, deux, tr-ois! Sacre Dieu!"

"One, two, THREE -- Ouch!"

They came apart with an audible "pop" that reminded Nikita of the time she had been slurping a coke direct from the bottle and had gotten her tongue caught inside. The harder she had tried to pull loose, the tighter it had wedged.

They lay stunned for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to get past the initial shock. Nikita tested the soreness between her legs. Her muscles continued to contract spasmodically around her fingers, but other than some chafing she figured she'd be fine.

She wasn't so sure about Michael, though. His hands cradled his groin, and he was rocking back and forth slightly, his knees drawn up. She touched his arm.

"Michael . . . ?"

"Ni-ki-ta," he husked. It seemed all he was capable of saying for the time being.

"Let me see," she whispered.

He continued to rock. "Just give me a minute, please."

She obliged, and after a while he uncurled and lay back, his hand over his eyes, panting slightly.

"Better now?"

"Oui."

She had second thoughts about examining him. At this point she really didn't want to know.

"I'll get dressed and go on downstairs. You come as soon as you can, okay?"

He gave a pained snort.

"I don't think I'll be coming again anytime soon, Nikita. You've seen to that."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

A door opened and closed. Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Walter and Birkoff looked at one another. Waited. Nikita stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. Alone.

"Hi guys. Sorry to be such a sleepyhead. Is there any coffee left?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," stammered Birkoff. "Why don't you sit down and let me get you a cup?"

Walter sipped his own coffee and gave her the once-over.

"So, Sugar, how's everything this morning?"

Birkoff pricked up his ears.

"Fine, Walter. Everything's fine," she answered.

"Michael okay?"

"Um hum," she replied, twisting a lock of her hair.

"Is he coming down anytime soon?"

"As soon as he can," she mumbled into her coffee cup, taking a hasty sip. "What's to eat? Any toast? How about some eggs?"

"My pleasure, Sugar," grinned Walter, amused at her attempt to change the subject. "I'll fix enough for Michael too, if you think he'll be down soon."

"Umm," she nodded, her eyes sliding away from Walter's.

"My, you sure are talkative this morning, Sugar." Walter winked at Birkoff. "Almost as talkative as Michael, wouldn't you say, Birkoff?"

Birkoff grinned as he poured Nikita more coffee. She looked at them squarely for the first time since sitting down.

"All right, you guys. So I'm a little embarrassed, okay? And do me a favor. When Michael comes down, try not to give him the third degree."

Walter came over and put his arm around her. He tucked her head under his chin.

"Don't sweat it, Nikita. Birkoff and I aren't about to give Michael a hard time. YOU, on the other hand . . ."

She slapped playfully at his arm.

"And what have I done to deserve it?"

"Perhaps I am in a better position to answer that question than Walter is."

They all looked up to see Michael standing in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. He was dressed in an oversized cable-neck sweater and sweatpants.

"How in the world . . .?" Nikita looked down at his feet.

"Ah hah! No shoes. You sneak."

"That was not my primary motive, but I am grateful for the fringe benefit."

He walked slowly from the door to the table. The look on his face as he gingerly sat down made Walter wince in empathy. (Too sore to bend over. Man, I sure hope you got enough to last you for a while, 'cause it looks like it's gonna BE a while before you're ready to party.)

"How about a cup of coffee?" he asked solicitously.

"Thank you."

"And how about some breakfast? I was just getting ready to fix Nikita some eggs and toast. How does that sound?"

"Anything you have will be fine."

A few minutes later Nikita was sopping up egg yolk with her toast. She closed her eyes and licked her lips in appreciation.

"Mmm, this is great, Walter. I never knew you were such a good cook."

"D'accord," Michael seconded. To everyone's relief, he had eaten, with obvious appetite, a couple of soft-scrambled eggs and a piece of toast with apple butter. He pushed away his empty plate and shifted painfully in the chair. Nikita eyed him with concern.

"Michael, would you like . . . " She had intended to ask if he wanted a pillow, but at the look he gave her she abruptly changed her mind, saying instead " . . . some more coffee?"

"No thank you," he replied. "This is fine."

"Well," interjected Walter, "If everything's FINE, now that breakfast is over Birkoff and I need to hit the road. Operations will be sending out a search and retrieval team any time now, I expect."

Michael looked at him for a long moment.

"I think not."

He took another sip of coffee, showing a complete lack of concern about the bombshell he had just dropped in their midst.

Walter recovered first.

"Why not?"

"Because I would take exception to such an order."

Birkoff's mouth dropped open.

"It's finished, isn't it?" asked Walter.

"Yes."

"How long have you been in play?"

"Twelve years."

"But . . . you've only been in Section for ten . . . " blurted out Birkoff.

Michael's gaze shifted toward him. "Yes."

Walter asked hoarsely, "Was it worth it?"

The anguish on Michael's face was his only answer

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It was time to leave. Walter had insisted on returning to Section by the noon deadline despite Michael's offer of protection. For thirty-five years he had lived his life a certain way, and although he felt a heady sense of freedom, he couldn't let go quite yet. As for Birkoff, he didn't know if he could make it on the "outside." All he could remember was Section. They would both have to wait and see. There was no rush. They could always leave tomorrow.

Nikita hated to see them go, but she knew this was something they would have to work out for themselves. Meanwhile, she had Michael to worry about. He was still reeling from grief. The price of freedom had been so high. He might never recover completely from the role he had played for so long. His entire adult life had been a "play within a play," and the toll it had taken on his spirit was devastating. All she could do was be here for him.

They stood on the front porch of the farmhouse. Nikita gave a hug to Birkoff, then to Walter. Birkoff blushed, but Walter patted her on the behind.

"Walter!" She swatted his hand away.

"Now Sugar, you wouldn't begrudge an old man his parting wish, would you?"

"You're not that old, and if I have anything to say about it, you're not parting for long either! But here's a kiss for old time's sake anyway."

And she planted a big juicy one right on his lips. He pantomimed a dying man, hand to his heart, and quoted Fred Sanford. "This is the big one! I'm comin' honey!"

Michael stood to one side, watching. He envied them their camaraderie. He tried to recall Michel, that idealistic youth of so long ago, but he couldn't. That boy was only a shadow in his mind. Someday, perhaps.

Having recovered from his "heart attack," Walter took a closer look at Michael. It was time to say good bye to him too.

"Come 'ere, kid," he said, gesturing to Michael.

Michael stepped forward, still hesitant. He held out his hand. Walter batted it aside. "You don't think I'm gonna let you off the hook that easy, do you?"

He grabbed Michael in a bear hug and whispered in his ear.

"You might not believe it now, kid, but it WAS worth it."

At these words, Michael gave a choked sob and buried his face in Walter's shoulder.

"Hey, kid, that's all right. That's what I'm here for. Just let it go, boy. Let it all go."

This time, however, the storm passed more quickly. After a moment or two, Michael stepped back from Walter and scrubbed his face with both hands. He stared into space over Walter's shoulder, unwilling to meet the older man's eyes.

"I don't know what's wrong. I can't stop . . . I didn't think I had any tears left. I apologize for this . . . "

Walter reached out his hands and cupped Michael's face, forcing him to look directly at him. There were tears glistening in his own eyes.

"What in the hell do you expect, Michael! For ten, or twelve, or God knows how many years, you've been trying to hold back the ocean! And now that you finally took your finger out of the dike, it's gonna come pouring through. That's a fact of life. There's nothing wrong. For the first time since I've known you, there's something RIGHT. You're gonna be okay, son. Trust me."

As Walter finished speaking, Michael's eyes filled again and the tears ran unheeded down his face. This time, Walter wiped them away with callused thumbs. He gave Michael a gentle slap on the cheek, then turned away with a cocky grin.

"Be seein' ya, kid. Let's go, Birkoff."

And he and Birkoff sped off, the dust from the country road rising in a cloud behind them.

Nikita watched until the car was out of sight and the dust had settled. Then she turned back to the porch and took Michael by the hand. Lifting it to her lips, she kissed his palm lightly. He too had been staring down the road, but when he turned to look at her, his eyes were wide and innocent. In this moment, he was Michel. It was a beginning.

FIN

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