"Sugar?" Walter's voice drifted across the narrow space. His voice almost lost in the scuffling and assorted noises that surrounded them.

"Hmmm?" Nikita turned her head to look at him.

Walter grinned, "I have to tell you, when I fantasized about this ... and believe me I have fantasized about it ... this isn't how I pictured it."

Nikita laughed low in her throat in that way women have.

Walter's fingers tightened, over the D-rings of the leather cuffs he wore, in response. It was about the only thing he could do in his current position ... tied up ... arms over his head ... laying on a bed ... with Nikita ... surrounded by ... he just didn't want to think about it.

Below them at the foot of the bed, the bomb continued to tick relentlessly, its beat still audible over the increasing scuffling and growling.

"Michael will save us," Walter stated, more to hear himself say the words than to reassure Nikita.

"Yes," she agreed "and then he will take care of Madeline and this ... this problem she seems to have developed." Nikita's voice trailed off in perplexion.

The ticking and scuffling continued unchanged except for an occasional bark or yelp.

"Walter?"

"Hmmm?"

"What's with Madeline's hair anyway and when did she start smoking?" Nikita asked.

Before Walter could think of an answer much less say it, a joyous bark rebounded and a little spotted body jumped up onto the bed between them.

It was one of the dogs.

One of the many dogs in the room with them.

One of 101 dogs.

One of a 101 dalmatians.

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