Grace - Post Charity

"There but for the grace of God go I."

The drive home had seemed interminable, as Michael had struggled to shake off the filth of the Alec Chandler mission. His work for Section One never went home with him, never touched the idyllic fantasy life he shared with Elena and, now, Adam. After most missions, on the drive to their spacious house, he managed to effortlessly retreat from his operative persona and transform himself into the man this mission required, Elena's husband and Adam's father.

Tonight was the exception. Chandler's dealings and the lies to Nikita, so that she could carry out the mission effectively, refused to be shaken - like a bad dream, one from which he'd awakened to find was reality.

As was often the case, he was pleased to find, once he'd pulled into the now familiar driveway he'd felt himself begin to breath a little easier. Up the front steps, through that berry red front door and he was in the waiting arms of his wife.

"Welcome home," she'd greeted in her bright voice, adding an open smile. They met in a tender kiss. "How was your trip?" She took the briefcase, full of phoney paperwork, away from him, and set it down on the foyer table.

"Fine. They don't need me until the second of next month."

"A whole week and a half of you to ourselves," she breathed, wrapping her arms more tightly around him. "Adam and I are going to be spoiled, by this."

He smiled down at her as he pulled her close, breathing in her familiar scent, comforted by it. However fictitious this marriage might be to the world he resided in it felt remarkably real, at the moment. And he welcomed it, if only for a little while.

"Would you like some dinner?" She leaned back in his embrace. "It's all ready to heat up. You must be hungry."

"Yes, dinner would be nice." he replied, letting his arms drop from her sides. "I'd like to check on Adam, first, though. Is he sleeping?"

She smiled affectionately. "Yes, I put him down about thirty minutes ago. So, try not to wake him up. I'll go start warming your dinner." She patted his shoulder, as he slipped out of his coat, then she went one way and he went the other.

He took the stairs at a deliberately even pace, so as not to alert Elena to his agitated state. There would be no explaining to her that his sole focus of this past week had been a child slaver -- a man who held himself up as a great humanitarian and champion of lost and abandoned children all the while treating them as commodities to be traded for favors, and sold to increase his net worth. Michael's muscles bunched and stomach turned. He forced his breath to ease.

Alec Chandler was dead. They had saved countless young lives from fates worse than death. He continually reminded himself that it didn't matter that Chandler had been one of many. At least he was one.

Michael climbed the stairs to the beige second floor bedroom, trimmed with pale sea-green and apricot.

Placing his hand flat against the door, he eased it open -- only a little, enough to let him slip in.

With practiced stealth he approached the unpainted, wooden crib to gaze down on his sleeping son; his little mouth pursed into an "o" smooshed into the mattress. Not wanting to wake the sleeping infant, he remained still, though the desire to touch that downy soft head was almost overwhelming. Instead he contented himself with merely watching the gentle rise and fall of Adam's breathing, listening to the sweet murmurs, content to see his son safe and warm, knowing he was loved, no matter the circumstances of his birth.

A reckless miscalculation on Michael's part and an order from Operations had resulted in this innocent life being born into a lie. He'd never wanted to bring this child into the world, but once little Adam arrived he'd played his part with a brutal understanding of the hypocrisy of the whole situation.

A father who feigned warmth and a husband who simulated affection. Elena and Adam deserved better, but the choice had not been theirs, and Michael was forced to cope with the knowledge that he had denied them that choice. The only action he could take to even begin to assuage his guilt was to perform for them the only honest duty he could, and that was as protector.

As long as he was able; as long as he could say that he was Adam's father and Elena's husband - no harm would ever come to them.

The truths of the Chandler mission had shaken Michael more profoundly than he'd thought possible. He'd thought the wall of steel he'd erected around himself would prevent the repugnance of any mission from reaching too deep. Yet, when he'd looked at those children huddled in that truck, seeking whatever comfort from one another that they could seize, all Michael could see in their grimy, terrified faces were his son, and his sister.

A thin veil of circumstance would prevent Adam from being a victim of someone like Alec Chandler, from being sold into slavery. And only his foresight to ask Rene Dion to care for Martine had kept her from being sold to men with vile appetites. Men he knew far too well.

Michael feared what might become of Adam once this mission was complete; once Michael Samuelle was dead. Though, he tried to keep such thoughts at bay he was often bombarded by them. Elena was a strong woman, capable of caring for both herself and Adam. She had taken care of herself long before he'd married her, and once he was gone she would raise their son, just as her mother had raised her, after Vachek had disappeared from his daughter's life.

The experiences of his life had taught Michael one important lesson, that one event could change one's life in an instant. There were no assurances. He knew what it was to lose one's parents. His loss had caused him to grow up too fast. Still, he had not been so young, as Adam would most likely be when he lost his father, and he wondered what that loss would do to the boy.

Would Elena see that their son grew up fine and strong?

Or; would Adam rebel against a mother who had been, in the boy's mind, responsible for his father's death?

Would he become a man without morals, twisted and dangerous, like the men his father fought to protect the world from?

The baby moved, his upper half turning while his legs kicked out to balance himself. His tiny fist rubbed at his face, and he let out a quiet protesting gurgle.

Adam had awakened, perhaps sensing his father's presence.

He began to make subdued grumpy noises and Michael reached down to rub his back and sides, hoping to quiet the baby. Feeling his father's touch the boy opened his eyes and reached for him.

Unable to deny his son, Michael curled his hands around the tiny body and carefully lifted Adam out of his crib.

In the comfort and warmth of that embrace, the baby settled and Michael slowly backed up to the rocking chair and lowered himself down.

He rubbed his son's back, bouncing him slightly, trying to comfort himself as much as the baby. Willing, unsuccessfully, the ugliness of the past few days from his mind.

Not since Simone had Michael felt such protectiveness for any woman, such a need for honesty, and such pain when he was forced to lie. Nikita would be his undoing, sooner or later. She would wipe away years of shielding and defense, in time. He could see that, even this early, and he dreaded it, even as he recognized it was inevitable.

He would make her love him, as he was wont to do. And he would make her hate him, as he was compelled to do.

Nikita had already taken that first step, this afternoon, when he'd stopped by her apartment, on his way home. The cat was still there, an example of her belief in free-will. She'd challenged him, and rightfully so. He'd misled her into caring about a despicable man, and deserved whatever punishment she saw fit to dish out. As she'd held her gun on him, her shining recalcitrance nearly blinding him.

Even so, he'd met the challenge, head on, and left her trembling. She wasn't the only one whom Madeline had taught very well.

He could see it, now. This was how their relationship would play out. She was too rebellious to submit to him, willingly, and he would never force her. Needing her to perform her role without incident would require him to tell lie after lie. She would believe the lie, with scepticism, and when it was revealed she would feel betrayed, he would apologize, she would turn away. Only to return for more. And the cycle would repeat itself, because it was the only thing either of them could do.

No evasion techniques either might take would ever prevent the inevitable binding of their fates.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to fight it with every low-down, dirty tactic he knew. At least he'd have the hope of keeping her at bay for as long as possible. If it meant pain for one or both of them in the meantime, so be it. That was a small price to pay if, by the grace of whatever deity decided to take pity on them, they would live to enjoy even a moment together.

Restlessly, Adam wiggled against his father's broad chest, alerting Michael to the dangerous turn of his thoughts. This was not the place to be thinking of Section One, and especially not Nikita.

"Shhh. . ." he cooed at his son, rocking the chair gently.

"I told you not to wake him," his wife's whispered voice scolded playfully.

He turned to see her leaning against the doorframe, smiling at the serene picture he saw reflected by the peace in her eyes.

"He didn't wake," Michael responded, answering her smile. "Be quiet or he will."

He could see her mentally swatting him. Her smile lifted higher on one corner. "Your dinner is ready. Come and eat."

She turned slowly, obviously enjoying the sight of her husband holding their son, and left the room.

Reluctant to leave the soothing presence of his son, Michael rose from the rocking chair, cradling the boy close to his chest. Careful not to jostle the quiescent child too much, Michael returned Adam to his crib. Then, with a brush to his tiny forehead, he backed away and out of the room.

--

The End

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