Walter handed the hot soup to Michael through the door. "We gotta try to get something into her, Michael, even if only for the baby’s sake. She eats little enough as it is. Now she’s losing weight."

Michael sighed. Nikita lay on the bed, half-asleep, waiting for Michael. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the chicken soup. It was her favorite. It was also the only thing she would eat. He didn’t care at this point. He wanted her to eat something, anything. "Kita, I brought you soup."

She dutifully opened her mouth, looking not unlike a baby bird waiting to be fed. He fed her spoonful after spoonful, wiping her mouth with a napkin occasionally. He didn’t dare think about how regressed she was. At least she still cared about getting dressed and going outside to play with her kitten. Josephine was definitely the true benefactor of Nikita’s suddenly developed sense of playfulness. It was as if Nikita had to live through the childhood she had never had before she could come back to adulthood and her life as Michael’s wife.

They had been married a week now. In all that time, they had not made love. Nikita’s wound continued to heal. She was in relatively no pain. But that was not the problem. How could one make love to a woman who was trapped within a nightmarish world created by her own mother? How could one make love to a woman-child who thought she was still a little girl? He wanted so badly to let her know how much he loved her, but it would have been the worst form of taking advantage to make love while she was acting this way. He would have felt like a rapist, or worse, like one of her abusers.

And so they settled into a routine of sorts. Walter took care of Birkoff during the nights when the nightmares came. Michael took care of Nikita during the nights when she had flashbacks of her abuse. And Walter took care of Michael when he couldn’t take care of anyone anymore and needed to talk to someone who understood his pain.

"That’s good, Kita, you were a good girl." Michael was always careful to praise Nikita for eating well, it was the only thing that seemed to work. She would work hard to please Michael, but sometimes, Michael couldn’t help but wonder how the little girl in Nikita saw him. Did she see a father? Wouldn’t she have been frightened to know that he was only a lonely young man who wanted his wife back? In his arms, yes, but in his bed, too. He sighed, feeling strangely guilty for even thinking about sex. He loved her so, it was a small price to pay to keep her in his life.

"Do you want to play with Josephine?" Nikita’s face brightened. "Yes, please, Michael."

He set the soup bowl on the nightstand. He stood up, stretching his back and his neck. "I’ll go get Josephine, you stay here, Kita. Okay?"

"Okay, Michael." She never disobeyed Michael. He was very good to her. She trusted him implicitly. He kept the bad men away. He wouldn’t let them hurt her. He wanted her to tell him about the bad men, but she didn’t want to talk about them. She hated them. She wanted to stab them and shoot them and kill them. Sometimes she felt so angry, but she didn’t know why. Michael said he would help her make the angry feelings go away. She hoped so. She liked living with Michael. He loved her.

Michael stood outside the bedroom door and hung his head, feeling the familiar tears come to his eyes. Sometimes the strain was too much for him. Nikita was making some progress. She trusted him above anyone else. She refused to talk to anyone else, even Walter, which made it difficult for Michael to take a break. He was grateful that a part of her recognized how important he was in her life. He was grateful that a part of her knew how much he loved her, albeit not in anything but the most superficial way. But he didn’t know what he would have done without Walter’s support. If Michael was Nikita’s rock, Walter was Michael’s. They all depended on one another now. And if one of them should go down suddenly, all Hell would surely break loose.

Michael handed Nikita the kitten. She was careful not to squeeze her too tightly, as Michael had cautioned her, and the tiny cat purred in Nikita’s arms, making her smile. God, when she smiled, it was like the sun finally coming out after a terrible storm. He could sit and bask in the shade of her smile for days. He rocked back on his heels, realizing that he missed Nikita. The real Nikita. The woman he loved more than life itself. Sometimes he thought, what if she never recovers? Would he be willing to stay with her forever, taking care of her, but knowing he could never make love to her again? That was the thought that made his head pound. He knew he was hanging on by a thread here. He needed help.

She needed to be mothered. Her own mother had done hideous things to her. Whether or not the woman was sick or alcoholic or neglectful didn’t matter to Michael. When he looked at the damage that woman had wrought upon the fair head of Nikita, he wanted to scream his outrage to the world. It wasn’t enough to know that she was probably dead by now. The way he felt some nights, he wished he could pull her body out of the cold ground it lay in and kill her again. Himself.

It came as no surprise that Nikita felt unable to be a mother. She had no example to follow. She didn’t know the most basic things about mothering. She had nothing but pain and suffering to emulate, and fearing the worst, that she would visit these things upon her own child, she simply ceased to be. In her own mind, it was safer to be a child again than to have one. She was not only in denial about the pregnancy, she was giving up control of her life. To Michael.

"Josephine has to go back outside now, Kita." She pouted prettily at Michael and begged for a few more minutes. He couldn’t tell her no. He gave in every time. Even at whatever age Nikita thought she was, she was manipulating his feelings for her. He rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. Most nights, Nikita slept, but the past two, she had been up every five minutes, trying to shout the house down. Not coincidentally, those had been two of Birkoff’s worst nights as well. Walter was understandably upset. Birkoff had not had any further seizures, but Walter was pressing Michael to call the doctor, just in case there was medication or some other treatment they weren’t using.

Nikita held out Josephine to Michael, wondering why he wasn’t accepting her. She smiled and touched Michael’s hand, startling him out of his fog. He smiled back at her, taking the kitten in one hand. He raised Nikita’s hand to his lips and kissed it. God, he wanted her back. He couldn’t stand much more of this. "That tickles, Michael." She giggled nervously, and Michael dropped her hand. "Sorry, doucette." Nikita frowned up at him, asking, "What does doucette mean, Michael?"

There was a question. How did he answer that one? Well, it’s a pet name I made up for you, Kita. It’s bastardized French. "It means you’re sweet, Kita. In another language." She beamed. "That’s nice."

She scooted off the bed and into the bathroom. "I’m going to brush my teeth, Michael. I can do it myself this time."

"Yes, Kita. You’re a big girl now..." he said in a choked voice, his eyes miles away. "When you’re finished, get into bed, okay? I’ll be back to tuck you in."

He walked into the hall and straight into Walter, who took one look at Michael’s face and pulled him into a hug. He clapped Michael on the arm and released him, knowing that to hold him any longer than he had was inviting Michael to break down. And Walter didn’t know how many more breakdowns Michael could handle before giving up. Michael put the kitten down gently on the hall floor. His eyes searched Walter’s anxiously.

"You look beat, Michael. You need to rest tonight. No protests." Walter held up his hand to Michael’s face. "You take my room, you sleep downstairs tonight, where you can’t hear her calling for you. You got me?"

Michael nodded weakly. "But Walter...there is no place I can go where I can’t hear her voice. She calls me in my sleep, my dreams, my nightmares. She’s in me, Walter. I can’t get away from that."

Walter sighed. "You’ve got to, Michael. You haven’t got much left. And Birkoff and me still need you, too."

Tears came to Michael’s eyes. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "I know you have problems, too. You’re all that’s holding me up, Walter. You know that?"

Walter nodded sadly. "I know, Michael." I know, that’s what worries me.

Michael made up the bed in Walter’s room, knowing it was a futile gesture at best. There was no way he could forget about Nikita, even for one hour, much less one night. He slid his T-shirt over his head, mussing his hair into an unruly tangle of chestnut brown. He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes. He removed his pants, debating whether or not to take everything off. If Nikita needed him during the night, he wanted to be able to go to her quickly. He punched the pillows and settled into the bed, so similar to the one he’d shared with Nikita. So briefly. That was not a good thought, he told himself, warning himself to think about something else.

He was so tired, he was asleep before he realized. His dreams were elusive creatures, fluttering quickly out of sight before he could get a good glimpse of them. His eyelids twitched, and he finally succumbed.

"Michael..." Nikita’s voice broke into his thoughts. He frowned. "What is it, Kita?"

She stood in the moonlight, outlined by the full moon, a goddess in white. Even her hair looked white. She tapped his hand impatiently. "What?" She pulled the covers off him and crept into bed beside him. He was so stunned, he couldn’t react immediately. But when he did... "Kita, no...."

She knelt on the bed in front of him, shrugging her shoulders until the white nightgown simply fell away. The moment her breasts were revealed, Michael’s mouth went dry. He shook his head negatively, but Nikita pressed his head to her chest, inviting him to touch her, suckle her. He was so weak in the face of such temptation. He didn’t think. He couldn’t think. He took her in his mouth, and he heard her gasp. She moaned as he lightly flicked his tongue against her breast. He slid down her body, unable to stop now what she had started. He licked her navel, his tongue swirling around the spot for a moment before he kissed it. He switched places with her, pushing her ungently to the bed so that she lay beneath him now.

She didn’t speak, she simply smiled. He kissed her again and again, wet, open-mouthed kisses that drove both of them into an almost violent coming together, their bodies as yet unjoined. He shuddered against her, realizing that he had done the unthinkable. He had lost control. Completely. But she smiled lovingly at him, and with that smile, he was forgiven. Absolved. Pardoned. From the prison he had locked his body within. He rolled over in bed, his arm clutching at the air. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. "Nikita!" he yelled hoarsely. She was gone. Just as she had come, she had gone. He buried his face in his hands. He was delusional. Or worse.

He was dreaming.

***

He woke with a pounding headache. It was early morning. He hadn’t been up to Nikita once during the night. Walter never called him. He pulled the linen off the bed and wrapped it around his middle. He stood up and went into Walter’s shower. As he washed his hair and his body, he realized that the house seemed too quiet. Nikita wasn’t yelling for him. She wasn’t yelling for him?

When Michael finished in the shower, he put his T-shirt back on and dressed in the pants he brought in with him. He exited the small room and found Walter in the kitchen with Birkoff. They were eating breakfast. He forced himself not to automatically check on Nikita. He definitely needed a few minutes to settle his jangled nerves.

Walter looked up from his herbal tea. "Soothing spearmint, Michael. You should try some." He smiled faintly. I feel like I fell through the Looking-Glass, and you’re a hookah-smoking caterpillar, Walter.

Birkoff glanced at Michael before exchanging an intriguing look with Walter. Michael thought to himself, none of this is real, I’ve gone mad. "Michael," said Birkoff. When Michael didn’t answer right away, Birkoff raised an eyebrow, not unlike Walter had been known to do. "Is he okay?"

Michael sat down on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt away at any moment. He was feeling increasingly unsettled. "What?" he asked Birkoff.

Birkoff shook his head. "Michael, I know you have trouble understanding this, but I’m going to say it again because it needs saying. Nikita is not getting better because you’re doing everything for her. She does feel miserable, but she’s got a good thing going. You’re not giving her a reason to come back to us, Michael."

"You’re doing everything for her...you’re not giving her a reason to come back to us, Michael." Those words reverberated in his head. He winced. Each movement was like a slice into his brain. When he came to his senses again, he realized he was still in Walter’s bed. He had still been dreaming. But he was galvanized by the message the dream-Birkoff had given him. Was he really doing everything for her? Was he making it too easy for her to keep being a little girl trapped in a woman’s body? Did he need to give her an incentive to come back to them?

***

Michael walked upstairs with a lighter heart. He didn’t know if it would work. He didn’t know if it was even recommended. But he had to do something. And he couldn’t continue to live like this. No one could.

He strode bare-chested into the master bedroom. Nikita lay sleeping peacefully. Sweet. Innocent. Untouched. No, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t violate her trust like this. He stood there, watching her sleep, his heart at war with his head. Oh, hell. He peeled back the covers carefully and climbed into bed beside Nikita. He wrapped his arms around her, carefully, gingerly. He slowly insinuated his body against hers and waited. Nikita, he prayed, if you’re still in there somewhere, come back to me, doucette. He closed his eyes, not really meaning to fall asleep, but unable to prevent it.

Nikita woke, bleary-eyed, feeling as though she’d been asleep a long, long time. She turned her head and saw Michael sleeping next to her. His arm was slung across her chest, and she was trapped under its weight. She shifted carefully, not trying to wake him, but he was so clearly tuned into her every movement, he opened his eyes. She smiled. He was her husband now. They were going to have a baby. Finally they had the happiness they deserved. It had been a long time coming.

"Kita?" He saw the recognition in her eyes and almost cried out. "Kita!"

Nikita laughed heartily at the expression on his face. "Michael! You act as if I’ve been away or something!"

He swallowed. Was he dreaming this? After the last dream he’d had, he didn’t trust his eyes. "You know me?"

She giggled. "Why? Do you have amnesia? You’re my husband! Finally!" She smiled warmly before leaning forward to kiss him good morning.

I must be dreaming this. This can’t possibly be real. He kissed her back, feeling her respond instantly. "Michael! I can’t believe we’re going to have a baby! Finally!"

"Kita, I love you," he said huskily, suddenly not caring if it was a dream or not. At least, in his dreams, he could have her, love her, possess her. She was more real to him here than anywhere else.

"I love you, too, Michael." She smiled happily up at him as his body covered hers.

***

Michael didn’t know if he were going mad or not, but he knew one thing. He needed help right away. He was cracking under the pressure, and sooner or later, he would find himself in that bedroom, trying to make love to his wife, who was regressed to the state of a five-year old child. He would totally violate her trust, and she would wake up screaming. He hugged one pillow to his middle and buried his face in the other, sobbing. He let go of it, all of it, knowing it was this or giving up.

Walter stood outside the door and heard Michael crying. He froze, his hand about to knock. If he went in, Michael would be embarrassed, maybe even shut down completely. If he didn’t, Michael might suffer the same fate, without Walter’s support. He didn’t know what to do for him. He needed to call Madeline. She owed them. Bigtime.

Madeline studied the two very different men sitting at opposite ends of the room. Walter was clearly frustrated, but in control. Michael looked badly wounded, and judging by the mutinous set of his mouth, he was determined to make this session as difficult as humanly possible.

"And who is watching Nikita right now?" Madeline asked softly, determined not to be intimidating.

Madeline was not surprised to hear Walter answer. "Birkoff is watching her. He’s been very protective of her, and he’s actually okay except on the nights he has nightmares. I’m not worried about him hurting her."

Madeline regarded Michael carefully. "And how do you feel about that, Michael?"

Michael leaned his head on his hand almost sleepily, but he refused to look at either of them. He muttered something under his breath, which Madeline didn’t catch, but from the way Walter stared at Michael, Walter had. "What did you say, Michael?" Madeline asked.

"Nothing." He flashed her a quick look from under his lashes, and the look was so intensely painful, Madeline fought the urge to look away.

"So...the two of you have been taking care of Birkoff when he has flashbacks, and Nikita since she’s become regressed. Is that essentially correct?"

Walter nodded. Michael continued to sit there, almost expressionless.

"It must be hard for you." She smiled sympathetically at Walter, and he sighed. "It is hard sometimes, but Birkoff is a great kid. He’s got a good heart...hell, I just love the kid, y’know?"

"Good, I’m sure he feels that. It helps, Walter."

She turned to Michael. "And you, Michael? How are you dealing with Nikita?"

He looked up at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said as patiently as she could, "what have you been doing for her?"

"Not enough, apparently."

The despondency in Michael’s tone told Madeline a great deal more about Michael than about Nikita. Madeline walked over to Michael, and suddenly she grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look up at her. "Are you suicidal, Michael?"

Surprised by the question, Michael actually answered it without thinking. "Not yet."

"But you’re getting there. Aren’t you, Michael?" She demanded sharply, perhaps more sharply than she should have, noting the way Michael simply receded against the chair. He shook his head.

"Are you sure, Michael? Don’t lie to me about this! I can help you, but only if you tell me the truth!" He looked up at her again, this time tearfully. "No, I’m not. But only cause I haven’t got the energy."

"Good. You were honest with me. That’s the only way this is going to work."

She turned back the other way to Walter. "Birkoff’s flashbacks are a common symptom many abused children share. He’s able to function more or less normally the rest of the time. It’s only when something triggers off a bad memory that he reacts by regressing."

She paced back to Michael. "But Nikita is more acute. She was functioning normally until she became pregnant. Her fear of becoming an abuser like her mother is what’s driving her regression. As Walter said before, it is safer for her to be a child than to be a mother. Therefore, she has no normal periods between flashbacks. Her entire life has become one long flashback. She is, for all intents and purposes, five years old."

"With all due respect, Walter, I’m afraid I have to agree with Michael on this. We have to find some way to bring her back into this world, or she might choose to stay in the one she’s made. Unfortunately, Michael, you’re the only one she trusts right now. I know that makes it especially difficult, but I need you, Michael. You can’t fall apart on me now. You’re the only one who can reach Nikita, wherever she is, and bring her back."

Michael glanced surreptitiously at Walter. "You don’t understand, Madeline. I have been feeding her and playing with her and telling her stories, as if she were my child, instead of my wife..."

"And?" she prompted.

"She feels safe with me...but I’m not anymore." The last part was said so low, Madeline had to strain to hear it.

"How do you mean? You want to hurt her?"

"God, no!" Michael actually paled, appalled that Madeline could even suggest such a thing.

"Then tell me..." She sat down and faced Michael kindly.

Again, Michael glanced significantly at Walter. "I can’t."

Walter stood up and said, "Look, I can leave if I’m making Michael uncomfortable."

Michael shook his head. "It’s not that, Walter. It’s just...I can’t talk about this."

Walter pulled his chair over to Michael’s and regarded him sadly. "Michael, we’ve become so close, I kinda thought you could tell me anything."

Michael closed his eyes. "I can. Almost. Just not this. It’s not you, Walter. It’s me," he said hoarsely.

Walter put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, and their eyes met for a long moment. "I want her back, Walter." He swallowed, and the pain was plainly visible now on his face. "But I...can’t even hold her...or kiss her...it’s like being invisible. She doesn’t see me. She sees someone else. Someone she made up in her head, I don’t know."

Madeline broke in. "That’s not unusual, Michael. She trusts you, she loves you, she just doesn’t realize who you are to her."

"But she can’t trust me anymore, Madeline." The anguish in Michael’s voice almost broke Madeline’s heart. She never dreamed they loved each other like this. She felt guilty for her own part in keeping them apart for so many years. "I used to fall asleep with her in my arms. It was reassuring to her." Madeline nodded understandingly. "But now...I can’t."

"Why?"

Michael stared at Madeline, then Walter, then turned his face away from both of them. "The dreams..."

"What about them disturbs you, Michael?"

He turned around, his eyes tortured. "Everything."

He jumped up from his chair and began to pace, tearing at his hair with his hands. Suddenly he stopped and stared out the window. Or was he studying his own reflection?

"I want her," he whispered, as if it were something bad. He wrapped his arms around himself. "And I’m afraid of what I might do."

Walter took a step back, almost involuntarily. Madeline glared at him. "Michael, there is nothing wrong with how you feel."

"Easy for you to say." He continued to stare out the window.

"Michael, let me ask you something...would you hurt Nikita if I asked you to?"

He turned around, eyeing her suspiciously. "No."

"Would you violate her trust if I asked you to?"

"No."

"You see, you don’t even hesitate. You would never hurt her, Michael. You couldn’t."

"But..."

Madeline smiled. "But when you’re asleep, you have no control over your thoughts and feelings, Michael. Everything you feel is mixed up with your subconscious desires. It’s not wrong to want Nikita, Michael. She’s your wife. I’d be more worried if you didn’t want her."

She stood behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders, which were tense with frustration and overwrought emotion. "But what you would do in your dreams is not what you would do in the real world, Michael. You know it would be a gross betrayal to make love to Nikita when she is so unaware. So let your dreams be your release. You’ll need them."

Slowly but surely, she felt the tension in him begin to ebb away. "I just couldn’t stand it if I hurt her."

"You won’t," she reassured him. "You won’t."

***

"What has Nikita told you about the abuse, Michael?"

He raked a hand through his hair. "Not much, Madeline." He shook his head, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. "Just that there are bad men. But she can’t or won’t say who they are. Or what they want to do." He grimaced. "I’m not sure I want to know myself."

"Michael, you have to break through that. You can’t let yourself feel what Nikita is feeling, not while she’s deep into the flashback. You have to stay outside it, sympathetic, but not involved. If you don’t, you won’t be able to help her."

He nodded. "She did say one interesting thing, though. She said she wanted to stab them or shoot them. That’s good, isn’t it?"

Madeline smiled. "It sounds like the adult Nikita is trying to tell her younger self something."

"Walter, can you get me a couple of guns?"

Walter flushed, his eyes wide. "Sure, Maddy. What did you have in mind?"

Madeline smiled enigmatically, giving them a glimpse of the old Section Madeline hard at work scheming. "I’ve got an idea."

***

Madeline chambered the bullet in the gun and clicked off the safety. They had set up a target range in a field far, far away from populated areas or wildlife. They didn’t want to risk anyone seeing what they were doing, nor did they wish to injure innocent people or animals who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She handed the gun to Michael. "I want you to teach Nikita to shoot."

"Madeline, Nikita knows how to shoot. She shoots almost as well as I do."

"Your Nikita does, Michael. But little Nikita doesn’t even know what a gun is."

Michael swallowed. "You’re not serious."

"Oh, but I am. I grant you, this is a very extreme way to approach this, Michael, but we need to do something earth-shaking to stir things up in her head. Get her thinking."

"Madeline, you don’t understand how fragile she is."

"Michael, you’re protecting her. You’ve made her a very nice life, and she could go on like this for a very long time. But if you don’t do something, you could lose your Nikita forever."

Michael’s body jerked as if shot. "No! Don’t say that, Madeline." He held the gun, almost caressing the metal with his fingers.

"Michael! Stop treating that gun as if it were a friend. It’s something to be afraid of!"