Michael cried in Nikita's arms, and for that, she was grateful. She kissed the tears that fell, their saltiness on her tongue a reminder of Michael's gift to her. That it was but a mere unbending of Michael's iron-clad control she did not doubt. This was only a hint of the full-blown storm yet to come. But they would both be stronger for its passage through their lives.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, their hands reaching and touching and stroking. "I'm glad you understand why the dream was so upsetting, Michael."

"How could I not, doucette? For me, you and our family are everything. To have any part of that taken away…" He closed his eyes, the first stabbing pains of a migraine making their presence known.

The moment Michael pinched the space above his nose, Nikita knew. She rubbed gently at the spot he touched, and he opened his eyes, now dull with pain. "I'll get a cold cloth for your head, Michael. Do you want me to ask Neil for something?"

He started to shake his head, then winced at the pressure it produced inside his head. "I'm sure it won't last long, Kita."

"The last time you went all stoic on me, Michael, your headache lasted almost four days," she contradicted.

He sighed and rolled onto his back. "I'll be fine."

"It's not a crime to accept help, Michael."

"I just need more sleep. We both do." The look he gave her was so touching, it spoke straight to her heart. He'd had enough for now. He couldn't push himself any further, he was afraid he would break.

She smiled softly before she leaned over and kissed his forehead. "I'll go get the cloth then."

Madeline did not give up easily. Noted for her tenacity, albeit in a quiet and perhaps more underhanded manner, Madeline often found unique ways of dealing with complicated situations and even more complicated people.

If she could not be with her daughter right now, she would accept that. For now. But there were other people who needed her. Neil was right. She needed to see Declan. To talk. To explain. To beg his forgiveness.

After sending Neil back to check on Connor, Madeline knocked tentatively at Declan's door. No answer. Realizing that neither Declan nor Birkoff had been seen for some hours now, she began to fret. At first, she thought that no one was inside, and she was about to start looking in another part of the chateau when she heard a sound. Muffled. Low. But definitely voices.

She knocked again. No answer. But the low noises stopped. She tried the doorknob, and she was amazed that it was unlocked. Pushing open the door slowly, she advanced into the room. There was no one there. She frowned. This was a puzzle.

Then she saw the bathroom door was closed. Loath to disturb anyone in the privacy of their own bathroom, she turned to go, but suddenly a voice called out. It was Birkoff.

"Hey! Whoever is out there! Could you please get Madeline? I need help…with Declan."

She opened the door, uncertain who was more surprised, her or Birkoff. Birkoff blinked at her with unhappy dark eyes. "Help me, please."

That was when she realized that Birkoff could not move. He had been sitting in one position for so long, his legs had gone numb. Truth was, he couldn't feel his arms either. He had been holding Declan equally as long.

"Is he…all right?" Madeline inquired softly.

Birkoff glared at her. "What do you think?"

"You're angry with me."

"I'm just plain angry, Madeline. That's all." Birkoff sniffled.

"And worried about Declan?"

"I am…very worried…about Declan." Birkoff's voice was almost inaudible, yet it held considerable pain.

She held out her hand to Birkoff, who looked frustrated. "How can you pull me up without disturbing Declan? Look, maybe we need a couple of people."

Madeline studied Birkoff. He was hanging by a thread. Separating him from Declan might be the straw that broke the camel's back. "Can you let go of Declan for a moment?"

"No, Madeline. I can't. I might never let go of him again."

Madeline accepted that statement at face value. "I see." She reached out and touched Declan. She was understandably upset. He was more than asleep. He was unconscious.

Madeline knelt on the floor and held Declan's limp body in her arms. "Noooo!" she cried out. It was too much for her. It was like seeing him dead. Her worst nightmare, fully realized.

Pressing her lips to Declan's temple, she wept softly. Birkoff couldn't believe his eyes. "Madeline! I've never seen you cry! Ever!"

Madeline's beautiful dark eyes gleamed wetly. "Birkoff…how long has Declan been like this?"

"Less than an hour. Do you think he's going to be all right?"

Madeline grasped Birkoff's hand and squeezed it. "I hope so, Birkoff."

Birkoff's eyes slid shut, and he began to chant feverishly. "He's gotta be okay, he's gotta be okay…"

She reached out and tapped Birkoff sharply on the wrist. "He will be."

Birkoff glanced at her briefly before going back to chanting. Madeline struggled to pull Declan to his feet, but he was dead weight. With Madeline's help, Birkoff finally managed to stand. As the pins and needles sensations surged into his legs and arms, he realized that he couldn't think beyond what happened to Declan. Nothing else mattered.

Together, they managed to get Declan out of the bathroom and onto the bed. Still he didn't wake. Madeline snapped at Birkoff, "Go get Neil and Miranda!"

But Birkoff didn't move. "No."

"No?" she said incredulously.

"Go get them yourself. This isn't Section, and I don't work for you, Madeline. I swore that I wouldn't leave Declan, and I meant it."

"I'm sure Declan wouldn't hold you to that under these circumstances, Birkoff."

"Go to Hell, Madeline! You don't care anything about what happens to Declan! He trusted you and you lied to him!" Birkoff was crying, even as he shouted, but he didn't care.

"I didn't. That's what I came to tell him. Let me explain."

"I don't want to hear it, Madeline! I love Declan, and the only thing I care about right now is him!"

"But Birkoff, I love him, too!" Madeline protested.

"Not like I do! No one loves him like I do!" Birkoff fell onto the bed, next to where Declan lay unmoving on his back. He rubbed his cheek against Declan's arm, his silvery tears trickling onto Declan's skin, wetting it thoroughly.

Madeline knew when she was beaten. She left the room to get Neil and Miranda. She was convinced that Declan needed medical attention…and stupidly, she had just wasted precious minutes arguing with Birkoff.

When he was alone again with Declan, Birkoff despaired, at the mercy of his own worst enemy, his overactive imagination. "I swear I'll make it up to you, Declan, if you just come back to me. Please. I love you so much."

"I love you, too. But the offer sounds too interesting to pass up. What did you have in mind?"

Birkoff jumped back a foot and nearly fell off the bed. "Declan!"

"In the flesh. I think." Declan struggled to get up, but Birkoff pushed him back down onto the bed. Gently.

"How do you feel?"

"Like a truck ran over me. No, make that several trucks. All driven by Englishmen with no bloody sense of direction."

He held his head, as if it hurt. Birkoff hesitantly touched his forehead. "Do you have a headache?"

"Sorta. Light-headed, too."

"Madeline went to get Neil. She thinks there's something wrong with you."

"Well, of course, there's something wrong with me. There's something wrong with all of us. We all nearly got killed last night. Why is that such a hard concept for everyone to grasp?" Declan looked at Birkoff as if he'd given him much more credit than the others, and he was disappointed.

"No, Declan, she said there was something physically wrong with you."

"Oh…did I pass out?"

"Yeah."

"Go get me some juice or an orange. I need sugar. That's all." Declan felt much better now that he was back in bed. He imagined he would sleep for a week.

"You're diabetic?"

"No, just hypoglycemic. My sugar gets a bit low from time to time. But I usually don't have a problem cause I'm constantly nibbling in the kitchen."

Birkoff burst into a beatific smile. "You're all right then?"

"That's for damn sure." Birkoff handed Declan a stack of Oreo cookies he'd been saving for a special occasion. "Will these work?"

Declan bit into a chocolate-y cookie and smiled. "Aye, love." He crunched a few more bites. "Were you very worried then?"

Birkoff shook his head unconvincingly, then nodded briskly. Declan saw the dried traces of tears on Birkoff's cheeks and asked, "Are all these for me then?"

Birkoff didn't even try to hide what he felt. "I wouldn't leave you, even when Madeline ordered me to go for help. I swore I wouldn't leave you, Dec, and I won't."

"That might make it a bit cramped using the bathroom, but okay…"

Birkoff kissed Declan, and Declan's arms automatically wrapped themselves around him. "Mmm…I can tell you missed me…"

The door wasn't locked. And Madeline was in her imperious, we-must-get-things-done-right-away mode. Madeline swooped into the room, followed by Neil and a very sleepy Miranda.

Everyone stared at everyone else.

Declan shot Madeline an interesting look and said, "This must be the cavalry. But as you can see, I'm…ahem…just fine." Birkoff tried to back away from Declan's embrace, but Declan held him fast.

"As you can see, I've been revived by a cookie. And a little TLC. Any questions? I wasn't expecting an audience, but…"

Miranda shrugged. "Damnedest thing I've ever seen. Eating cookies in bed. Thanks for the wake-up call, Maddy."

Madeline actually blushed. Neil held out his arms for a hug, and Madeline gratefully took him up on his offer.

"Uh, could you take that somewhere else, please?"

Madeline looked at Neil and smiled. "Gladly."

Explanations could wait until later. Declan's defenses were clearly intact and in force. Cheeky devil that he was.

Miranda stalked into the bathroom and lightly closed the door. After she began to brush her teeth, she heard her husband's voice through the door. "Honey, what was so all-fired important that Maddy had to wake you up in the middle of the night?"

"Declan was eating cookies in bed," she stated flatly.

"Nooo…was he really? Why, he ought to be reported. Who handles that anyway? Would that be the Cookie Patrol?"

Miranda grinned and a blob of toothpaste fell into the sink.

Many hours passed before anyone resurfaced. Some slept. Some made love as if the end of the world was at hand. Some did both.

Due to the unusual circumstances that had brought them here in the first place, those who were new to the chateau had no idea of the usual routine. Those who were not new to the chateau could have enlightened them. There was no routine, and no one who lived there would have dared to apply the word ‘usual' to any of them.

Madeline cleared her throat as she approached the kitchen. Someone seemed to be inside. She was hungry. While she was not averse to the idea of cooking something, if she had no other choice, she was hoping that someone else was making breakfast. Or was it lunch now? Hell, it could be dinnertime, given all the time that passed.

She stopped in the doorway, and her heart caught at the sight of such domestic tranquility. Declan was seated at the kitchen table, his chair tipped back at an angle, his sock-clad feet up on the table itself. His long red hair was loose, streaming behind him and down the length of his back. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful. Birkoff stood behind him, brushing Declan's hair out, pausing now and then to run his fingers through the fiery strands. Slowly, as Madeline watched, without anyone aware of her presence, Birkoff began to braid Declan's hair into one long thick plait.

Just when she might have announced she was there, she saw Birkoff push the plait aside and kiss the nape of Declan's neck. Birkoff's arms stole around Declan's shoulders as he leaned on him. Declan opened his eyes, smiled and pulled his lover close for a kiss.

She hated to intrude, but she could not stand the thought of Declan thinking she would betray him. It kept her awake for hours when she should have been sleeping. "Declan?"

Declan's chair tipped forward abruptly at the sound of Madeline's voice, thudding to the floor, wrenching his feet off the table. Birkoff's dark eyes narrowed at the sight of Madeline, and he moved protectively in front of Declan. "What do you want?" asked Birkoff.

Declan pulled on Birkoff's arm. "Don't, Sey. I need to talk to her."

"What if she upsets you all over again, Declan? I—" Birkoff sputtered, vaguely aware of his own residual anger about the situation.

"I can take care of myself, Sey." Birkoff's face fell. Part of him was enjoying his new role as Declan's protector. No one had ever seen fit to cast him that way. Ever. While he didn't want Declan to be hurt that way again, he admitted in his heart of hearts, it had felt pretty good to have someone depend on him for a change.

As if he knew what Birkoff was thinking, Declan added, "But thanks, Sey. Your love and support is what got me through this." He pulled Birkoff's head down and whispered into his ear, "Don't go too far away. In case I need you." Declan smiled briefly and kissed him, rubbing the side of his face with his fingers, a gesture somehow more intimate than the kiss itself.

Madeline smiled to herself. Declan was marking his territory. Making his allegiances clear. All without saying a single word. That he had formed an unbreakable bond with anyone was remarkable. That his heart had chosen Birkoff was fortunate.

Birkoff left the room silently, but his eyes flickered over Madeline as he passed. Madeline was surprised to find that even Birkoff's good opinion mattered to her, and she supposed that she might well find herself apologizing to more people than not.

"Declan…"

"I think we already established who I am, Maddy. But who are you supposed to be? Certainly not the woman I thought you were."

She sighed. Declan at his most confrontational was going to be a challenge.

"Listen to me, Declan. I didn't lie to you—"

Declan cut her off. "Sure, Maddy, whatever you say."

"Declan, I did kill someone almost ten years ago. I thought it was your brother Justin."

"Then what was that up on the rooftop, Maddy? A bloody ghost? A freaking apparition? Looked pretty damn real to me."

Declan's bitterness was more than evident. It was eating at him. Madeline didn't want the brunt of his anger directed at her, considering how painful it was likely to be, but she wanted Declan to heal.

"No, Declan. That was your brother. The man I killed the other night was the real Justin."

Declan leaned forward, his hands on his knees, biting off each word with a terseness that rivaled Michael. "How come he wasn't dead? Was he that good in bed?"

Madeline refused to drop her eyes in the face of Declan's ire. "What Justin said wasn't true, Declan. I never slept with him. Just as I never slept with you."

"Not for the same reason, though, right?" Declan laughed harshly.

"He was trying to unsettle you, Declan. Make you angry. Make you make a mistake."

"I certainly did that, didn't I? I couldn't even shoot him!" Declan closed his eyes. Every time he thought about shooting or not shooting Justin, it brought him close to tears. He couldn't help it.

"Declan, I need you to acknowledge that I never lied to you. I never betrayed you to your brother."

"For what, Maddy? My peace of mind?" Declan snapped.

"No, Declan. For mine." Madeline folded her hands primly in front of her and stared down at them.

He looked at the woman he once considered a mother. Was that why her apparent betrayal cut so deep? Tears formed in his eyes. "Maddy…you want me to absolve you of all guilt. Make everything go away. Make everyone feel better. But I just don't know if I can do that."

"I thought I canceled Justin. I didn't know what Justin looked like. He was one of a long procession, Declan. How could I know the real Justin survived?"

"Wasn't that your job, Maddy? Are you trying to tell me that someone higher than you did this? Saved Justin from cancellation? Greenlisted him? And sent him back out to wreak havoc on the world?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Declan. You weren't the only one who was manipulated."

Declan absorbed the news with a growing sense of dread. "Then whoever did this could still be out there? Plotting some new revenge against us?"

"That's a possibility, yes."

"Then Justin turning up after all this time was no accident. Someone sent him."

"Maybe. Maybe he had his own agenda. What do we know? That he went after Walter, but his real target was you."

"If he could find us…someone knows where we are. Someone's always known." Declan stood up and agitatedly paced. "None of us is safe."

"Declan, that's not necessarily true. Justin may have been operating on very little intel. We've kept a low profile all this time. There's no reason to think this was anything but an isolated incident."

"He knew about Sey. How do you explain that? Good guesswork?"

Madeline reached out and touched Declan's arm. He stared at the place where she held him for the longest time without speaking. "Declan, anyone looking at you and Birkoff for less than a minute can tell that you're close. Even Justin."

Declan sat down suddenly, perhaps unconsciously playing with the Claddagh ring Birkoff gave him almost a year ago. There was a long pause. Declan was clearly mulling things over.

When he spoke again, his voice had lost its fire, its bite. Declan let go of his anger at Maddy. He knew truth when he heard it, and it wasn't like him to fly in the face of logic to cling to an animosity he hadn't wanted to feel in the first place. "Maddy?"

Madeline moved a step closer. Cautiously. Prepared to backtrack if need be.

Declan looked up at her then, his grey eyes the color of smoke. "Come here."

She didn't know what he wanted at first. Then she understood. She sat on Declan's lap and hugged him as hard as she could. Before she knew it, his arms were around her as well. He kissed her cheek and held onto her, feeling her tremble uncharacteristically in his embrace. Everything they needed to say was said in those few moments. There was no need for words.

A few moments later, Birkoff appeared in the doorway. He clapped his hands slowly and appreciatively. "I'm going to assume this means you two have made up."

Madeline turned in Declan's arms and smiled tearfully at Birkoff. As she wiped away her tears with one hand, holding onto Declan with the other, she said, "I'm so glad you didn't jump to the wrong conclusion, Birkoff."

Birkoff smiled mysteriously and crossed his arms in front of his chest, his eyes meeting Declan's. "Oh, you're good, Madeline. But trust me, you aren't that good."

Michael didn't ever want to come back to the real world. The dream world he and Nikita inhabited for nearly two days was too compelling. Once Declan recovered, he had taken it upon himself to care for the twins, and the twins were happily ensconced in another room, closer to Declan and Birkoff's room, giving Michael and Nikita some much-needed privacy. Everyone else simply stayed away as if by unspoken agreement.

They slept for hours at a time. When they woke, it was only to make love. Their lovemaking was curiously silent and intense. It was as if Michael had closed off a part of him and focused all of his energy on the act itself. There was no tenderness or gentleness in him. In their place was an all-consuming fire that could never be extinguished, and the more desperately he tried, the closer he got to the flames, the more they eluded his grasp.

Nikita didn't know this side of Michael. It wasn't cold. Or inhumane. It was as if he couldn't bear to contemplate his own pain. Or hers. Whatever internal battle he was waging, Nikita couldn't be sure he was winning. For it was changing her perception of things.

They had been through so much together. She couldn't live without him. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him. But it might not be the smoking gun that took her away from Michael, but the fallout from that night. Because she knew she lived through that night. But she didn't know if she could survive the nights that followed.

Michael woke slowly, which was unusual for him, and his arm automatically sought Nikita. She wasn't there. Any other time, it might not have troubled him. But now, after recent events, and with their very future in question to some degree, Michael was worried.

He heard a noise and immediately investigated the source. That led him to the bathroom door, which was locked. Even more concerned now, Michael knocked on the door. The toilet flushed. He heard a cough. Nikita was sick? Anxiously, Michael pushed at the door as if that would somehow unlock it. "Nikita?"

Startled that Michael called her by her full name, Nikita unlocked the door and popped her head out.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"You weren't in bed."

"I got up to go to the bathroom, Michael. We don't have to do everything together," she said with a grin.

He wasn't so sure about that. "I don't want you out of my sight for a while, Kita."

"Should I be worried? Are you afraid of something specific or just— ?"

"I'm not afraid."

"I mean, it'd be understandable if you were."

"I'm not afraid. Just being careful."

"In our bedroom? Michael, do you realize how strange that sounds?"

"Kita, this is not a discussion, and I'm not going to argue with you."

"Michael!"

It was clear to her that Michael was overreacting to The Incident, as she was starting to think of it now, but she couldn't really object to her husband showing he cared about what happened to her.

She started to leave the bathroom, but Michael grabbed her arm and pulled her into his arms. "Kita, give me your word you won't go anywhere without letting me know."

"That's a ridiculous promise for me to make, Michael."

"I don't care what it sounds like to you. Just do it."

She looked crestfallen. Michael couldn't stand it when Nikita was unhappy, but he was adamant. He didn't want to let her out of his sight.

He was exerting control over Nikita, when in fact it was the situation that he was unable to change, and that single fact frustrated him unbearably.

Moments later, he claimed her body with an intensity that was at once ferocious and chilling. He didn't speak, not even to utter words of love, and Nikita finally realized what upset her.

He was sublimating his true and very deep feelings, both about that night and about his love for Nikita…and in doing so, he was losing the very essence of what made their union so special. In other words, he was giving her the full treatment…of the target of a Valentine Operative.

Birkoff nudged Declan. "What's up with that?" he asked his lover, indicating the silent couple standing together in the entryway of the chateau.

Declan looked in the direction Birkoff suggested. That was strange. Not only were Michael and Nikita not speaking to one another, but their usual non-verbal sub-text was missing. Declan blinked. Even when they were fighting, that was there. It was such an integral part of them, no one even noticed it anymore. Except when it wasn't there.

"Something's wrong," Declan whispered to Birkoff.

Birkoff nodded. "You're telling me?"

They watched as Michael put on black leather gloves before he went outside. He turned back to Nikita, who seemed completely oblivious to his presence, and his leather-clad hands reached out as if to touch the back of her neck, then stopped in mid-air. He stared at her back for a few moments, his face blank, yet there was a definite undercurrent emanating from him. He dropped his eyes and moved towards the front door. Still he didn't speak.

But worse yet, Nikita either didn't notice or didn't care.

She cared. Oh, how she cared. It broke her heart to see Michael this way. Once they left Section, Michael gradually learned to stop compartmentalizing his feelings. It took a very long time, but eventually, he was able to open up to some degree to everyone in the family. He had had a long and terrible journey, but he had made it. He was most open with, and hence, most vulnerable to, Nikita. That was the problem.

She was the only person he trusted above all else. She was the only one he could confide his deepest, darkest thoughts and feelings to. But now she was part of what was going on. In his head, in his heart. He couldn't tell her how terrified he was inside. He couldn't tell her how he was struggling to hold onto a control that didn't even seem necessary any longer. He couldn't tell her how his emotions felt locked up, as if he were holding them captive.

He wanted to tell her. But he was afraid even to look inside with any real scrutiny. If everything inside him spilled out…who would put him back together? He loved her, wanted her, needed her. That last, most of all. He needed her right now. But he was keeping her at a distance. As if he knew that she was the only one capable of breaching his firewalls. What might she discover? What if she didn't like what she found?

Michael was strong. But his resolve in this particular case would be his undoing. If he didn't let Nikita inside…at some point, he risked losing the very thing he cherished most.

Nikita looked out the window. It overlooked the gardens, which were starting to fade as the weather grew colder. Still, Nikita could see that they looked so different from the picture they had painted when the family first came to the chateau. Ironically, the chateau was beginning to flourish, beginning to shine with some of its former glory, at a time when the couple who treasured it most could least appreciate it.

She pressed a palm to the window and cast forlorn eyes over the grounds. Michael was out there. Somewhere. A soft hiccup escaped her, though she did not cry.

Walter crept up behind her. "Sugar…you wanted to see me?" He knew there was something deeply troubling his adoptive daughter. He could see it in her eyes, though she never spoke of it to anyone.

"Yes," she said in a sibilant whisper, not realizing how much she sounded like Michael.

"If this is something to do with Michael, maybe you would be better off talking to Maddy. That's her area, not mine."

Nikita spun around, her hair swinging out behind her. It was so long, she needed help just to brush it out everyday. Help she no longer received. From Michael.

Her blue eyes were tortured. "I know. But Mom would want to analyze this to death. You know me best, Dad. I need to know your take on this."

Walter looked vaguely uncomfortable, but nodded. "I'll do my best, Sugar. You know that."

Walter was still recovering from his injuries, but since that night, his progress had been remarkably steady. Other than the occasional headache, Walter could see no appreciable difference in himself. Of course, it helped that his wife was a former critical care nurse. She took good care of him, 24/7.

"Sugar?" he prompted, when Nikita did not speak for long moments.

"Ever since that night…" she began.

Walter knew the story of what happened that night. From the others. Everyone had come to terms with what that night meant. Everyone except the two featured players in the scenario. Michael and Nikita.

"Michael hasn't been the same," she finished.

"Is he hurting you, Sugar?" Walter sounded anxious.

"Not intentionally," she replied softly. "He can't help it, Dad. He's shut himself down. He's…like he was in Section. Before he admitted he loved me."

"Oh, Sugar…" Walter held out his arms, and Nikita gave a little cry before accepting his embrace gratefully. Someone still cared. Someone still loved her.

"I don't know how to get through to him. I don't even know if I can."

"You're the only one who can, Sugar. Don't give up on him yet. He loves you. We all know that."

"Yes, Dad, and I know it, too. But that doesn't make it any easier. In fact, in some ways, it only makes it harder."

She lay her head on Walter's shoulder and cried. "When we make love…"

Walter shook his head. "No, Sugar, you shouldn't be telling me that kind of thing."

Nikita stared at him, tears flowing down her strangely pale cheeks. "Please! I have no one else I can talk to!"

Walter sighed and held her even tighter. "Okay."

She buried her face against Walter's neck, and the next few words were muffled, but unmistakable. "When we make love…it's like he's not really there. He doesn't speak…Dad, he hasn't told me he loves me in almost a week."

"But he does make love to you?"

"Every night. But he's not giving me anything…but his body." Nikita sniffled and wiped at her eyes.

"It's like we were back in Section…and he's working me. There's this invisible wall between us. I can't see it, I can't touch it, but I know it's there."

Walter studied his daughter, beautiful even in her distress. "If that's true, Sugar, then you've got to crack him open. All over again."

"How? With what?" she all but wailed.

"There's got to be something. Something so big, so powerful, even he can't resist."

Walter pondered. Nikita searched her own mind and heart for that elusive something. And suddenly she knew.

"Dad…"

"Yeah, Sugar?"

"Thanks for being there." She leaned over and gave Walter a big kiss, and he smiled.

"Now you're up to something. I can tell."

"Oh, I'm always up to something, Dad. You know me."