Michael closed his eyes and wrapped his arms tightly around Nikita's waist. It had been nearly two weeks since their magical night at the wishing bridge. He knew it was too soon to expect any positive results from a pregnancy test, but he couldn't stop himself from wishing and hoping. Sometimes he was convinced it was already true. In his heart of hearts, he believed that Nikita was carrying their third child even now…and he felt that curiously possessive pang inside. Mine.

Unconsciously tightening his grip around Nikita's waist even further, Michael felt her stir restlessly. "Mmm…"

"I love you, doucette," he breathed into her long pale hair. She smiled sleepily and clasped her hands over his, feeling their combined weight fit comfortably against her abdomen.

"Mmm…" she mumbled lovingly, too relaxed to come fully awake yet.

Michael pressed a kiss to her hair. "You can sleep late, Kita. You need your rest."

She stretched as much as she could within his embrace, feeling more like a lazy kitten than a grown woman with two would-be toddlers. "You take such good care of me, Michael."

He smiled against the nape of her neck, where he had brushed aside the hair with his nose. "You're low maintenance, my love."

She turned around to face him, a trace of her sleepy smile still lingering on her lips. She ran her fingers gently over his mouth, and he kissed her fingertips. "Are you saying I'm easily kept?"

He almost laughed. "More like a beautiful lioness who can only be tamed by the hand of someone she respects."

Her smile grew broader. "Are you saying I'm a sucker for respect, Michael?"

She ran her hand down his bare leg, lightly touching the edge of his groin. Feeling him respond instantly to her touch, she looked deeply into his eyes, which were even now darkening in color. "Is that what this is, a sign of respect?"

He groaned, trying vainly to rub himself against her, but she carefully kept herself just out of reach. She blinked innocently, fluttering her eyelashes at him. He finally caught the small of her back and pulled her into alignment with his lower body, and she gasped.

He slid his cheek next to hers, his tongue flicking out to lick her ear. "I do respect you, my Kita." He moved against her, teasing both of them into a fresh state of arousal. "But I mean to see that you get…everything…you deserve."

She closed her eyes as he kissed her. His fingers slipped easily under her hair, holding her, framing her for his kisses. Several moments passed, with the only sound being Michael's mouth repeatedly meeting, then tugging on hers, until her lips were quite swollen. When he eventually stopped his sensual assault on her, she sighed contentedly. "Mmm…I think I deserve more…"

He studied her, his green eyes suddenly serious, his gaze more intense than before. As if she sensed the change within him, she opened her eyes. "What is it, Michael?"

"You're still the only person in the world that I trust without question."

She felt her eyes grow wet. When she could speak again, her voice was smoky, heavy with emotion. "You make it sound like a declaration of love."

"It is."

She would have cried at the unspoken but defiantly strong emotion in Michael's voice, but he kissed her. He swallowed the soft noise she made in her throat, the look in his eyes now more affectionate than aroused. He reached out with his thumb and traced the line of her eyebrow. "You've given me so much, doucette. Things I dreamed…but you brought into being."

"That's how love works, Michael. Look at how much you've given me. Our lives. Our children. Our family. Alone, I never would have left Section, much less had any of those things."

He smiled faintly, the underlying emotion throbbing like a nerve in his cheek. "We were always good, you and me…but together, we were always better… We still are, doucette."

They kissed…as if they had all the time in the world before them. Maybe they did.

Declan slammed the last plate into the sink, very nearly breaking it. Birkoff raised an eyebrow at the noise it made, the clatter echoing throughout the near-empty kitchen. He grabbed the end of the dish towel and slapped Declan's back sharply. Declan whirled around, grasping the dish towel so quickly, Birkoff never had a chance to move away.

Declan pulled on the end of the dish towel and wrapped it around Birkoff's wrists, effectively trapping him. Held tightly against Declan's body, Birkoff was now unable to do anything more than stare helplessly. "Declan!"

Just as quickly as he trapped Birkoff, he released him. Declan's eyes were a dull shade of pewter grey. No tears visible. Just a seemingly chronic pain present. "You'd better leave me alone then," Declan said softly, appearing to answer a question as yet unspoken.

"I don't want to leave you alone, Dec. You're alone too much of the time now."

Declan winced, as if Birkoff had reminded him of something he wished he hadn't. "I know. Suits me fine," he bit off, turning away from his lover.

Birkoff wrenched Declan back by the shoulder. Declan merely glanced down at Birkoff's hand on his shoulder, as if to say, remove it or lose it. Birkoff sighed and stepped back, dropping his hand. "Declan, we have to talk about this…this residual tension…between you and Walter. There's nothing between Walter and me except years of friendship."

"I know that."

"Your head says you know, but you refuse to let it go. You're keeping me at arm's length these days, you're chilly in bed, and you're downright hostile anywhere else in the house. Does that sound about right?" Birkoff was at his wit's end. He thought that Declan and Walter had resolved their differences, but no. Declan was still far too angry. Walter was losing patience. And Birkoff, who only wanted to love both of them, albeit in vastly different ways, was stuck in the middle.

Birkoff touched Declan lightly on the arm, this time earning a fresh glare for his trouble. "Declan, talk to me!"

Declan shrugged silently and watched the water slowly filter down the drain. He stared at it, as if fascinated. "That's us," he said finally, "That's where we're headed, Sey."

When Birkoff touched Declan again, Declan stiffened in response, his shoulder a rock beneath Birkoff's hand. "Why? Why, Declan?" Birkoff was near tears now. "You're giving up on us? That's not like you. I don't want that. Neither do you."

"You don't know what I want, Sey." Declan's tone made Birkoff cringe inside. It was so cold. So hard.

"No one could ever replace you in my heart, Dec. No one." Birkoff bit his lip anxiously, waiting for some sort of answer from Declan. But none came.

A moment later, Walter poked his head through the door of the kitchen, very cautiously. "Hey, kids, I'm going to go out for a few odds and ends we need. Why don't you two try to work things out, huh?"

Walter meant well, he wanted to see peace restored to the house, and he missed the easy camaraderie amongst themselves. But what he said only fueled the fires of jealousy already blazing inside Declan's heart and entire being. "Why don't you just shut up, Walter? When I want your advice, I'll bloody well ask for it!"

It was hard to say who looked more shocked. Walter or Birkoff. Or Declan. Walter blinked without speaking another word and left, slamming the front door with a force that belied his age.

Now Declan's eyes filled with tears. Tears that threatened to spill down both cheeks, if he only gave them permission. "I'm sorry," he choked out, but it was unclear just who he was directing his apology to.

Birkoff's eyes blazed uncharacteristically. "You should be, Declan. I don't know you like this. And I don't think I like you very much right now." Birkoff spun on his heel and exited the kitchen, not unlike Walter.

Now Declan truly was alone.

Declan lay on his bed, alone, his arms wrapped tightly around his pillow. Lying on his stomach, he buried his face in the pillow and wept for his own apparent inability to transcend this situation. He was so overwrought, he never heard anything until it was too late.

Chris ambled into Declan's room, his bright hair more and more reminiscent of his mother, his dark blue eyes a shade unique to him. "Unca Dec?"

Declan's head came off the pillow with a start. His face was flushed, his cheeks stained with tears, tears he now swiped angrily at. "Chris!"

Before he could move, Chris reached out with his little hand and patted Declan's head. "Why you cry? You good boy. Like Chris. Mommy like."

Declan stared at his godson. That was more than Chris usually spoke in a month. Out of the mouths of babes.

Declan grabbed the toddler and hugged him fiercely. "God, I love you, Chris! Just as if you were mine!"

Chris smiled peacefully. He loved hugs. "Me an' you, good boys. No more cry."

Declan brushed the hair out of Chris' face. "Yes, Chris, you're a very good boy. And we all love you."

Chris' smile brightened. "You no cry no more?" Chris reached out and touched the tear stains on Declan's face with pudgy little fingers. "Face wet. Don' cry, Unca Dec. Me tell story?"

Declan smiled through new tears. His godson was so special, and he knew that Walter being his grandfather in no way diminished his own relationship with Chris, but sometimes, he felt that way. Like today. It wasn't just Birkoff who was spending all that time with Walter. It was Chris. And Faith. Declan felt like he was losing his family. It might be clear to his head what was really happening, but to his heart, it was inexplicable.

The phone rang insistently. Declan opened one eye and looked blearily in the direction of the phone. Chris lay fast asleep next to him. He told Declan a "magic story" that brought much-needed color back into Declan's face, and the restorative powers of a child worked their way into every fiber of Declan's being. They had fallen asleep on the bed, Chris because he was only a toddler, Declan because he was worn out from his earlier emotional storm. Now the phone rang. Again and again.

Wearily, Declan stood up and made his way to the phone. An hysterical female voice grated on Declan's ear. He held the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Slow down, I can't understand a word you're saying."

The voice repeated its message. Declan's hand went numb. All the color drained from his face all at once, and he lost his grip on the phone. It hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud. "Christ!"

It was Miranda.

Walter was seriously hurt.

Declan scooped up Chris and raced towards the front of the house, calling Birkoff's name. Birkoff was just coming in the front door when he saw Declan and Chris. Birkoff was holding Faith by the hand, but the little girl pulled her hand out of his grip and ran to Chris.

"Chris! Chris!" Faith called to her brother, reading anxiety in Declan's face but unsure if it was related to Chris. Chris merely blinked at his sister. Since he had just awakened from a long nap, he didn't know what was going on. Declan put Chris down and watched the little boy reassure Faith.

"Are you okay?" Faith asked in surprisingly fluent French.

"Bien, Fee," Chris replied, just as fluently.

The truth was, the twins' French was lightyears ahead of their grasp of English, and Declan was not sure of the reason. Sometimes he wondered if it were genetic, but more often than not, he thought it probably had more to do with motivation. They were both drawn to their father's charismatic way of speaking, and Declan suspected that even if Michael were not their father, the twins would struggle to please him.

Birkoff registered Declan's worry and immediately forgot about their earlier argument. "What? What's wrong, Declan?"

"It's Walter," Declan's voice cracked. "They just took him to the hospital, Sey."

Birkoff's mouth dropped open. "What happened?" he asked in a small voice.

"Dunno yet." Declan grimaced and said, "Look, I have to call Michael."

Michael wasn't asleep when Declan called. He was merely resting his eyes. After a long hard day outside, trying to get the renovations on the chateau up to speed, Michael often went without eating and simply collapsed in his favorite chair in the sitting room. If he was lucky, his wife would join him, and they would nap in each other's arms.

Today was Michael's lucky day. Nikita was already napping in the chair when he came in. So he shifted her over and lay his head against her heart, loving to hear her heartbeat beneath his ear. But he came fully awake when he heard the phone.

The first thing he noted was Declan's emotional state. He was incredibly upset. That was totally unlike Declan. When Michael sat up abruptly, he woke Nikita, who could only look on curiously. She mouthed, "Is it the kids?", and was relieved when Michael shook his head.

"We'll catch the first plane we can," Michael said, hanging up the phone.

He put his arm around Nikita and held her close. "I don't want you to worry, Kita, but—"

"What is it, Michael? I'm already scared!"

"It's Walter. They found him in the street—"

Nikita gasped. "Oh, God, no! No! Is he— ?"

Michael held onto Nikita's shoulders. "No, Kita. He's not dead. He's holding his own so far. Neil's with him. Miranda was already at the hospital when Walter was brought in."

Nikita began to cry softly. "Oh, Michael, if anything happens to him, I don't know what I'll do."

He pulled her into his arms, and Nikita lay her head on Michael's shoulder, her blue eyes bright with tears. "Michael?"

"Yes, love?"

"Take me with you when you go. I need to see him, just in case— just in…" She started to sob in earnest, and Michael couldn't bear the sound. He closed his eyes and rubbed her back repeatedly, almost as much to reassure himself as to soothe her.

"We'll pray for him, Kita, and God will take care of him. He's a good man." Michael's voice was soft but purposeful.

Walter was sleeping. Or so he thought. But there was a jackhammer attacking his brain. The pain was intense, so intense he thought he would lose consciousness. Then it vaguely occurred to him that perhaps he already had lost consciousness.

There were at least six of them. Walter counted them off, one by one. He had stormed out of the house and driven to the mall, initially intending to work off his frustrations by walking several times around its length. He found that it not only reduced stress, but it helped him maintain considerable muscle tone. He thought he was in pretty good shape for a man his age. His wife certainly seemed to appreciate that aspect.

He smiled inwardly, then his smile faded abruptly. Miranda. Where was Miranda? He could hear a woman alternately sobbing and shouting. That couldn't be his wife. His calm, collected, cool-in-a-crisis wife? Nahhhh….couldn't be.

He was walking towards the mall from the parking lot. Not a great distance. Not even dark yet. That's when he noticed the six young men approaching him. They didn't even seem to be targeting him, but he knew they were. They were all about the same age, roughly in their early twenties. No way to describe them. Nothing distinctive about any of them. No scars. No beards. No excessively long hair.

That's when it hit him. They were all dressed in black. One might even say, Mission Black. Walter's mind dismissed that as coincidental. Nothing unusual about wearing black, he thought. He remembered telling Birkoff once, there's no such thing as a coincidence, at least, not in Section. But this wasn't Section. This was the real world. No one knew they were still alive. Except for George. As far as he knew, no one had come looking for them yet, and they had been outside Section's confines for what? About two years, give or take a month or two.

"Assailants unknown," Neil reported to the policeman in the ER. "Multiple. He says at least six. All young. In good shape. No distinguishing marks. Suspicious, but…probably a random act of violence." Neil shrugged as the policeman nodded.

Walter struggled to listen, but it was hard to focus his mind on any one thing. Thoughts kept flitting across his mind, none staying long, none registering with any particular intensity but one. The leader. There was something about him that nagged at him. Not exactly familiar. Not like he was someone he remembered from the past. But more like someone who shared certain characteristics he recognized. That worried him. If Section knew where they were…if Section had sent those men after him…seeking a location on the rest of them…damn, he needed to be awake. Now.

Walter continued to struggle towards consciousness, but no one realized that fact for a very long time. Hellbent on saving his life, the medical team, under Neil's direction, concentrated on keeping him adequately perfused. "Let me know if his output drops any lower, I don't even want to see a hint of brain damage, is that understood?" Neil barked authoritatively.

Twin IV lines ran into each arm. Miranda stood in the doorway, restrained physically by two burly orderlies that Neil was forced to use. Neil had never seen Miranda in such a state. She was a naturally calm person, to begin with, and her training in critical care lent her a supernatural calm to perform expertly under incredible pressure. But not now. This was personal. This was her brand-new husband.

When Miranda had screamed that she wanted to take care of Walter herself, Neil realized that she was no longer capable of functioning on a professional level. He tried to explain to her that she would not be able to help Walter because she was too emotionally involved, but Miranda saw Neil's directive as cruel and unfeeling. Far from unfeeling, Neil felt responsible for making sure that Walter not only survived, but sustained the least damage possible. In response to Miranda's accusations, Neil ordered her off Walter's case and brought another nurse in to special-duty Walter, round-the-clock.

That should have reassured Miranda. Walter was getting the very best of care. She trusted Neil's judgment. She respected him as a doctor. She hated him right now.

He was keeping her from Walter's side. He was the enemy.

Michael opened the front door to the house, frowning when he didn't immediately see anyone. He waved Nikita inside, and she unconsciously slid her arm around Michael's waist when she joined him. There was something seriously wrong here.

"Michael?" Nikita's voice trembled despite her best efforts to control it. "Where are the kids?"

Michael paled. He was just about to bolt upstairs when Declan appeared, looking haggard and not at all well. "The kids are asleep upstairs. Didn't mean for you to worry, Nikita."

Nikita's eyes widened. "Declan, what happened?"

"Word has it that Walter was ‘mugged' by six gang members in the mall parking lot."

Michael studied Declan's facial expression and body language and came to his own conclusion. "You don't agree."

"Walter did a fair job of defending himself, Michael, but he was outnumbered. Anyone would have been. 6 to 1 odds make it bloody unlikely for the victim to escape. Someone wanted him. Badly."

Declan crossed his arms in front of his chest, standing with his feet braced apart, as if he were ready to move any second, if need be. Michael's green eyes flickered back and forth, considering. "You don't think it was random then?"

Declan's eyes changed from dull pewter to frosty light grey. "No. He was definitely the target. In my opinion."

Michael pinched the space above his nose. He didn't need a migraine right now. He shook his head as if to clear it. "Any leads?"

"Zero."

Nikita asked, "Where's Birkoff?" Declan visibly winced. "At the hospital, no doubt. By Walter's side, I imagine."

Nikita's eyes narrowed. "Is there trouble between you and Birkoff, Declan?"

Declan looked away, scrupulously avoiding Nikita's eyes, which saw far too much, as far as he was concerned. "I don't want to talk about it," he said softly but quite emphatically.

Michael glanced from his wife to Declan and back again. "Declan, I'm going to need your help investigating this."

Declan nodded. Nikita protested. "But Michael, I want to be in on this too."

"Ki-ta…we can't take the risk of leaving the children unprotected. You're their best defense."

"Then let Declan stay home and watch the kids, Michael."

Michael's eyes grew glacial. "Don't fight me on this one, Kita. I'm not risking your life either."

"But it's okay for you and Declan to risk yours?" Nikita started to cry as she realized just how serious Michael was about leaving her behind. She plucked futilely at his sleeve. "Mi-chael…I don't want to lose you. What if you don't come back?"

Nikita put her hand in her mouth in an effort to regain control of her runaway emotions, but it was ineffective. Her eyes watered furiously, turning her beautiful blue eyes into sodden periwinkles. "I love you…if you don't come back…"

Michael stared at her blankly. "You'll take the kids and run like hell, Kita. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she bit off tersely, unable to suppress a wave of bitterness at the casual way Michael assumed his former Section persona. Her face crumpled and she covered her mouth with her hand.

Michael glanced at Declan, who seemed more than a little disturbed by Nikita's display of emotion. He suspected that Declan was having his own problems trying to hold back rebellious emotions. Michael watched Nikita struggle valiantly for several seconds, then he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her cheek, then her ear. "I'm so sorry, Kita."

She buried her face in his neck, her tears wetting his throat, her sobs vibrating in his chest, her pain echoing through his heart. He managed to keep himself barely in check until…

Suddenly Nikita drew back, sniffling, swiping carelessly at her reddened eyes. "What if I'm pregnant?" she whispered hoarsely.

Michael's eyes blurred with tears. God wouldn't be so unfair…would He?

"Oh, God, doucette…"

Michael shuddered inwardly. She might be pregnant. That changed everything. His eyes glittered with the tears he refused to let fall. Why did he have the feeling that their very lives were being torn asunder?

Nikita brushed the last of the tears from her eyes. "Michael, I have to go see Dad now. Before anything else."

Michael nodded slowly. "Of course." He turned to Declan, who suddenly seemed to have realized that he might be leaving Birkoff behind the same way, judging from the anguished look on his unguarded face.

"Don't let anyone in. I don't care who it is or how much you think you trust them. No one comes in or goes out till we get back. Understood?"

Declan shifted restlessly in place. "Does that order include Birkoff?"

Michael looked surprised, then shook his head. "No," he replied, wondering why Declan even found it necessary to ask that question.

Walter wasn't awake yet. He was having wild, surrealistic dreams. Some of them were so bizarre, he wasn't even sure he could classify them as dreams and not nightmares. They all involved the men who assaulted him. No surprises there. But he kept seeing the leader of the group. His face? His mannerisms? There was something about him he just could not place, but his mind was working furiously on figuring it out.

Miranda was finally allowed into his room in the ICU, but she was under strict orders not to disturb him in any way. Her face obviously tear-stained and blotchy from crying, Miranda crept to Walter's side and sat down quietly. She picked up his hand and held it to her cheek. He felt so cool to the touch. Was he warm enough? She fussed over re-adjusting the blankets, feeling fresh tears come to her eyes, knowing she was dangerously close to losing control. "Oh, Walter…I love you so much."

She bent her head, in an effort to kiss his cheek, and one of her tears fell onto his face. He moved involuntarily. She gasped. "Walter!" She stood up suddenly, backing up towards the door of the room, shouting Neil's name.

Neil came running on the double. "What, Miranda? What is it?"

Miranda held a hand over her mouth. "He's coming to, Neil. He's not as deeply unconscious as before. He moved a moment ago."

Neil regarded the older woman with kindness and compassion. She was seeing things through the eyes of a woman in love, not those of the trained healthcare professional she was. "Miranda…that's just a reflex. It doesn't mean there is no damage. It doesn't mean he is capable of responding on a higher cognitive level than before."

Miranda set her mouth mutinously, alarmed at the depth of negative feeling Neil's words engendered. "I know the difference between woman's intuition and an educated guess, Neil. I've been in the medical field more years than you've been alive."

She leaned into Neil's face, so closely and so threateningly, he almost took a step back. "My gut instinct says that Walter is coming back. He needs me by his side, Neil. Love is a powerful motivator, and you know it."

Neil nodded, acknowledging the truth of Miranda's statement. It was true, up to a point. Sometimes people came back for inexplicable reasons. Sometimes people's emotions were strong enough to compel them to overcome life-threatening medical injuries. But love couldn't heal everything…and he had a feeling that Miranda was merely in such denial, she was grasping at straws.

Neil took Miranda outside the room, reluctant to say anything that Walter might still be capable of overhearing. "Miranda…" He clasped her hands in his, his blue eyes filled with compassion. "I like Walter myself. I want him to pull through this. More than you know. But we both need to face the fact that he might not make it."

"No!" Miranda cried out, whirling around and stepping directly into the path of Nikita.

Nikita was so stunned at the change in Miranda, since she had last seen her, she nearly collapsed. As it was, Michael was the only thing supporting her. Her legs were too weak.

"Is it Dad? Is he— ?" Nikita couldn't bring herself to say the word. Not about Walter.

Neil shouted, "No!". Then he said, more softly, "No, Nikita, he's not dead." He glanced warningly at Miranda before continuing. "And with any luck, he will survive. But there is always the chance that he might not."

Nikita started to cry, and Michael held her, his own feelings less obvious but just as deep. "Neil, is Birkoff here?"

Neil nodded. "He was, till a few moments ago. I think he headed home to pick up some of Walter's belongings. You must have just missed each other."

Nikita played with her wedding ring until she felt Michael's hands close over hers. He kissed her tenderly, whispering, "I'm here with you, doucette, I won't let you go through this alone."

She smiled her thanks. Neil escorted them inside the tiny room, and the noise startled Nikita. All the lights and beeps and clicks and pops. How did anyone rest? Or get better? She saw a young woman dressed in scrubs, sitting in a corner of the room. She poked Neil to get his attention. "Who's that?"

Neil smiled. "Not to worry. Miranda wanted to take care of Walter herself, but she's too close to him. So I called in a favor and got Cheryl here to special-duty Walter."

"Is she good?" Nikita asked anxiously.

"The best. Miranda trained her."

That relieved Nikita's mind, and when Nikita relaxed, Michael allowed his hypervigilance to cycle down a level or two. For the time being.

Nikita moved to Walter's side, unable to prevent a small cry from escaping her lips when she first saw him. "Oh, he looks so fragile. That's not…"

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and he stirred restlessly, as if he knew her touch. "Look, Neil! He knows it's me!"

Neil knew he should repeat his earlier explanation, but he couldn't bring himself to dash Nikita's hopes just yet. There was always the off chance that she might be right.

Birkoff let himself into the house quietly, almost hoping that he wouldn't see Declan. He didn't trust himself to maintain any kind of control right now. Emotions were running high.

But Declan came out of the shadows that hid him from casual view. Birkoff was so surprised, he yelled. "What the— ?"

"Now what, Declan?" Birkoff asked rhetorically. "You're playing Section games in the house?"

Declan holstered his gun in the back of his black leather pants. "Not a game, Birkoff. We dunno who did this to Walter yet, but we know one thing. It was no accident."

"Are your ears filled with mashed potatoes, Declan? I told you, Walter said he was mugged at the mall, just before he lost consciousness."

"Aye, I heard you, Birkoff."

"Stop calling me that. Why are you calling me that, anyway?" He frowned at Declan.

"Just trying to keep things…professional."

"Professional?" Birkoff laughed harshly. "Oh, yeah, you're the first gunslinger I'd want on my team, you—"

Declan's eyes, already a stormy grey, grew even colder. "What were you going to call me?"

"Not what you think, Declan."

"You don't know what I think."

"I think I do." Birkoff moved towards the kitchen, looking over his shoulder as he walked. Declan followed, at a distance.

Birkoff grabbed a container of milk and drank, wiping his mouth on his sleeve afterwards. Declan was watching him. Not with suspicion. But with a longing he could barely disguise.

"Don't even go there, Dec."

Declan dropped his eyes immediately, somewhat stunned at the role reversal they had undergone. Declan was at Birkoff's mercy. "I'm yours to command," Declan said sarcastically.

Birkoff couldn't hold onto his anger any longer. "This is all your fault, Declan. Walter left the house because we were fighting. Like we have been for the past two weeks."

"It takes two to have an argument, Birkoff."

"Dammit, Declan! I told you to stop calling me that!" Birkoff's eyes glittered dangerously, but Declan wasn't afraid. Not of his lover's anger. What he was afraid of was far more deadly. That Birkoff would withdraw his love. That he would have to leave the family. Be alone again. Without…love. Without…him.

"You blame me." It was a statement, not a question, and they both knew it.

Birkoff nodded without speaking.

Declan didn't cry. Or cajole. Or do anything that might have indicated what his true feelings were at that moment. "So…if Walter dies…what then?"

Birkoff gave a tiny cry of pain. This time, Declan nodded without speaking.

Declan turned away from Birkoff. "I'm going out with Michael later. To see if we can find out who did this to Walter." His voice sounded dispassionate. Not a shred of the emotion that was tearing up his insides.

He glanced at Birkoff, wanting to memorize each feature, but knowing there was simply no time. "If for some reason, I don't make it back—"

Birkoff stared at Declan in abject despair, but Declan never saw him. He was already out the door. He couldn't bear to look into those dark eyes he loved and see something else reflected back.