It had been fifteen years. Fifteen long, heartbreaking years. He didn't think he would ever set eyes on his son again. Not in real life. Or what passed for real life in Section.

Michael's changeable grey-green eyes flickered over the monitor screen in front of him. He tapped the keyboard with one finger. The picture changed. Zoomed in for a closer look. There was no question. It was Adam. Or whatever Adam was calling himself these days.

But the people with him? Michael frowned. He didn't recognize any of them. They could be University students, like Adam, or…something else. What had his son gotten involved in? And was it an accident?

His son thought he was dead. Killed by the same people who killed his grandfather. How could he intervene? How could he find out more without jeopardizing himself or Adam?

His mind raced. Then stopped abruptly. Elena. Where was Elena in all of this? He needed to locate her. As soon as possible.

His still-handsome face grew even more somber than usual. Operations had finally retired five years ago, though some would say George had his hand in that decision. As for Madeline, she stayed on when Michael succeeded Operations. But not for long. Her need to control events, not to mention her own ambitious agenda, fought constantly with Michael's.

He gave Madeline a chance to change, but in the end, she could not. He refused to cancel her. Just because she was of no use to him in command, he didn't see a point to her death. So he transferred her. Far away. Section 7. Asia. The vastness of the Asian Section alone was enough to thwart anyone with designs on the seat of power. He wished her luck. And promptly forgot her.

Walter reluctantly retired when Michael came to power. Perhaps he felt that Operations would have put him in an entirely different place. Perhaps not. But he was getting too old for intrigue, even if he wouldn't admit such a thing, and so he went.

Birkoff? Birkoff came into his own. His idiosyncratic manner as Head of Comm persisted. But where he was once regarded as something of a freak or an object of derision, he now commanded respect. Michael depended on him, and Birkoff not only knew it, he reveled in it. Michael's cachet as top operative, and now, Operations, rubbed off on his closest associates. Birkoff had Michael's ear, and everyone knew the way to get to Michael was through Birkoff. Not bad for a little guy.

Michael grew more intensely preoccupied as he contemplated the missing piece of this particular puzzle. Nikita. The blonde operative had been sent away by Operations years ago. Resisting the urge to punish himself by shadowing Nikita in her new life at Section 5, Michael accepted that he would simply never see her again.

That was before. Before he ascended to the throne Operations held for so long. Once he was in command of Section One, Michael lost no time in locating the woman he loved more than life itself.

He hit a button, activating a direct com link to Birkoff. "Is Nikita back yet?"

"She just came in. You want me to tell her to go up?" Birkoff asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes," Michael replied tersely.

Nikita had returned to One at Michael's request. It was not an order. Ordering Nikita to do anything was counter-productive. Besides that, he didn't want their relationship to be about power. He loved her enough to hope and trust that she had made no new alliances that precluded Michael.

He was right. Though she made a new life, she found no new love to replace Michael in her heart. When she came back, however, Nikita refused to be Michael's second-in-command. Unless he allowed her to continue her field work.

Who won? Michael could only say he was afraid for her every single time she went out…and relieved beyond words every single time she returned safely.

He hoped that one day, Nikita would realize the futility of clinging to her role as a field operative and accept her rightful place at his side. He needed her alive. And it had nothing to do with Section.

But he respected her independence, even as he chafed at the constraints she placed upon their relationship. They were lovers again…but she would not marry him. Marriage, she said, was for people on the outside. People with real lives. People who were not dead.

Now he was about to show her just how real life could get. Inside Section. He needed her to find out what his son was involved in. He needed her to contact Elena personally. She was the only one who could do this for him. She was still the only person he trusted with his son's life.

Nikita knocked on the inside panel when she entered the Deck. Michael turned to face her, his hand automatically reaching for the remote to black out the Deck's massive observation windows.

"Can't this wait, Michael? I'm dying for a shower," Nikita said crossly.

His face inscrutable, he approached her silently. She was still a very beautiful woman. He reflected on their lives, how they had become hopelessly intertwined with each other. Yet there was a piece of herself that Nikita always withheld from Michael. He felt it.

"I need you."

Nikita barely managed to suppress a yawn. "Now?"

Michael reached out a hand to Nikita's cheek, and despite her fatigue and general ennui, she responded like a flower to the sun.

"Michael…" she said huskily.

His lips were next. Soft and warm upon her cheek. The lightest of caresses. Tender, not passionate. As they grew older, more familiar with each other, they were kinder to each other. Not as impatient. More openly affectionate.

Nikita loved this Michael. As much as the Michael he had once been.

"I have news. Of Adam."

Nikita visibly flinched. "Where? When? What is it?" She couldn't help but react. Her heart had always been with the little boy Michael fathered during the course of his deep cover mission. When Michael lost Adam…well, Nikita feared she would lose Michael, too.

"He needs help, Kita." Suddenly the facade cracked, and Michael's carefully modulated voice broke.

"He needs you." And so do I.

I always have.

I always will.

"What can I do?" Nikita's ready acceptance of what was essentially a personal mission did not surprise him. It was her open heart, her innate kindness, and her genuine compassion for other people that drew Michael to her. He was glad that Section did not win that particular battle. As often as he had been called upon to destroy yet another belief or emotional reaction, he tried only as hard as he needed to ensure her protection.

"Find Elena. Find out what Adam's been doing lately." The loss was never more deeply felt than when he spoke to Nikita. She was the only one who understood. The only one he let inside the carefully-erected barricades. The only one who was there.

"What do you think he's been doing, Michael?" she said, reaching out to touch his hand.

He stared at their joined hands for long moments before his face crumpled. His eyes suddenly the color of dull pewter, he slipped his hand from her grasp and pulled her close. His face buried against her neck, he shut his eyes against the pain, the world, and even Section. "I don't know," he barely managed, his voice muffled against her skin.

When she felt his hot tears upon her neck, she held onto him more tightly. "Ssh, ssh," she murmured soothingly, as her fists clenched his soft hair, still curling long and low on his neck.

"When you say you don't know, what do you mean?" she asked gently. "Haven't you been keeping track of him and Elena all these years? I thought—"

Michael raised his head, a bitter smile curving his lips. "That's what everyone thinks. The truth is…I haven't even seen a picture of him since…" He took a deep but still raggedy breath.

"Since when, Michael?"

He turned dazed eyes on her. "Since we trapped Zalman. That videotape was the last time I ever saw my son, Kita."

"Nearly fifteen years ago? Michael—"

"I couldn't. I couldn't keep looking at that face…and keep doing what we do. I just—" How could he explain that he never "got over it" at all? He buried it. So deeply he thought it would never resurface again. But it did.

"I know losing Adam was painful, Michael, but—"

"That's not it!" he cried. "Of course, it was painful. God, it still is! Even after all these years!" He raked his hands through his hair, visibly disturbed.

"When I looked at those eyes…so innocent, so trusting…I felt like I was betraying him."

"Michael, if he knew what you did, he would never accuse you—"

"Christ! He didn't have to! I accused myself!" Michael wrenched himself away from Nikita's arms and paced several steps away, even his gait bespeaking great agitation.

"I could hear his voice in my head sometimes, very late at night, when I couldn't sleep…" Michael drew a shuddery breath, and Nikita knew he was still struggling not to give way to the true force of his emotions. "What do you do, Daddy?"

Michael wrapped his arms around himself, as tightly as he could, and Nikita could no longer keep her distance. "And you know what my answer always was, Kita?"

She crept up behind him, embracing him as best she could, trying to lend him her strength. "No, what?"

"I destroy people." He bent his head, shoulders heaving, and sobbed broken-heartedly.

She turned him around, laying his wretched face upon her shoulder. "Michael, Michael…do you remember telling me once that…sometimes our thoughts and feelings take us places we can no longer go?"

She felt him nod, and she kissed his hair. "You weren't a bad father, Michael. You did the best you could."

"That's a lie we tell ourselves each and every day, just so we have the strength to wake up," Michael said bitterly.

"Michael! You've always believed that we are here for the greater good."

"That's pretty easy to say if you don't value anything personally. Like your life. Or the people you…claim to love."

Nikita reached out to stroke Michael's cheek, and he closed his anguished eyes again. She could feel him concentrating on her touch, willing himself to get past the pain, so he could cope. So he could do what needed to be done.

She knew the moment that he regained control. His eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes were a pale, translucent grey. Pressing a kiss to Nikita's lips, he stole generous portions of her gentle spirit and her frayed humanity for himself. When he broke away, he said in a breathless whisper, "Thank you."

"Where did you see Adam?"

"Here. On the monitor. It was a live feed from the University. In Paris."

"So Adam could be okay? Just mixing it up with a few students? General unrest, that type of thing?"

He nodded, and Nikita breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, that's good. You know, when you said you didn't know what Adam was up to, at first, I thought you were lying. I thought you were afraid that he was being recruited by Red Cell."

Michael's eyes flickered uncomfortably under Nikita's straightforward gaze. "No. I wouldn't lie to you, Kita."

Nikita peered closer at Michael. "But there's something you're not telling me."

Birkoff's voice interrupted the tense exchange between Section One's two top operatives. "Michael!" he cut in stridently.

Michael leaned forward and tripped a switch with his finger. "Yes, Birkoff?" he inquired, his voice still husky from crying.

"I have bad news. Can I come up?" The Comm head sounded very disturbed. For him to be afraid to give intel over Michael's private com link worried Michael. Deeply.

"What is it, Birkoff?"

"Are you sure I sh—"

"Just say it, Birkoff!" Michael ordered, feeling like he was at the end of a very short rope.

"Elena is dead."

The Comm head's voice quavered, as though he knew what this news would do to Michael personally. He was glad that Nikita was with him.

"How? When?" Michael looked confused. His mind was flying in a hundred different directions at once. None of them good.

"I'll get to that. Later. Right now, there's something else. Something you need to deal with right now."

Michael's nostrils flared slightly at the command in the Comm operative's voice. Birkoff often pushed, but he was rarely wrong.

"What?"

"It's your son. Adam."

It briefly occurred to Michael that Birkoff was eavesdropping on him and Nikita. But then, he thought, not so flippantly, Birkoff knows what I would do to him if I ever found out. It was the foundation of their bond. Make sure I can trust you, or suffer the consequences.

"What about him?"

"That group you were worried about? The one he seemed to have gotten involved in? The one that looked suspiciously like Red Cell?"

"Yes, yes, get to the point, Birkoff."

"It's not Red Cell."

Birkoff sounded so firm, Michael visibly relaxed. Nikita sighed happily, her arms instinctively reaching out to hold Michael again. But they both froze a moment later.

Birkoff continued. "It's not Red Cell, but it is L'Heure Sanguine."

"We took out L'Heure Sanguine," said Michael, wincing at the memory of being unable to shoot his one-time friend and mentor, Rene Dian.

"Not all of it, Michael."

"There was no one else, Birkoff! They're all dead!"

Birkoff's low voice sounded like a shout in the silence that followed. "Not your sister."

"My sister?"

Nikita glanced sharply at Michael before trading worried looks with Birkoff. "Birkoff, are you sure?"

Birkoff raised an eyebrow in obvious annoyance. He wasn't used to having his intel questioned anymore. He had grown accustomed to the unwavering faith Michael showed him. "I wouldn't come up here with mere speculation. Michael knows that."

Michael looked like a man who had been whipped within an inch of his life. "Rene brought her up after I was…taken. Even after he thought I was dead, he cared for her. Made sure she had clothing to wear, food to eat. I owed him my life for saving Marie-Ange. He wouldn't betray me like that."

"Unlike me," he added bitterly, "Rene had a morality he remained true to. Until the end."

Birkoff remained skeptical. "Sorry, Michael, but Marie-Ange was trained by Rene to succeed him. After his death—"

"After his death, I kept regular checks on Marie-Ange and her family."

"After his death," Birkoff repeated, an ominous glint in his dark chocolate eyes, "Marie-Ange took over L'Heure Sanguine."

Nikita cast deeply troubled eyes over Michael's grief-etched countenance. She thought they had erased every trace of the organization founded so many years ago by Rene Dian. In fact, when Michael could not bring himself to shoot Rene, jeopardizing his own life, it was Nikita who took matters into her own hands. Unwilling to see Michael sacrifice himself that way, she made the kill shot that took Rene's life.

Even now, she could see the smoke of gunfire, she could hear Rene's shouted, "You have no honor!", she could sense Michael's surrender to what would have been, in his eyes, the truth. And when it was done…and Rene lay dead…Michael's shell-shocked gaze, looking right through her, his voice hardly above a harsh rasp, "You should have let him do it."

No, he never thanked her for saving his life. They never spoke of it again.

Only Michael knew how Michael felt. She didn't claim to understand the man. She wasn't even sure if anyone ever could. But she loved him. Beyond words. Beyond traditional, safe boundaries that existed to keep lovers from consuming one another in pursuit of that love.

Hopelessly lost in thought, Nikita almost missed the gentle touch of Birkoff's hand upon Michael's arm, an uncharacteristic gesture of solidarity. "If it's any consolation, Michael, Rene didn't think of it as betrayal. You have to remember, he thought you were one of his closest friends and loyal to L'Heure Sanguine. He probably considered it an honor to make Marie-Ange his heir."

"But why didn't he tell me?" Michael rasped.

Nikita interjected, "I think I can answer that." Michael waited expectantly, all attempts to mask his emotions behind a blank facade forgotten now.

"Rene was undoubtedly saving the announcement for when you came back into the fold, Michael. When you told him you were on what he considered the "other side", he probably worried that you might turn on her."

"My own sister?"

"Well…" Nikita looked mildly uncomfortable, but she had to say it. "You have shown a certain singlemindedness of purpose in the past, Michael—"

Michael cried out wretchedly, "You think I could kill my own sister?"

"I think the old Michael could kill me, never mind his sister," Nikita stated with a calmness she didn't feel.

"Ki-ta…" Michael sagged against the wall of the Deck, his eyes closing of their own volition. He sought control with a vengeance, but it eluded his grasp. A single tear slid out from under his eyelids. Grief-stricken, overwhelmed by the sudden cascade of his own runaway emotions, he looked like he might go under at any time.

Nikita turned to Birkoff, but he was nothing if not perceptive. "I-I'd better go." He pressed a hand to Nikita's, leaning over to whisper, "Is he going to be all right?"

She nodded wordlessly, but the smile she attempted looked alarmingly fake and did nothing to reassure Birkoff.

After Birkoff left, Nikita immediately went to Michael. Bracing both hands upon his shoulders, she saw him stiffen at her touch. "Michael…we don't know for sure that your sister is responsible for Elena's…death."

"Ha!" Michael laughed harshly, but in truth, the look in his eyes frightened Nikita. She had never seen him driven this low before. No, that wasn't true. When he first lost Adam, he had bottomed out. But his anger was directed at the only safe target there was. Himself.

Now he had someone to blame. The woman he once claimed as family. His younger sister.

"Maybe it was an accident—"

Michael turned those icy-cold pale green eyes on her. "There are no accidents. Not in Section. You've been here long enough to know how this place works."

Now Nikita was afraid for Michael's sister. Wherever she was. If it came to a showdown between Michael and Marie-Ange, she knew who would win. Michael might have been disgusted that anyone, including the woman he loved, believed him capable of killing his own sister. But if the woman killed Elena…or worse…if Marie-Ange was holding Michael's son, using him as leverage against Section…

If Marie-Ange thought Section meant more to Michael than his son…

…she was sadly mistaken.

"Michael…" Nikita felt his feverishly hot green eyes upon her body. No casual flickering gaze, this, but a thorough raking of every inch of her.

She wanted to comfort him, but comfort was the furthest thing from his mind right now. He was channeling his anger and disappointment outward, where it couldn't prevent him from functioning again. But though he no longer appeared tearful, he looked like he was fairly vibrating with rage.

Could she handle Michael in this condition?

Visibly shaking now, Michael stretched out a trembling hand to cup her chin, tilting her face upwards for his kiss. "I need you now," he whispered, struggling to keep his more negative emotions away from the woman he loved.

"I know," she whispered back. His lips felt curiously cool, as did his hands, though the emotions that seethed throughout his body evidently were not. It worried her. Not because she feared getting hurt. But Michael had never taken her in such a violent state before. Not even when he thought she was dead for six months, and they were reunited on the boat in Lyons.

What would it do to them? Loving with such violence between them? She was not the target of his anger. But if she got too close, it would consume her just the same.

Could she do that? Did he need her to do that for him?

She would willingly lay down her life for Michael. But this was different. Her breath caught on a sob, and Michael's eyes darkened, glittering with some other, less negative emotion, but just as volatile. "Go," he urged her. "Go home."

"Mi-chael…" she protested, unwilling to leave things like this.

His eyes turned bleak. "I can manage. With…without you." He pushed her towards the door of the Deck, none too gently now. "Go home. Take a shower. Go to bed. I won't come to you tonight."

He turned away from her, intending to let her go. He didn't want to hurt her. God, he didn't ever want to hurt her. Though he had. Often. But that was in the past. Their relationship had waxed and waned, not unlike the moon, over the years. But now, they were at a relatively calm place in their lives. Why did this have to happen now? This…this turbulence?

He hated it. It threatened to drive a wedge between him and Nikita. He could feel it, her reluctance to be with him. And on the verge of losing control, he couldn't blame her. He might fly apart in her arms and destroy her. Once and for all.

And for what?

He stood there for several moments, his back to her, his eyes closed. Yet intensely aware of her. She hadn't left. Why? Why didn't she leave? He couldn't hold onto his control for very much longer. She must know that. She must…feel it…in him.

A pale slender hand touched him between his shoulderblades. Warmth blossomed throughout his body. "Kita, no."

She moved closer. Pushing his hair aside with one hand, she caressed the nape of his neck with her lips. She felt his pulse quicken. "I can be whatever you need me to be, Michael," she vowed, now more certain than ever that she should not leave him in this state.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I know." She slowly wrapped her arms around him, and she could feel the unmistakable answering quiver of his responsive body. "But you need me."

"Yes."

"Let me warm you, Michael. You're so cold."

"Not since you touched me, Kita." He turned suddenly in her embrace, and she could read the expression in his eyes. He was desperately in need of her love and support, but he was equally afraid of hurting her. Overwhelming her with his need.

Nikita stared intently at him, as if she were trying to absorb his pain. Then she began to cry. Very softly. "I love you. Don't push me away."

He closed the remaining distance between them in a fraction of a second, pulling her roughly into his arms. He buried his face at the base of her throat. "Don't cry. Please don't cry. I can't stand it if you cry," came his muffled voice.

She pulled him away from her, framing his face with both hands for a moment before sliding her hot cheek against his. He could feel her tears on his skin, and it was breaking his heart. "Then let me stay with you," she pleaded.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His harsh breathing grew loud in the silence of the Deck. "I want you with me. Always. But you won't stay."

"Oh, Michael, what difference does marriage make for us? I belong to you, just as surely as you belong to me." She wept silently, but the wetness of her cheek betrayed her.

His eyes filled with tears, his rage vanquished for the moment by grief. "Once, you would have said yes."

"It's just a piece of paper, Michael."

She could feel him shaking his head. "It's not the paper. It's the missing piece of you that you won't let me claim. It's what keeps us apart. Keeps us from being one. You think I can't feel it? You holding back part of yourself? You're afraid to commit to me again."

"No," she automatically countered. But somewhere, deep inside, she knew he spoke the truth.

"I don't want to push you into something you don't want, Kita. But if this comes down to a showdown between my sister and me, one of us isn't coming out of it alive. There's a good chance that it could be…me."

His grip on Nikita tightened. "I don't want to die knowing our souls can never be together again, Kita."

"Oh, Michael, you don't play fair at all," she said hoarsely against his ear.

"I can't afford to, I don't have the luxury of time anymore."

He prayed that she would relent. Anxiously. Fervently. And he could tell the exact moment that she did.

Her entire body relaxed against his, as if it had been fighting a long, long battle, a war without an end in sight. "Michael…"

"Yes?"

"I told you, I'll be whatever you need me to be."

"My lover?"

"Yes."

"My other half?"

"Yes."

"My wife?"

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, the brilliance of her sapphire gaze almost blinding in its intensity. "Yes."

He covered her face with fervent kisses, kisses of great longing finally realized. When he finally slowed down, out of breath, he whispered, "After all the times you've turned me down, what changed your mind?"

Nikita could no longer hold back anything. There was more than love at stake here. She had to commit to the man she loved more than life itself, or she would lose him. Forever. "Marriage is for people with a future. Maybe it's time for us both to believe we've got one."

"What do you need me to do?" Nikita asked huskily.

"I…need…you to do a lot of things, Kita," said Michael, his fingers playing with her long pale hair. A faint smile etched itself across his lips. "But that's for later. We have work to do."

He released her abruptly, his mind suddenly clear and now free to deal with the task at hand. "Birkoff knows where Adam is. Unless he's been moved, he's still there. You'll have to do the face-to-face with him. Seeing me after all these years will only confuse things."

Nikita grasped Michael's arm supportively. "Are you sure he would even recognize you, Michael? It's been fifteen years."

His green eyes dulled with pain for a moment, but he fought it back into the darker recesses of his brain. "You're right, of course. Just because I could never forget him doesn't mean he would feel the same."

"That's not what I meant, Michael."

"You think I should see him." It wasn't a question.

"I think you have to. To give yourself some kind of closure. So you can move on." Nikita chose her words carefully, but it was difficult. Emotion throbbed throughout her entire being, and she longed to hold Michael until things returned to normal. But unless they dealt with his sister and L'Heure Sanguine, things might never be normal again.

Michael laughed shortly. "You sound like Madeline. Psychspeak." Michael shook his head. "How can I move on, Kita? You don't ever get over losing your son, no matter what Operations said. And God knows, he said it often enough."

"Besides…if I saw him…" He frowned deeply, as if he were struggling for control once more. "…I might not be able to let him go again."

"Michael…" Nikita smoothed his hair back from his face, looking directly into his vivid green eyes. "What's the alternative? You can't bring him here."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Nikita repeated incredulously. "What kind of a life would he have here? You want to train your son to be a killer?"

"Nooo!" Michael spat.

"Then what? You want him to live here with us, in captivity? What kind of a life would that be?"

"What kind of a life does he have now, Kita?"

"I don't know. That's what we need to find out. Why he's with L'Heure Sanguine. Why Elena was killed. Whether or not there is a connection."

Suddenly Michael grabbed Nikita, burying his face in her hair. "You see why you should do this? Your mind is working much better than mine."

Her lips against his ear, she whispered, "I see that you're still in pain, Michael. If you really want me to help, let me love you. Now."

"There's no time."

"Make time." She stared at him, her heart in her eyes. "You need to know that I love you."

"I do."

"We need to strengthen the connection between us."

"It's never been stronger," he said hesitantly.

She moved closer, if that were even possible, and kissed him tenderly. "I want to make love to you."

"Here?" he asked in surprise. Though they once shared a few kisses on the Deck, they had never made love there.

Uncharacteristically indecisive, Michael said, "I was thinking we should wait…maybe…until this is all over."

"Until we can get married?" Nikita looked thoughtful.

"Yes," Michael answered tersely, vaguely relieved.

"Get someone up here now, Michael," she commanded.

"Someone?"

"Priest, rabbi, whatever it takes, Michael. Let's get married."

"Just like that, Kita?" Michael was stunned. After all these years, after all the postponed happiness life had dealt him…she was offering him everything he had ever wanted? Now?

"We've tried life apart. It didn't work. For either of us. If we want a future together, we need to do this. Now."

"Before you change your mind…"

"Before you change yours! You're so good at talking yourself out of what you want, Michael. You don't really believe you deserve what you want. But you do."

She sighed and placed her fingertips upon the mouth she ached to caress. "I love you, Michael. I won't give up until you give in."

Michael kissed her fingertips before grasping her hand in his. "Have I ever told you how much I love you, Kita?"

She shook her head. "Not in those words, no."

"I love you, my Kita. You are still the best part of me."

"Oh, Michael."

He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her greedily, as if he couldn't get enough of her. When the flurry of heartfelt kisses finally came to a fluttering end, Michael reached behind her and pressed a button.

"Birkoff?"

"Yes, Michael?"

"Get me a priest."

"Uhhh…jeez, Michael, I don't think we've ever captured a priest before." He laughed nervously. "Maybe Operations was afraid of someone, after all," he quipped, referring to God.

"Then find one." Michael re-focused his ardent gaze upon Nikita's face, claiming her mouth possessively.

"Wh-where?"

Nikita smiled, settling comfortably against Michael's body. "Try a church, Birkoff."