Michael was exhausted. Nikita had not been sleeping well the past week. And when his wife couldn't sleep, neither could he. They lay on their sides, spoon-fashion, Michael facing the window, Nikita resting her chin on Michael's shoulder. "Michael…" she whined.

"What?" he said sleepily. His eyes were dry and irritated, and he found himself unconsciously rubbing them.

"I can't sleep."

"I know, Kita."

"Help me, Michael. I'm so tired."

Me, too, he thought. "Want me to rub your back?"

"Yes," she replied enthusiastically. That often helped.

Michael sighed and rolled over in bed. Nikita kissed him. "Thank you, love."

By the time she awkwardly managed to shift herself onto her other side, she was almost breathless. She was big for five months pregnant, and the added weight was high on her body, making it hard to breathe at times.

Michael grasped her shoulders and kneaded her skin, yawning as he did so. "I wish Neil would give me something to help me sleep, Michael."

"Me, too."

"But he says it's no good for the baby."

Michael mumbled something that she couldn't hear. His hands started to falter, and she wondered if he was falling asleep. "Michael?"

She turned over with great difficulty, now facing Michael. He looked like he hadn't slept well in weeks. Well, he hadn't.

"Michael, I need to relax. So do you. It's been weeks since you've touched me."

"I just touched you, Kita," he said, deliberately misunderstanding her.

"You know what I mean, Michael. Sex."

He blinked sleepily, his green eyes quietly reacting to the word and the subsequent mental picture it shot to his brain. Groaning low in his throat, he shook his head. "Doucette, you're five months pregnant, for God's sake."

"We normally make love right up till the seventh or eighth month, Michael."

"I don't want to disturb our son," he commented dryly.

Nikita laughed. "Ever since we got the ultrasound back, and it said the baby was a boy, like I told you," she emphasized, "you don't want to touch me."

"I don't want to hurt you, doucette."

"Michael…there are other ways of making love." She looked directly into his eyes, and he sighed.

"Do you really think it'll help you sleep?" he asked hopefully.

"Michael, you sound like you care more about sleeping than making love."

No comment. Michael refused to even look at her. It wasn't that he didn't want her. He did. He was probably more frustrated than she was. And he couldn't say he liked the idea of not making love to his wife for four more months. But he wasn't an animal. He wasn't bent on having his way with her no matter what.

Without a word, he slid out of bed and stood up. Stretching his arms over his head, he rubbed his bare chest. All he was wearing was a pair of cotton pajama bottoms, so worn they were nearly see-through, so low-slung, his pelvic bones were showing.

He helped Nikita arrange herself more comfortably on her back, placing pillows at strategic points to cushion her back and hips. After sliding her panties down her legs, Michael carefully spread her legs, gently bending her knees. Nikita started to giggle. "Michael, you act like you're prepping me for surgery instead of love."

Michael tried not to smile. "I want you to be comfortable, love."

He arranged the over-sized T-shirt she wore so that it covered her burgeoning abdomen. "Michael, are you trying to forget I'm pregnant?"

"I don't think that's possible, doucette." This time he did grin.

"Does it turn you off? Me being so big, I mean? I know I'm not as attractive this way, but—"

"I've only told you a million times how much I love you being pregnant, doucette. If it turned me off, we wouldn't have three kids and another on the way."

Michael proceeded to make himself more comfortable between her legs. "I love to touch you. All of you. Even when you're this pregnant. You're so…responsive. So hot."

"I am hot, Michael, because I need you. Oh, please touch me."

He spread open the heart of her, finding the bundle of nerves at the top with his tongue, like a blind man seeking the light. He took the tiny nub in his mouth and suckled it, making it grow more and more swollen. Nikita panted. His tongue was so wet, such a wave of sweet heat overcame her, until she thought she would expire from sensation.

Again and again, he worked at the little nub until she was ready to climax. Then, as he felt her begin to tremble, he plunged his tongue inside the very heart of her, simulating the act of love he could not bring himself to perform with her. "Ohhh…" she groaned, on the verge of climax.

He nibbled lightly on her nub while pushing one, then two, fingers inside her core. As she finally lost control, grabbing at the bed covers, Michael eased another finger into the cleft between her buttocks, and he could feel the rhythmic throbbing of her climax on his tongue.

She sighed with deep relaxation, and Michael smiled. She would be able to sleep now. So would he. He hoped. He got up and went into the bathroom. Returning with a towel, he gently rubbed at her center until it was clean and dry.

He lay back on the bed, next to her, listening to her breathing even out as she drifted off to sleep. She was so beautiful, his Kita. He slid a hand inside his pajama bottoms, covering his arousal. He needed to relax, too. What about me, he wanted to cry, but that would have been selfish. And Michael was not a selfish man.

He closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so frustrated, he'd been reduced to using his own hand. But making love to his wife without satisfying himself left him feeling almost desperate for release. He could still taste her on his tongue. Her sweetness.

Unwittingly, his hand continued to stroke and rub his arousal, and he grew impossibly hard. Maybe he would just masturbate until he came. He slid his pajama bottoms down over his hips and his arousal sprang free. He rubbed the silken tip of his arousal, slick with moisture now, and tried not to utter a sound. Suddenly embarrassed that he was behaving like an adolescent, Michael rolled over onto his side, facing away from his wife. God, he hurt so bad now. The ache felt much worse than before.

He buried his face in his pillow and tried to deep-breathe his heightened state of arousal away. To no avail. Suddenly an arm, much softer than his own, wrapped itself around his waist. A hand slid down over his still-rigid arousal, and he gasped. "Kita!"

"Michael, let me," she said, her voice still drowsy.

"You don't have to," he whispered, more embarrassed than ever to be caught that way.

"Michael…I love you. You helped me relax. Let me help you. That's all." Her voice, so loving now, broke him down.

"I didn't mean to wake you up. You need your sleep, doucette."

"So do you. Why are we arguing about this? I want you to feel the way you made me feel. Loved."

He released his grip on her hand, and she stroked the length of his arousal slowly. "So hot, Michael." She pushed his hair aside with her nose and her mouth, to kiss the nape of his neck.

He wanted to protest what she was doing to him, but the truth was, he couldn't stop her to save his life. He turned, rolling onto his back, allowing her easier access to his increasingly hard arousal. He tried to stop from moving, but his hips kept arching forward, trying to force a faster rhythm.

"Please…just let me come."

Nikita pulled him closer, and he willingly turned onto his side, facing her. Because he wanted to kiss her. His lips met hers, his tongue nudging open her mouth, and for a moment, it seemed as though he would overpower her, his tongue seeking hers, to duel, to mate. But reason reasserted itself in Michael's brain, and he broke off the kiss, gasping for breath.

His hand grasping the side of her face, Michael brushed his mouth lightly across Nikita's lips, teasing, tantalizing both of them. Meanwhile, Nikita began stroking Michael's arousal, up and down, back and forth, faster and harder. A surprised gasp escaped Michael's lips, and she knew that his climax was approaching. Quickly.

Despite her awkward girth, Nikita managed to close most of the distance between her body and Michael's. Just as he began to come, she hooked her leg over his hip, forcing him to ejaculate against the dark blond curls protecting her femininity. If she could not have him inside her, she would still feel his hot life's essence dampening the thatch between her legs. The feel of that hot wetness between her legs brought Nikita to climax again, even more intensely than the first time.

Michael panted against her neck, pressing a warm, wet kiss to the base of her throat. "Oh, doucette." He couldn't form a more coherent thought than that, but he knew that she felt the same way. The bond between them strengthened everyday, sometimes in the most unexpected ways.

She touched herself, gasping at the way she still pulsed, little aftershocks betraying the significance of the main event. Her finger coated with Michael's essence, she licked her finger, then suckled it, as if it were his now-sated member. "Now I taste like you."

Michael watched her with hot green eyes, then grasped her wrist, directing her finger into his own mouth. Suckling her finger, in the same manner as she had, Michael replied, "Now we taste like each other."

Heaving a contented sigh, Nikita snuggled closer, her abdomen preventing her from getting as close as she wanted. She kissed Michael's bare chest, palming one of his nipples. "I don't suppose we should mention this to Junior."

Michael smiled mysteriously. "Maybe he already knows."

"You think he approves?"

"I think he's got no choice. His parents are crazy about each other, doucette."

Nikita wrapped her arms around Michael's neck. "We are, aren't we?"

"Still crazy after all these years? God, yes, doucette."

"A five hour delay? Christ, Sey, you're killing me!"

"What are you yelling at me for? It's not my fault, Declan!"

"You were the one who said we'd better get here two hours ahead of time!"

"I didn't make the freaking rules, Declan! Two hours is standard on any international flight!"

"Two hours is one thing! But a five hour delay on top of it? Bloody hell!"

Sey gritted his teeth against the flurry of heated words that wanted to pour forth from his mouth. "Shit, Declan! You can be such a bastard!"

"Well, for someone who's supposed to be a freaking genius, you don't have any common sense! When they said they were closing the freaking airport in Paris, why didn't you rebook the flight somewhere else?"

"Cause if we live in France, it would be a little difficult to fly to Germany or Italy and walk home!!!"

"I hate airports!"

"I can see that!"

Declan and Sey came nose to nose for a few brief seconds, their breathing so harsh, it was audible across the room. Storming away from Declan, Sey retreated to a seat on the opposite side. Glaring at his lover, Sey felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. God, he hated fighting with Declan.

The entire time that Declan and Sey were arguing, the kids were being incredibly well-behaved. So incredibly well-behaved, they barely noticed the grown-ups acting like kids.

Emmy was conducting an imaginary tea party for her friends, but when she offered a cup to her father, he declined with a muttered curse she was sure she wasn't supposed to hear.

James had never been witness to one of Dec and Sey's infamous arguments before, so he had no frame of reference to go by, but he found it vaguely arousing. All that excitement, all that jazz, and no place for it to go. Except the groin and the libido.

His arm around Smoke, he glanced at his not-quite-lover questioningly. "What did you think of all that, Pete?"

"Mmm…" Smoke considered a moment. Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Smoke said, "It made me 'ard, like I'm ready to 'ave you, right 'ere, right now."

James nuzzled Smoke's lips, teasing him by moving closer, only to draw back at the last moment. "What happened to going slow?"

Smoke gazed at James, his eyes definitely more blue than gray, reaching for James' arousal surreptitiously under his coat. James groaned. "You asked me 'ow it made me feel. I could go slow if you want, Jamie…I take you slow the first time, then fast the second," Smoke whispered against his mouth.

"Jesus, Pete."

Suddenly they were in each other's arms, dreadfully aroused. James kissed Smoke, and he kissed James back, so hot, so wet, James felt a pounding in his groin that echoed the one in his head. "I want you now."

"So do I," replied James. All at once, he wrenched himself away from Smoke.

"Goddammit, Pete, I don't want our first time to be in the freaking airport."

"I know, but I want you…so…bad, Jamie." After each pause, Smoke kissed James, his mouth open, his tongue probing. James ached in places he didn't know he had.

"Maybe we can just kiss…" James offered, knowing it was an exercise in futility even to suggest they could hold the line there.

"You can kiss…my ass," Smoke said, playfully licking James' lips.

That made James laugh. "I'd like to, believe me, Pete."

A middle-aged woman and her husband passed the couple, now a tangled mass of arms and legs. "Well, some people have a terrible nerve!"

"Why don't you get a room, faggot?" her husband yelled derisively.

James' eyes reflected his hurt at the careless way other people mocked his love. Smoke saw his pain and deliberately buried his face against James' neck. "I love you, Jamie. That's all that matters."

"It's not right, Pete. We weren't bothering anyone."

"They don't see it that way, Jamie. It's their world. We just live in it."

In the meantime, Declan was growing more and more incensed at being forced to wait in the airport for a plane that might or might not arrive by the end of the night, never mind on time.

He crossed his legs and admired the scuff marks on his boots. Muttering under his breath, he began drumming his fingers on his boots, which drove Sey absolutely crazy. "What the hell are you doing, Dec?"

"Tapping my boots, Sey. Why?" Declan asked sarcastically.

"I can't stand it, that's why," Sey said through clenched teeth.

"Can you think of something better to do?"

"Actually, I can." He looked significantly at James and Smoke, who were slowly devouring each other, kiss by kiss by kiss.

"Ha! You're dreaming!" Declan all but barked at Sey.

Sey flushed angrily and turned his back on Declan, twisting his entire body sideways in the hard plastic chair, which even now was beginning to hurt his backside.

"I hate it when you do this," Sey said, not quite under his breath.

Smoke managed to tear himself away from kissing James and watched the byplay with fascinated eyes. Turning to James, Smoke said, in a puzzled voice, "I thought they loved each other to distraction."

James smiled. "They do."

"But they fight like…" Smoke gave James a Gallic shrug, uncertain of the English that would satisfactorily describe Dec and Sey's arguing.

"They do…everything…with that kind of intensity."

"Ev'rything?" Smoke asked, his tone clearly intrigued.

"Everything," James repeated.

"You mean…?"

"Oh, hell, yes." James secretly applauded that overwhelming chemistry Declan and his lover shared. It was remarkable.

It took several more changes of position for Declan to decide that the chair was bugging the shit out of him. It seemed like ages ago that Smoke and James had taken the kids in search of food. The lines were so long, they might never return. Oh, well…

"Christ! This chair is a bloody torture device!"

Sey turned hurt eyes, Bambi-like doe eyes, actually, on his lover. "Why should I care?"

Declan stood up so abruptly, the chair in question fell over. "I'm going to the bathroom. In case anyone does care," he finished sarcastically.

Sey's eyes followed his lover to the men's room. He was so upset. Declan was being a perfect beast, and he knew it. He slowly got to his feet, and within moments, he was stalking his prey.

Declan was standing at the urinal, attempting to pee when Sey burst through the door. The men's room was deserted. Thank God for small favors. Most people were using the bathrooms inside the restaurant, more than likely.

"I've got a bone to pick with you!" Sey shouted.

Declan cursed fluently. "A man can't even pee in private anymore! You need to see someone about this fetish you've got about bathrooms, Sey! It's sick!"

Sey reached for Declan, but Declan pulled himself out of the way. "Damn!"

"Declan, what the hell's the matter with you?"

Declan finished what he was doing, flushed, and moved to the sink to wash his hands. Sey continued to hover over him. When Declan completely dried his hands, Sey grabbed them and held onto them. "What is it you're not telling me, Dec? Why are you so freaking restless? Irritable? Obnoxious?"

"I hate waiting, Sey! I frigging hate it! I hate wasting time! I hate the snow that fell in Paris! And I especially hate the way Smoke is trying to screw James without actually screwing him!"

Sey laughed. "Okay, Dec, I was actually with you until the last one. Why the hell does watching Smoke with James bother you?"

Without answering, Declan flung Sey back against the wall of the men's room, tearing open his jacket. Pressing himself against Sey's body, the unmistakable bulge of his arousal apparent, Declan groaned. "Cause it makes me feel like screwing you! And I can't! Okay?"

Sey felt breathless. His mouth dry, his eyes as black as onyx, Sey pushed both hands under Declan's shirt, palming his nipples. They were fully erect already, but they seemed to harden further under his touch. "Why can't you?"

"Here? In the bloody men's room?" Declan frowned. "Do you have any idea what kind of germs are in a place like this, Sey? I mean—"

Sey doubled over with laughter. "Okay, Mr. Clean, now I know you're feeling more like yourself again."

Declan's lips parted in a curious grin, his eyes as hot as molten silver. "Would you really let me—?"

"In here? Not on a bet, Dec. You've gotta be kidding."

Declan sighed. "Did I really curse at Emmy? Christ, Sey, I dunno what came over me. There was this tremendous wave of frustration and then…pow!"

Declan wiped at his brow with his fingers, shaking his head sadly at his partner. "I dunno why you put up with me, love."

"Yes, you do," Sey said with real conviction. "I love you, Declan. And you're so freaking beautiful, sometimes I worry that someone will snatch you away from me…" Sey caressed Declan's cheek with such utter tenderness that, for a moment, they were both able to forget that they were standing in the middle of the men's room in an airport.

"…and then you pull a stunt like today…and I know that no one…sane…would want to keep you." Sey ducked his head playfully, but Declan caught him, holding him fast between his splayed hands.

Declan gazed at Sey, his pale grey eyes soft and reflective. "I've never loved anyone like I do you, y chree. Sometimes I think, maybe I've never really loved anyone at all before you."

Sey leaned forward to kiss him, a glimmer of his former playfulness still evident. "Only you, Declan, could say something that beautiful…in a place like this."

"Ta tu go halainn, mo run," Declan whispered against his mouth in Gaelic.

Sey didn't speak a word of Gaelic, but he knew love when he saw it. And his heart heard every word as clearly as if it were English. You're beautiful, my love.

So are you, he answered silently.

Derry gave a soft grunt and tried not to push. Miranda pressed the back of her hand against Derry's forehead, brushing the chestnut-colored hair away from her eyes. "You're coming along fine, Derry," she said quietly, admiring the way Derry was facing her first pregnancy and what would be a very premature delivery of her twins.

Derry stole a glance at her husband, stoic Jake Davenport, who had seen death and destruction at close range too many times not to develop the ability to hide his real feelings. And what was he feeling now? Very vulnerable.

"Derry, I'm sorry, darlin'," he apologized.

She glared at him fiercely. "Next time, you're having the baby, I swear."

"Honey, there doesn't have to be a next time," he said almost inaudibly.

"What the hell does that mean? If you think we're never having sex again for the rest of our lives, just out of some misguided desire to protect me, you've got another think coming."

"I don't want you to go through this again, baby. Honest." The look in Davenport's midnight black eyes was so tortured, it was apparent to everyone in the L & D suite that he felt overwhelming guilt over causing her such pain.

Miranda smiled at Davenport kindly. "I hate to break it to you, stud, but you ain't seen nothin' yet."

Davenport's eyes grew huge. "It's going to get worse?"

"Much," Miranda agreed. "Wait till she enters transition. She's going to curse you out six ways to Sunday." Miranda gestured to the other nurse assisting Neil. Whispering conspiratorially, but loud enough for Davenport to overhear, Miranda said, "Better hide the sharp stuff. This one's pretty handy with a blade."

Davenport gulped. The thought of Derry inadvertently losing control of her "Section skill set" was distinctly unsettling. He could tell the exact moment that it crossed Miranda's mind that letting loose the hounds of Hell that ran rampant through a former Section assassin's fevered brain might actually be dangerous. She surreptitiously shifted the instruments out of Derry's range, which provoked a bemused smile from Neil. Oh, he wore complete surgical get-up, including a face mask, but even that couldn't hide the broad grin that stretched across Neil's handsome features.

"Regretting your second career as my L & D slave already, Miranda?" Neil asked.

"Nah," Miranda commented dryly. "Haven't had this much fun since Walter decided to see if standing on his head made his erections last longer."

Neil burst out laughing, and even the other L & D nurse hid a tiny smile behind her mask. But Davenport continued to fret. There was only one thing on his mind right now and it sure wasn't Walter.

"Can't you give her something for the pain?" he asked in a worried voice, betraying the depth of his love for the beautiful young Irish woman who had captured his heart forever.

Derry blew out a breath, trying to maintain her focus. She wanted Davenport with her for every moment of this. She'd been positively terrified when her water broke. The twins weren't due for another two months. It was one thing to know, intellectually, what was supposed to happen during delivery. But it was quite another to experience it for the first time.

"I don't need anything yet, Jake."

"Darlin', you don't have to be brave for me. I don't want you to be in pain." As if to demonstrate the effect that Derry's pain had on her husband, Davenport actually winced as another contraction hit her. She gripped her abdomen with both hands, unconsciously smoothing and soothing the skin drawn as tight as a drum there. A tiny noise escaped her, and Davenport blinked away tears.

Miranda eased the big man into a chair, after noting how pale he was. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"If she can do it, so can I," he said, gritting his teeth.

A moment later, he was out like the proverbial light. Miranda looked at Derry. "Looks like you're on your own, sweetie. Want me to revive him?"

"No," Derry said firmly. "Let him be. I can handle this."

A few moments later, she wasn't so certain. The pain was growing in intensity, and she felt as though she would tear herself apart. Grabbing Miranda's hand, she squeezed hard. Hard enough to make Miranda yelp. "Um…maybe you could try that again…on something less…breakable…than my hand."

"Sorry," Derry said apologetically. "I feel like I'm starting to…lose control."

Miranda nodded, then looked at Neil, as if to say, well, what are you waiting for? Attention on deck, heavy-duty drugs would be a great idea right about…now. Neil, who seemed to be communicating telepathically with Miranda, shook his head imperceptibly at her. "We don't need sleepy babies."

Miranda blinked above the mask that hid the bottom half of her face. "Perhaps you'd like to stand on this side of the patient, Doctor," Miranda said a little too sweetly. That way, when she goes off, she can kick you, not me.

Neil raised a dark blond eyebrow. There was a significant pause before the silence was broken. The other nurse glanced from Miranda to Neil and back again. With a sigh, Neil said, "Give her 50 mg of Demerol through the IV. Slow infusion. I don't want to bottom out her blood pressure."

Miranda smiled her approval, though her face remained only partly visible. She was doing a good job of training Neil the way she wanted him. He should be damned grateful she was working for him now. Expertly drawing up the medication, she injected the painkiller through the port on the IV line running into the back of Derry's right hand. Derry had been a hard stick. Though she was implausibly healthy, it was beyond difficult to access her veins.

The medication began to work within a minute or two, and Derry noticeably relaxed. "Thanks," she said hoarsely to Miranda, somehow intuiting that she was the one responsible for alleviating her pain.

When Davenport finally awoke from his impromptu slumber, it was to learn that he'd somehow slept through what had to be the worst part. Derry successfully navigated her way through transition, though she was certain she couldn't have done it without Miranda's cool, calm manner. The older woman acted like she'd done this thousands of times, and one more time was no problem.

Derry reached for Davenport's hand, and this time, he was the one doing the squeezing. "How do you feel, darlin'?"

"Just great," she replied, and she meant it. She could tell by Davenport's uneasy look that he wasn't entirely convinced.

She pulled his fingers to her lips and kissed them. Biting her lip, it was obvious she wanted to say something special to Davenport, but her shyness tied her tongue.

Suddenly Derry felt a meaningful twinge, through the haze of narcotic pain medication, and she had a feeling things were getting serious. "Should I push now?"

Miranda nodded. She gave it her best effort, but one time wasn't going to do the trick. Miranda checked her vital signs again. Good. Neither she nor the twins was having difficulties. They continued that way for a while. Miranda would give Derry the sign to push, and Derry would try her damnedest to help her babies into this world.

"I'm getting tired. Can we stop for a little bit?" Derry asked ingenuously.

"Honey, if you know a way to stop labor, tell me. Please. Seriously, Derry, the only cure for labor is delivery. You're going to have to deliver these babies. PDQ."

Derry sighed in response, and another contraction, more intense than anything previously, spasmed through her lower body. "Oh! Unhhh…" she groaned. It was inevitable. It was going to happen. With or without her consent. There would be no turning back now. They were about to become a family.

Derry's fingers dug into Davenport's arm, and he winced, certain she was drawing blood. A weary smile crossed her face. "Tell my brother…" she gasped against the force of the contraction. "…he's going to be an uncle again…any minute."

"S-sure, darlin'." What about me? What about the father of your kids?

Before Davenport could even manage to look hurt, Derry continued in a low voice, "Is this just the way we dreamed it, Jake? You get to be Daddy…and me…who never even thought anyone would ever love me…" She grew tearful against her will, her silver-grey eyes sparkling. Her throat closed with emotion, and she couldn't speak any further.

Davenport clasped her hand in his, completely overcome, but apparently unaware that tears were running down his cheeks. "There's no one I'd rather be the mother of my kids, Cassidy. Hand to God."

He leaned over her, his larger than life shadow blocking the operating room lights for several moments, while he kissed her. "I love you," he whispered into her ear. She closed her eyes for a second, absorbing the tenderness and affection now surrounding her. She opened her eyes as he drew away, managing to press a kiss to his cheek as he did so. "I love you, Jake," she mouthed silently.

Miranda hated to interrupt, but the twins were clamoring to join the real world. "Uh, guys? I hate to spoil a Kodak moment, but we've got a baby crowning…right now."

Derry's eyes took on a feverishly excited glint. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

Neil smiled. "As soon as we know, you'll know, Derry. We need you to push, big pushes now. Can you do that?"

She nodded without speaking, saving her energy for the actual physical work. One…two…three…suddenly there was a wail. Derry gave a soft exclamation, knowing it was her and Davenport's child, come fresh into the world.

Miranda cleaned the tiny but impressively pink baby boy quickly, placing him on top of Derry's abdomen. Davenport stared in awe at what they'd created. "You've got a son. Do you have a name picked out?"

"Jago." Davenport's voice seemed to come from far, far away. He felt his ears ringing, and everything in the room grew faint and indistinct, as if it were fading. It wasn't. But he was. For the second time, Davenport passed out. Luckily, he sat down right in the chair, his head lolling to the side. Neil would have caught him, but he didn't want to break sterile field when there was another baby yet to be delivered.

Derry smiled, an impossibly broad smile that felt like it went from her nose to her toes. "Jago. Hello, Jago. I'm your…" Her breath caught on a sob. "I'm…your Ma." She counted fingers and toes and gave a sigh of relief, thanking God for the obvious perfection she saw in her firstborn.

Miranda grasped the baby and wrapped him up carefully. "We need to get him into the incubator, Derry, and keep him warm. Okay?"

Derry smiled her assent. Her son. Her and Davenport's son. She could hardly believe it. He had a shock of bright red hair, just like Declan's. But his eyes. Oh, those eyes. Not the trademark McLaren eyes then. They were Davenport eyes. Though his skin was fair, like hers, Jago's eyes were black, like his father's. Of course, she thought, didn't they always say baby's eyes changed? But she didn't think that would be the case here. He had his father's soulful eyes.

"He's got great lungs," Miranda said, trying to be heard over the noise the baby was making. "For a premie, that's terrific news."

When Davenport came to, he saw his wife pushing again. Standing unsteadily, he held her hands as she bore down. This baby came with even less effort. Smaller, more delicate. Female. "It's a girl, darlin'. We've got one of each."

Derry cried out happily, reaching for the baby once Miranda had cleaned her. Her hair was black, just like Davenport's, but this one, this little princess had the McLaren heritage, all right. Her eyes were silver-grey, just like her mother's. Just like Declan's.

She glanced up, tears shining brightly in her luminous eyes, and Davenport kissed her. Miranda cleared her throat gently. "What's this one's name?" she asked, taking the baby back. She wanted both babies in their incubators as soon as possible; she wanted both of them to have every advantage possible to help overcome their premature status.

"Kiarra. She's Kiarra."

"What beautiful names you've chosen," Miranda commented. Neil agreed, his dark blue eyes glinting warmly above his face mask.

Miranda pushed the two incubators together and regarded the newborn twins.

"Welcome to the world, Jago and Kiarra."

There was a scream. Or was there? Michael opened his eyes tentatively. It was still dark outside. Even the birds weren't up yet. There it was again. He didn't imagine it. It was faint. Very faint. But still there.

Flinging back the covers, Michael leaped out of bed, hitting the floor with both bare feet with a quiet thud. It wasn't coming from where he was standing in the bedroom. It wasn't even as close as the bathroom. Panting, he pulled on his robe, not even bothering to tie it closed. "Kita?"

Where was his wife? His about to give birth wife? She wasn't in bed. He shook the sleep from his head and suddenly put two and two together. If he weren't so tired, he would have been considerably quicker on the uptake. He hit the landing and practically slid down the stairs to the living room. Without even listening for another scream, he made an educated guess and veered sharply, heading directly for the kitchen.

He found her. She was lying on her back, on the floor of the kitchen, apparently struggling to get up. "Michael!" she gasped. "I think I'm in labor."

Declan popped his head through the kitchen door, taking in the scene before him at a glance. "Need help?"

Michael turned, no longer sleepy at all. "Get Neil!" he barked. Declan disappeared.

Declan headed for his own room first, waking Sey. "Go wake up Miranda. We might need her."

Sey blinked drowsily at his lover. "What's wrong?"

Declan called over his shoulder as he darted through the door at a run. "Nikita's in labor!"

Once he was outside, Declan made short work of the distance between the two houses. Literally clearing the wall between the two properties with one perfectly-timed jump, Declan ran up on Neil's front porch, slamming his fist against the door several times.

When Connor answered the door, Declan's heart sank. "Where's your daddy, Connor?"

"With Mommy. I think she's having a baby," Connor explained.

"I know, Connor. But we need your father next door. Nikita's having her baby. Now," Declan emphasized with not a little exasperation.

"So's Mommy," Connor said.

All the blood drained from Declan's face. "You're bloody kidding me."

Connor shook his head. "Daddy's upstairs with her. You want me to ask him something?"

Declan sighed. Aye, I'd like to ask him to be in two places at once. Thinking on his feet, Declan said, "Just let him know that Nikita's in labor. Can you remember that, Connor?"

Connor scowled at Declan. "What do you think I am, a little kid or something?"

Declan's eyes widened before they narrowed again, dismissing this conversation as ultimately inconsequential in the scheme of things. "Just do it," he commanded. Connor blinked.

But he ran upstairs without a single glance over his shoulder.

"Daddy! Daddy!" Connor sped into the room where his mother lay gasping for breath.

"Connor! Stop right there!" Neil said firmly, not wanting his son to see his mother in the throes of giving birth.

"But Daddd—" Connor whined. He was vaguely intimidated by his Uncle Declan, and he didn't want to get on his bad side.

"Connor! Go outside! Right now!" Neil pointed, and Connor obeyed. Neil was his father. No matter how much he wanted to do as Declan told him, he was obligated to obey his father.

And so it was that Neil didn't know that Nikita was in labor. Until much later.

When Neil didn't come right away, Michael glanced anxiously at Declan. "Where's Neil?"

"With Maddy."

Michael looked surprised. "She's in labor, too? Good God, what—"

Miranda effectively silenced Michael with a quelling look. He could hear her just as clearly as if she'd spoken. We do not entertain "what if" questions in this room. Nothing bad is going to happen to Nikita. Not if I can help it.

"Wait until the next contraction is over, then let's move her into the living room. There's a carpet in there, more room. It has to be better than this."

Nikita was drenched in sweat, but her blue eyes had never looked more vibrant. "Thanks," she barely rasped out.

Michael seemed transfixed by the sight of his wife in active labor in the middle of the kitchen floor. Miranda snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Michael! Yoohoo! Spyboy!"

Michael's eyes flickered over Miranda's face almost nervously. This was a man on the edge of his control. This was not a man who enjoyed that feeling.

Instinctively grasping what Michael needed to occupy his mind, Miranda said swiftly, "You want to be in charge of something? You can be in charge of getting blankets, sheets, towels, anything we can put down on the floor or wrap around Nikita to keep her and the baby-to-be warm. Okay?"

He nodded. Moments later, they gathered Nikita up like a rag doll who had lost all her stuffing and carried her into the living room. It was patently obvious who was leading this particular mission. Miranda.

She pointed, and things got done. She commanded, and people moved. It was inspiring. And one man watched, a curious glint in his mischievous blue eyes. That's my Honey. She can do anything. Even make Michael move. Gotta love a woman like that.

"Hey, Honey," Walter called to his wife. "You gonna get me some more grandkids?"

Miranda smiled. "Of course. I seem to have the magic touch lately," evidently referring to Davenport's twins. She flexed her hands, and Michael sighed. "Please…one is enough. Just get my wife and my son through this okay. That's all I ask."

Miranda looked thoughtfully at Michael. "You don't ask for anything for yourself, though, do you, Michael? You never do."

Michael handed Miranda the linens he'd gathered. He always had a hard time when Nikita finally went into labor. He worried too much, and he knew it. But that was what came of loving someone the way he did. She held his heart and his soul. Wherever she went, she took them with her. There could be no half measures.

By now, the clamor inside the house had awakened the children. While the living room remained a good choice for the aforementioned reasons Miranda gave, it was not a place for privacy. Nikita looked up to see Michael bending over her, his face ill-concealing his concern. "How are you doing, doucette?"

She was about to answer when she noticed the twins sitting on the staircase directly above them. In fact, Sasha and Emmy had joined them, a few steps below, their curiosity getting the better of them. The only one not in evidence was Skye. And that was probably only because the little girl slept so soundly.

"Mom," Chris called to his mother, "is this baby going to be a boy like me? Are we getting a brother?" Nikita smiled despite the pain of her contractions. She could almost hear Chris adding 'finally' to the end of that sentence. She knew he felt almost outnumbered sometimes. Once there had been too many men in the Samuelle household… That had changed over the years.

She pressed a kiss to Michael's hand, reassuring him that she was all right. She wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing having an audience largely consisting of their children. But she couldn't do a thing to prevent it now. The baby was definitely on its way…and it wasn't going to wait for anyone. Including Neil.

Neil had his hands full. Literally. The baby was coming. He exhorted Madeline to push, and she did. Her carefully coiffed hair falling all around her in dark tangles, she panted and groaned as another contraction hit her. "Neil!" she screamed.

"I can't believe it's coming so fast, we couldn't even get to the hospital, Maddy! Push harder!"

"If I push any harder, I'm going to come apart, Neil!" she shrieked in dismay.

"Now, Maddy, you know how you exaggerate," he said in an attempt to placate her.

"Neil, if you don't get this baby out of me in the next five seconds, I'm going to—" Madeline threatened.

"You'll what?" Neil loomed over his wife, a bemused smile in place. He was well used to her mood swings, her irritability, her overreaction. He loved her anyway. "Cancel me? Isn't that the correct term?"

Madeline grinned despite herself. "I should have you sent to the White Room for sure."

"Nah, it'd clash with my tie," Neil quipped.

Madeline's brows quirked upwards in surprise. "Neil, white goes with absolutely everything."

"Why, so it does, Maddy. So it does. So I'd better be on my best behavior then, eh?"

She threw her head back abruptly, exposing her long, slender neck, and groaned loudly. It was the most noise he had ever heard Maddy make outside of the bedroom. "It's time!"

And it was. Neil and Maddy's daughter was making her entrance into the world at large. She was tiny but perfectly beautiful. Like her mother. Dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes. The image of Maddy.

Madeline looked vaguely disappointed. "She doesn't have your coloring, Neil."

"Maddy, don't you know how very beautiful you are?"

She glowed under his long, silent perusal of her face. "In your eyes."

"The only eyes that matter, love." He kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Hi, there, Kady," Neil murmured to his newborn daughter.

"Michael!" Nikita shouted, holding his hand so tightly, he almost couldn't bear it. Not because she was stronger than he was. But because she was in such pain.

His son was clearly taking his time getting here. Everything had started to happen quickly, then just as suddenly, everything slowed down again. Miranda's face, however, gave absolutely nothing away. For his part, Michael refused to read anything into what she was not telling them.

Still, he couldn't resist asking her, just once, "Is Kita okay?" Miranda realized where Michael's priorities lay. Nikita first, the child second. It was the only choice he could make, if it ever came down to that.

Luckily for all of them, it wasn't going to come down to that. Far from it. "Not to worry, Michael. Your son is just stopping to smell the roses along the way. Would you want to give up a nice warm place like that to come here?"

That was an interesting choice of words. It made Michael think of being inside his wife, which made him feel vaguely aroused, which in turn seemed highly inappropriate, under the circumstances. Best not to go there.

Faith broke into Michael's meandering thoughts. "Daddy, tell us the story about the name you and Chris got."

"Again, Fee?"

"Yes!" she squealed. "Again, Daddy! I love that story!"

Emmy chimed in, "Yeah, it's just like Beauty and the Beast, only it's a real and for true story!" Sasha grinned at Emmy's choice of analogies. He would have to remember every detail of what was happening, so he could tell Skye in the morning. She would be so upset that she missed all the excitement.

Michael began to tell the story of the name that was passed on through the male side of the family, father to son, over and over, through the centuries. Faith, despite her occasional flightiness, was very bright, and she shared Chris' love of history. At least, insofar as it related to her own family.

Faith clapped her hands enthusiastically at the end. "What's his name going to be, Dad?" she asked, alluding to the as yet unborn Samuelle son.

Before Michael could answer, he heard Nikita yell one more time. His eyes focused on the tiny pink creature that slid from his wife's womb at last. Needing to do something, anything, he helped Miranda clean the baby, wanting to be the one to lay his son on Nikita's abdomen for the first time. "Oh, my God, doucette," Michael said, his voice so low and throaty, Nikita smiled.

"Is he beautiful, Michael?"

"Yes, he's got all his fingers and toes, and—"

"He looks like you, Michael," Nikita said reverently, completely spellbound by the unfocused look in her new son's eyes. It was true. He had his father's eyes. That indeterminate shade of grey that could easily be green or blue, seemingly at will. Even his hair had the look of Michael. A dark reddish-brown. A curiously warm color. Earthy. Like cinnamon. Or nutmeg.

Faith peered over the blankets at her newborn baby brother. "What's his name, what's his name, Dad?"

"Luc. Luc Stephane," Michael pronounced.

"Named for his grandfather," Nikita added huskily.

Walter blushed. "Aw, Sugar, you're kidding me."

"Well, as much as I love you, Dad, I just couldn't call him Walter. And," she giggled, "the French equivalent is just awful. But I figured it was the thought that counts. So we're naming him in your honor."

Walter looked stunned. "But Sugar, I thought you knew. I thought that's why—"

"Why what, Dad?"

Walter's face creased into a huge grin. "That my middle name is Steven."

Nikita shook her head gently, lightly touching her son. "Dad? You're a man of many faces. Too many to count."

Miranda smiled knowingly. She alone knew the many faces of Walter that he kept hidden from the rest of the world. Sometimes it could be a revelation.

By the time the long night was over, every single one of them had a reaction to the births of two more children in the Samuelle extended family.

Although it was clear that Neil regretted not being with Nikita at the birth of her son, especially since he disliked not being in control of events almost as much as Michael, he was relieved that everything went smoothly. He checked over Miranda's handiwork, admiring the older woman's surprisingly deft stitches on Nikita's episiotomy. "You did a nice job there, Miranda."

Miranda snorted. "Only another woman can appreciate what it feels like to have stitches down there, Neil. Too tight, and someone's gonna hurt someone, if you catch my drift. Too loose, and no one's ever gonna have fun again. So they have to be…just…right." She snipped an imaginary thread in the air with two fingers, demonstrating just how skilled she was.

Neil chuckled. "Well, that would probably be the only thing that could ever stop these two from making love." He smiled down at Nikita, who was sleeping. Finally. She had been so excited at seeing her new son, she had struggled to stay awake, past the effects of the low level anesthesics used, past the effects of the painkillers, and past the effects of all that effort on so little sleep.

When she began to fade, Michael urged her to sleep, encircling her lovingly with both arms. If he could have found a comfortable, or even uncomfortable, way to join her on the makeshift bed they'd made for her on the floor of the living room, he would have. Neil told Michael it would be safe to move her upstairs and into their bed, but Nikita fell asleep where she was, her arms cradling her newborn son on her still full abdomen.

"Michael, why don't you get some rest? You look completely worn out," Neil suggested.

In truth, Michael couldn't say what was still keeping him awake. He was so tired, his eyes could barely focus. But how he felt physically was unimportant. He knew that much. He was thrilled at the sight of his son, lying on Nikita's abdomen, tiny fists clenched around a lock of her long pale hair. His son's head was not much bigger than Michael's own clenched fist, or so it seemed.

When Michael met Neil's eyes again, he looked almost tearful. "Is he okay? I mean…he's so small." Michael whispered, though he was certain Nikita couldn't hear him. He didn't want to voice his fears or anxieties within her hearing.

Neil smiled patiently. "Sometimes they come that way, Michael. Nikita went full-term, more or less, and your son is actually a bit bigger than Skye was at birth."

Michael gave Neil a faint smile. He wasn't reassured yet. "Skye's a girl."

"And girls are usually stronger, healthier, and all that good stuff, Michael. The fairer sex is hardly that, when it comes to being born. All things considered, I'd rather be a girl."

Michael's lips twitched in some semblance of mirth. "I never knew you felt that way, Neil. Does Madeline know?"

Neil rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant."

Michael nodded. "So you must be happy. You've got a daughter now. What's her name again?"

"Kady. Kady Elizabeth." Neil's face softened, thinking of his new baby lying in her mother's arms back at his house. "Elizabeth was my mother's name. She died when I was very young. But I think she would be proud to know my daughter shares her name."

Walter walked up to his wife and rubbed her back, right between her shoulderblades, where he could feel her muscles had tightened. "You ready to call it a night, Honey? Even the grandkids are asleep."

They both looked as one at the children. During the birth, they had been running on adrenaline, excitedly commenting on what was happening. Immediately afterwards, they chattered like a bunch of baby squirrels, comparing notes on what they'd seen and what it all meant. Then, one by one, they had fallen asleep. Like a litter of puppies, collapsing bonelessly upon one another. Chris' arms were wrapped around Emmy, while Faith was snuggled next to them, bereft without Connor's constant presence. Sasha had been more or less keeping guard over all of them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his arms crossed in front of him. Until he too fell asleep. Without Skye around, there was little to hold his interest.

Miranda leaned on her husband. "Should we move them into their rooms?"

Michael turned, taking in the peaceful scene and all it represented. To him, it was the essence of what made their lives so much different now. If they had stayed in Section, they would never have had this incredible beauty in their lives. Their children were indeed complicated, richly textured human beings in their own right. But more than that, they were the future. They were hope.

"Let them be," Michael said softly. "They have each other as well as us now."

Declan lay back on the bed, every bone in his body feeling as though it ached at once. "How come…", he drawled slowly, his arm wrapped around Sey's shoulder, "every time Michael and Nikita have a baby, we end up making love?"

Sey draped himself across Declan's chest, sated. For now. "Tradition?"

Declan chuckled, pressing a kiss to Sey's face before Sey snuggled against his chest. "I feel like I could sleep for at least a hundred years," Sey said with a yawn.

"Well, Sleeping Beauty, what a waste of time that would be," Declan commented dryly.

Sey opened his eyes again, reaching up to caress Declan's face. His fingers tracing the outline of Declan's love-softened lips, Sey gazed tenderly into his lover's silvery eyes. "Not if you were the Prince who came to kiss me awake," he said huskily.

Declan kissed him lightly. "Would you like that then?"

Sey brushed his lips against Declan's in the tiniest of caresses. "Yeah…"

"I'll have to remember that," Declan declared against his mouth. "Are you going to let me sleep now, or are you going to torture us both, you little torment?"

Silence. Then the softest of sounds. Lips meeting skin.

Declan groaned. "Is that an answer?"

"Dav, the babies won't break. They're practically indestructible. Even someone like you can't hurt them just by holding them in your arms." Derry looked bemused by her husband's discomfiture in holding his infant daughter.

It was true that Davenport looked positively gigantic next to the tiny baby girl. But then, he looked big next to most people. "A-are you sure, darlin'? I don't want to hurt her."

Derry laughed merrily. She was getting used to this whole motherhood thing, and sometimes, in her heart, she realized it was what she had longed for most. A child, two children. Cast in the image of the man she loved. She had everything.

Slipping a hand gently under her daughter's head, she whispered, "Willow, tell your Da he isn't capable of harming a hair on your beautiful little head. We know, don't we? He's a regular pushover, your Da is."

Shortly after the twins were born, Derry sat down with Davenport to discuss giving them middle names. In honor of their unusual heritage, Cherokee-Irish, they had chosen special names for them. Names which meant something in the scheme of the universe they shared. Kiarra's middle name was Willow. Named for the willow tree, a much revered object in nature, and as such, something sacred to people who lived off the land. As for their son, Jago, his middle name was Ash. Also a tree, it was more than that. The ash was considered a spiritual thing, not unlike the willow, but in terms of Celtic lore, it was also magical, a source of fantastical energy.

Davenport pressed a kiss to his daughter's cheek, earning him a fond look from his wife. "I don't know enough words to express what I'm feeling, darlin'. But you know how deeply I care about you and our kids, don't you?"

Derry leaned into her husband's body, embracing both him and their daughter. "You could never be anything less than what I dreamed you into being, Jake."

James hung up the phone, and it clattered noisily into the handset on the bedside table. He turned over in bed, sleepily pulling the covers over his bare chest, only to be stopped by Smoke's hands. "Wh-what?"

"Don't cover yourself up. I want to look at you, Jamie."

James groaned, pretending that this hadn't been the best few months of his life since their return from the Caribbean. "Sometimes I think you're trying to kill me, Pete."

"You'll die 'appy."

That made James laugh. Too true. The past few months with his Pete had been extraordinary. True to his word, Smoke did not allow them to make love until they returned home. And even then, he waited, almost anxiously, for the circumstances to be exactly right. He knew a good thing when he felt it. And he had no intention of screwing things up, if he could possibly help it.

Belatedly, James thought of the phone call in the middle of the night. Good news. "Don't you want to know who was on the phone?"

"You'll get around to telling me. Eventually." Smoke leaned over and licked James' ear. He brushed his cheek against James' cheek, and the younger man sighed pleasurably. With affection as well as passion. That was how he knew their relationship had a real chance of succeeding. It wasn't just sex. Or infatuation. They genuinely loved each other. And it showed. In more places than bed.

"Michael and Nikita have a new son. Luc."

Smoke's eyes lit up. "Dat's great." Sometimes, when he least expected it, Smoke's accent became stronger. It was one of the many little things that endeared him to James.

"And…"

"Dere's an and? What else?" Smoke entreated happily.

"Madeline and Neil have a new daughter. Kady."

"Born on the same day? Dat's good luck."

"You made that up."

Smoke shrugged. "I dunno. But it seems like it would be, yes? You're gonna teach them, too, when dey grow up? So you'll 'ave somethin' to do until you get tired of makin' love wit' me."

James' eyes took on a fierce glint. "Oh, Pete, I don't intend to ever get tired of making love with you."

Smoke chuckled, burrowing his face against James' chest. "We're gonna love forever then?"

"God, I sure hope so."