When they removed his blindfold, he blinked as his tired eyes tried to adjust to their new surroundings. "Where am I?"

"I wouldn't ask too many questions if I were you," Birkoff cautioned.

"Why?"

Birkoff sighed. "See? Some people just can't take direction."

"Are you in charge here?" The other man looked lost. Searching for logic in an insane world.

Birkoff grinned. "Why, yes. How…observant of you to notice."

Michael entered the room a moment later, and the man's eyes flickered from Birkoff to Michael and back again. Birkoff couldn't tell from Michael's expression if he was happy or not. The mask had been carefully re-applied. "Are we ready?" Michael asked.

Birkoff nodded. "Yep. This is the priest," he said unnecessarily.

Birkoff could have sworn a faint smile crossed Michael's lips. Just for a second. Then it was gone.

"I guessed," Michael said tersely. "Let's go."

Michael grabbed the priest by the arm and began to escort him to the Deck. The priest gave Birkoff a funny look, as if to say, you lied, you little weasel, if I wasn't a priest, I'd get even.

The air was tense when they arrived on the Deck. Birkoff, deciding his usefulness was at an end, started to leave, but Michael halted his exit. "Birkoff…"

"Yeah?"

"I…uh…need a witness."

"Me?" Birkoff squeaked. He looked both thrilled and scared. Being witness to anything in Section was never really a good thing.

Suddenly Nikita appeared. She almost flowed onto the Deck. It was hard work, but she managed to find a white dress in the land of Mission Black. Granted, it was off-white, and it was leather, but the color augmented Nikita's natural beauty, and the material was buttery-soft. Almost like touching her skin.

Michael turned and saw her…and his breath froze in his throat.

As if she knew the picture she made standing there, she stopped and enjoyed the look of astonishment on Birkoff's face. "Birkoff? You want to be Best Man or give me away?" Nikita asked with a rakish grin.

"I-I…" Birkoff glanced helplessly at Michael. "Ummm…" Birkoff suddenly lowered his gaze to his hands, wringing them nervously. "I wish…Walter was here."

Michael amazed both of them by saying, "Me, too."

The priest took out his vestments and prepared for the wedding ceremony. "Are you ready?" he asked Michael, indicating the sooner they began, the sooner he could be on his way.

Michael turned to Nikita and held out his arm for her to grasp. The charged look that passed between the two was so heated and yet so tender, the priest smiled, some of his anxiety about the appropriateness of being spirited away to perform an impromptu wedding melting away.

"Do you have the ring?" the priest asked innocently, unaware of the consternation he might cause.

"The ring!" All the blood drained from Michael's face. Nikita promptly violated every known propriety of the ritual by pressing closer to Michael and snuggling under his chin. "It doesn't matter, Michael."

"It does," he whispered harshly. "God, how could I forget something so—"

"Michael?" Birkoff interjected cautiously. These were his two favorite people in the whole world, except for Walter. He hoped they wouldn't mind hearing what he was going to say. Sometimes interference had the unexpected side effect of getting you killed.

Michael stared abjectly at Birkoff. "What?" he rasped.

"I have something you can use."

"Birkoff, I don't think—" Michael protested.

"Michael, listen," Nikita said. "Go on, Birkoff."

Birkoff's dark eyes gleamed with gratitude. "Wait here." He left the Deck at a breakneck pace and returned mere minutes later, holding out a small box.

Michael opened the box slowly, unprepared for the sight of the two simple gold wedding bands nestled together. Reaching out to touch them, Michael's eyes opened wide as he suddenly recognized them. "Birkoff, these are—"

"Yeah. I know."

"How did you—"

Birkoff shrugged. "I have my ways. A guy's gotta have some secrets."

Nikita looked over Michael's shoulder and gasped. "Michael!"

A huge lump in his throat threatened to choke Michael's next words, but somehow, he managed to say, "Here. This one is yours." He waited expectantly, hoping Nikita would hear the echoes of their past in those words.

All at once, Nikita smiled, but he could see the tears that clung to her eyelashes. Holding out an unsteady ring finger, Nikita tried to focus on the increasingly blurry spot that was Michael's face. Slowly, his bright green eyes never leaving hers, Michael slid the wedding band onto her finger.

It was a perfect fit. How that could be possible, he didn't know. But he believed that the miracle that had just occurred was no coincidence. God knew Michael had little faith left. But what he did have resided completely within Nikita and her good heart.

He touched his lips tenderly to the ring, then to her finger. "I love you."

That Michael would declare his love, in front of God, the priest, and Birkoff, who seemed to be in the throes of ecstasy right now, well, it not only spoke of the great love that survived these many years. it was a testament to faith, will, determination.

By rights, neither of them should still be alive or willing to love again.

But then, there had never been anyone like Michael or Nikita before in the history of love.

"I now pronounce you…husband and wife. You may…kiss the bride."

Nikita's lips curved into a smile, the likes of which Michael had never seen. "That'd be me," she said, identifying herself. She was ready for this moment.

Hell, she'd been ready for this moment from what seemed like the day she'd found herself thrown into the White Room, fighting for her life, cast opposite a tall, enigmatic stranger with a compelling charisma she could not resist.

Michael seemed to be in a trance. He could not move if his life depended on it. Nikita…thorn in his side Nikita…sweet, spirited Nikita…was finally his wife. All at once, he thought he might cry. In front of people both familiar and strange.

Because the God he no longer believed in…had just blessed him with his most fervent wish.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making my life finally mean something," Michael whispered hoarsely.

"Oh, Michael, you don't mean that," she automatically protested. Surely his marriage to Elena and the subsequent birth of their son Adam had meaning beyond normal comprehension.

"I do," he said, his voice sounding as if it were ripped from the very depths of his being. "When I married Elena…" he closed his eyes in memory of that sweet soul, so recently departed, "…it wasn't my choice."

Nikita stirred restlessly in Michael's arms, suddenly embarrassed to be naked in her own husband's embrace. He stilled her restive movements by tightening his grip on her. Now that he had her, he would never let go. Didn't she know that? Couldn't she feel it?

"Of course Adam means something to me," he said, seemingly divining the reason for her discomfiture without words. He soothed Nikita, stroking her long pale hair. "But again…it was not my choice to bring him into this world."

Nikita's heart tightened painfully. She pressed her lips to the base of his throat, trying to convey just how well she understood his conflicted feelings.

"But once he was here, you loved him, as much as any father possibly could, Michael."

"As much as Section would allow," he continued, absently threading his fingers through her hair. "I was barely there for him, Kita, and now I'm reaping the results of those lost years."

"It wasn't your fault, Michael."

He closed his mouth on a sob, refusing to let it escape. "I should have found a way, Kita. I should have done something."

She looked up to see the unshed tears brimming in his beautiful green eyes, and as he made eye contact with her, she touched her fingertip to one of his eyelids, forcing the tears to spill down one cheek. They stared at one another intently until Nikita gently swiped at his cheek with one hand. When her hand was wet with Michael's tears, she rubbed it across her own face, as if she could somehow absorb his pain that way. Her own tears traced a silvery trail down her face, and suddenly their tears were intermingled. Together. They were finally, and completely, together. At last.

"There was nothing you could do, Michael. How could one man stand against the machine that is Section? If you had done something…" She stopped, overcome by her own, most heartfelt emotions.

"You would have died," she finished huskily. "Tell me how your death would have helped Adam."

"At least it would have meant something," he said bitterly.

"But what would happen to Adam? With you and Elena both gone?"

Michael's face was anguished. He pulled Nikita closer, burying his face in her hair. "You know what I regret most? That we never had a child."

This was so close to the deepest, most secret pain Nikita held in her heart that, at first, she could not speak. "Michael," she said, the very words tearing open old wounds, "we couldn't. Section wouldn't even sanction us being together."

"When Operations was running things, yes. But when I took over, Kita…oh, God, why wouldn't you marry me then?" She felt his hot tears trickle down the side of her neck, and she knew just how much her earlier refusals had hurt him.

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him the way she would have held their child. An arrow of pain pierced her heart, so sharp, it should have drawn blood. "I'm sorry, Michael, I'm so sorry."

He pulled away from her suddenly, gulping for air, his features strangely animated, his eyes moss-green with pain. "We have to save Adam, Kita. He's out there, alone and confused. He needs us."

You need him, Nikita's heart translated. "You know I'll do whatever I can, Michael."

"Will you, Kita? Will you?" Michael's eyes flickered wildly across her face, as if they were searching for something.

"Michael, this isn't about bringing Adam back here, is it? We talked about this. Remember?"

"You said we couldn't bring him into Section. I agreed. That's not what I'm suggesting."

"Then what are you suggesting, Michael?"

"That we bring him home. That we be a family." Michael strummed his fingers across Nikita's cheek, and she unconsciously leaned into his hand.

"That you be his mother."

"Michael…" Nikita lay her head on her new husband's chest, listening to his heart beat. It should have soothed her. It always did. But not now. Not when he was contemplating the worst.

"I don't want to…lose you," she added, her fingers toying restlessly with his chest hair.

"You have so little faith in me?" He didn't reproach her. He didn't dare. He knew what the odds were. They both did.

"No!" she said sharply. Then, in a calmer, cooler tone, she continued, "But if she really has changed…if she's got Adam…"

"There is no other way, Kita. God hasn't seen fit to give me much. But what he has given me…my son…and you…I won't let anyone take away."

"Maybe she doesn't know, Michael. Maybe she has no idea who Adam is."

"Maybe it would make a difference?" Michael shook his head. "I would like to believe that, Kita, but…the realist in me sees it all…much too clearly for that to be true."

Nikita sighed, burrowing her head beneath Michael's chin. "If it comes down to him or you, Michael…"

"Don't say that!" Michael pressed a fervent kiss to her hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

"But it could, couldn't it?"

His harsh intake of breath said it all. Of course, it could come down to that, Nikita. It was that very fact that was tying his stomach into knots as if he were a brand-new operative, prepping for his first mission.

"No contest, Kita," he whispered, his lips quite numb.

She sat up and stared at him, uncaring that she was naked. Her face was ashen. "What does that mean? Michael? What does that mean?"

He looked intently into her anguished sapphire eyes. "I have to save Adam," he whispered brokenly.

"Nooo…" she wailed, burying her face against the side of his neck. "You have to come back to me. You have to," she kept repeating, barely above a whisper. She pounded on his chest with clenched fists, but there was too much sorrow and too little strength behind them for genuine pain.

He pulled her against him, her restive movements eventually growing weaker and weaker. He could tell she was crying, though she made no sound. Her tears flowed hot against his skin, and he wanted to join her.

They had been given so little time together. He didn't want it to be over any more than she did. But some things were inevitable.

But just because they were inevitable didn't mean he wouldn't go down without a fight. Sister or no sister…it would not go down easy.

Birkoff handed Michael his panel. Personally. The gravity of the situation was not lost on any of them. Birkoff had been given orders. Orders to be carried out in the event of Michael's failure to return.

Oh, Hell, he could say it. At least in his head. Death. In the event of Michael's death.

Birkoff grimaced involuntarily, not quite quick enough to banish the look before Michael noticed. "Not you, too?"

"What do you want me to say, Michael?" Birkoff asked huskily. "We've been working together for what? Over twenty years now?"

Michael gave the head of Comm a faint smile that never reached his eyes. "So you're saying you care about what happens to me?"

Birkoff's dark eyes flashed momentarily with anger, then pain. "Hell, no, Michael. I just don't wanna break in somebody new at this point in my goddamned life."

Michael sighed. "I care about you, too, Birkoff," the tall, black-clad operative said softly.

Birkoff's eyes filled with unshed tears, their expression strictly forbidden. He clasped the older man's hand in a tight grip. "Take care of yourself, Michael."

"I'll do my best."

When he approached Van Access, Michael was dismayed to note that Nikita was lying in wait for him. "Kita…no. You're not going with me."

"You need me, Michael."

"Yes, I need you. I need you alive. I need you to be here for Adam in case I…" Even he couldn't finish that sentence.

"Is that the only reason?"

"No," he said, a puff of breath betraying the strong emotion he was suppressing with great effort. "I need to know that you'll survive my…"

"You can't say it either, Michael. Can you? Death! Your death! Goddamn you! You're gonna go out there and put yourself between your sister and a bullet to save Adam, aren't you?"

"Ki-ta." He grabbed her shoulders with both hands, feeling a strong urge to shake her, but knowing in his heart of hearts, he couldn't blame her. His hands suddenly gentled on her shoulders, his fingers rubbing, stroking her through the material of her mission jacket.

One lone tear made its way down Nikita's face. Heartbreak was etched into every part of her face. "Do you remember telling me…you couldn't live without me, Michael?"

His heart sank. She was summoning every weapon at her command to vanquish him.

"Well, I can't live without you either," she whispered.

"What are you trying to tell me, Kita?" He was all too afraid he knew.

"If you don't come back…" Nikita swiped at her face with one finger. "I'll follow you…wherever you go, Michael."

"Even to Hell?" Michael figured a man with as many sins as he had upon his soul would surely go to Hell.

Nikita bit her lip and gave her husband a watery smile. "Already been there. Highly overrated."

"God, I love you," he whispered before claiming her mouth possessively. They kissed over and over again, their mouths alternately hard and soft, and eventually, even the tears they were so reluctant to shed intermingled.

"Let me come with you. Be your back-up."

Michael shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"Please…you're all I have, Michael," she begged.

He kissed the side of her face one last time, rubbing his cheek against hers as if loath to let her go. "Goodbye, my heart."

When she opened her eyes to protest, he was gone.

Nikita slipped her suddenly too cold hands into a pair of black leather gloves. She wouldn't let Michael sacrifice himself this way. If he refused to allow her to ensure his survival, she would just have to do things her way.

Pressing a finger to the space in front of her ear, she said in a low voice, "Birkoff? Can you hear me okay?"

"Yep. Now stay on 'B' channel. Michael's on 'A'."

"Gotcha."

Nikita nodded imperceptibly to Davenport. He slid a finger along the side of his nose, acknowledging her signal.

Davenport had taken Michael's place in the field. He and Nikita often worked side by side, and their friendship had clearly strengthened over the long, hard years. In truth, Davenport both admired and envied Michael. Admired, because he considered Michael to be one of the most impressive field operatives Section had ever turned out. Envied, because Michael had Nikita.

Davenport never confessed that his feelings for Nikita were far more than friendship. She wouldn't welcome such an admission. Her love for Michael was a living, breathing thing that anyone could sense the moment they saw her face. So he kept his own counsel. He watched her back. And while he would never voluntarily give up his life, such as it was, he would do virtually anything she asked.

Keeping Michael in their sights, they carefully maintained surveillance without making any overt moves to join him. But their tension mounted as the trio approached the meeting site.

Suddenly, Michael was face to face with his longlost sister. Marie-Ange. A face like an angel. But her heart? Who could say? Was she really L'Heure Sanguine?

All at once, Michael was nineteen again. A University student leaving his baby sister behind. "Marie…" he ventured softly.

"Michel." Her tone was cold, her body language almost rigid.

"Is it true?" he whispered.

"Is what true?" she countered.

A muscle twitched in Michael's cheek, the only sign that he was under pressure. "That you're with L'Heure Sanguine." That you're a terrorist. That you have my son. My only child. Hostage.

"Yes," she said tersely, sounding like Michael had once. Long, long ago.

"Why?" he couldn't prevent himself from asking. A small noise escaped him, and it became clear that he was not the same as that earnest nineteen-year-old student. Things were so black and white then. Never grey. Now he lived in the land of grey. He could not see things any other way.

"You left me, Michel. My only brother. But you left me…because of the cause." She sounded bitter.

"Not because of the cause, Marie. Because I—"

"Died. Yes, Michel. You let me think you were dead."

"I didn't." Michael was surprised at the intensity of his rage after all this time. It was so unfair. His mistakes were his own. He admitted that. But Section, Section had not only co-opted his death, but stolen his life as well.

"When you died," she emphasized the word with a sneer, "part of me died, too. The part that gave a damn."

"Rene raised you. Gave you a good life. He loved you and cared for you as if you were his own sister," Michael protested.

"Ha…" Marie snorted derisively. "He raised me, all right. He raised me on propaganda and pamphlets and leaflets and marches. He gave me a good life, too. Making bombs. Teaching me how to shoot a gun. This gun." Marie raised the barrel of her gun and aimed it at Michael's chest.

From her well-concealed vantage point, Nikita despaired. Michael was taking all of this in, but he wasn't showing any signs of pulling out his own weapon. No matter what he was thinking, that wasn't wise. That was when she knew. Self-preservation was never a particularly high priority with Michael, and under the right circumstances, she had no doubt that he would in fact sacrifice himself to save someone else. He thought everyone but him had value.

The tall brunette woman strode slowly toward Michael, gun in hand. "And as for love…he hardly treated me like a sister, Michel. He was my lover by the time I was 14."

Michael closed his eyes on a wave of pain so intense, he thought he would pass out. His sister. Rene. Rene lied to him. The man who claimed honor where Michael had none.

"So you'll forgive me if I don't have that old family feeling for you anymore, brother." She cocked the gun with an audible click. Michael kept his eyes closed, never betraying with so much as a tic that he heard.

"Open your eyes, Michel. I want to see your face when—"

"Where is my son?" Michael asked, ignoring her command.

"Your what?" Marie-Ange frowned and lowered her gun. This was new intel. If she had Michael's son, she wasn't aware of it. And if she did, this was leverage too good not to use.

"My son. Adam." Michael opened his eyes, and startling emerald fire blazed forth.

It didn't pay to admit weakness. It didn't pay to admit that there were things that you didn't know. Just as she was deciding how to best answer Michael, she felt the hair raise on the back of her neck.

Someone was behind her.

Someone unfriendly.

Someone dangerous.

Michael's eyes narrowed, focusing on something or someone to her rear. She followed the shift in his eyes and half-turned, coming face to face with…

"Adam."

The tall eighteen-year-old clicked the safety off his gun. The gun that was pointed at his aunt. Hearing Michael's voice, the boy swung the gun in his direction.

"Hi, Dad."