Nikita wobbled a bit, and Michael caught her. "What’s wrong?"

"I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast, Michael. My stomach is empty. And I-I don’t feel so good." She sank wearily to the ground, Michael’s arms around her. He was the picture of guilt. His face flushed, he put his hand on her forehead. "You feel hot, Kita."

He laid her carefully down on the grass, putting their jackets together under her head. "Don’t move."

He reached for his cell phone. There were six messages. He frowned. "Nikita, how come the phone wasn’t on?"

"I turned it off, Michael. I didn’t want Walter nagging us all day long." She turned on her side and groaned. "Unhhh..."

She vomited a small amount of fluid, moaning softly. "I’m sorry, Michael."

He touched the side of her face gently. He grabbed a bandana from the cycle bag and wiped her face carefully. "You’re sorry?" His voice was incredulous. He clearly blamed himself for this. He let her put his needs first, and this was the result. He wanted to find a hole and crawl into it.

"It’s just morning sickness, Michael." She sounded weak.

"It’s not morning."

"It doesn’t have to be. Some women get it in the evening. Some never get it at all."

She retched again, her abdomen heaving, but little came forth. "And some get it all the time."

He pressed the first button on the cell phone and connected immediately with an irate Walter. He held the phone away from his ear for a moment, trying to absorb the various insults to his parentage, his nationality, and his birthright. He winced. Walter was on a tear.

"Walter!" he shouted into the phone, trying to be heard over the noise.

Walter was not about to be calmed down that easily. "You sonuva---! I ought to whup your ass! Where the hell have you two been all day long? Is Sugar all right? You better tell me she’s okay! Or I’ll call the police, I mean it!"

"I’m bringing her home now," Michael said, grimacing at the renewed insults that brought forth. He clicked the button on the phone, turning off Walter’s diatribe, but in his head, it continued without interruption. How could he have brought Nikita all the way out here? What was he thinking? He’d wanted them both to feel free, to have a day without an agenda...but it had backfired with a vengeance. Now she was sick, and it was all his fault.

He wiped her face again. "Can you sit up, Nikita?" he asked softly.

"I think so, Michael." She sat up gingerly, waiting for the next wave of nausea. "I think I’d feel okay if my stomach wasn’t so empty."

He blinked. He found a few stale crackers inside a tin in the cycle bag and offered them to her. She took one and tentatively bit into it. It seemed to settle her stomach. "That’s better."

He worked quietly to clean her face, not saying a word. But he’d put his dark glasses back on, and Nikita knew he was hiding how he felt again. He lifted her into his arms, taking care not to touch her any more than he had to, and stood her on her feet. "Can you walk?"

"I think so." She wanted to say something, but he’d shut himself down. Completely. She felt bad that this happened. This had been such a special day until now. He offered her his arm, and she took it, figuring it was the only contact he was going to allow her now. He led her carefully back down the incline, after collecting their jackets. He looked at the motorcycle and sighed.

"Nikita, there is no way in hell you can ride back home on this thing," he said flatly. There was no way she could contradict him. She felt awful, her color was ashen, and she was unsteady on her feet.

Michael pulled out the phone again, his thumb depressing the first button. He spoke to Walter as briefly as possible, indicating that he should get in touch with Madeline. "I need help," he said to Walter. "Call Madeline. Tell her to come here and get Nikita."

He pressed the button again, placed the phone in the bag, and sat down on the ground beside the motorcycle to wait. "It’s going to be a while before someone can come and get us, Nikita. You might as well sit and rest." His tone was so cool, she would have imagined him to be completely unaffected, but for the tremor in his hands. He reached out to her, to help her sit beside him, and she felt it, the tremor he couldn’t disguise.

"Michael, it’s just morning sickness. You didn’t make me sick. You do know that, don’t you?"

She grew frustrated with his refusal to answer and abruptly wrenched the glasses off his nose. His eyes were filled with unshed tears. He closed his eyes. "I don’t know anything anymore," he said so softly, she could barely hear.

They spent the next hour sitting in total silence. Nikita kept glancing at Michael, but he looked down at the ground, refusing to make eye contact with her. He kept playing with his wedding ring, and for some reason, it unnerved her. She was certain the two things were connected in some way, but she didn’t see how.

Madeline arrived, with Walter in tow. She had tried to prevent him from accompanying her, but he was insistent. No, more than insistent. Deranged was probably a better word. Walter took his new responsibilities as father very seriously. He would just as soon kill Michael as look at him right now.

Walter grabbed Nikita and flung his arms wildly around her, checking her for bruises, bumps and obvious signs of distress. Unfortunately, he found nothing he could blame Michael for. He looked at Michael, observing how the younger man just sat there, aloof, detached, and clearly disinterested in Walter’s arrival. He gave Michael a gentle shove, and Michael sprang to his feet, his mouth tight. He spun on his heel and walked towards the motorcycle.

"Where the hell do you think you’re going, boy?" Walter commanded angrily.

Michael didn’t answer. He removed his dark glasses and pulled the helmet on over his head. When it had clicked into place, he kick-started the cycle, revving the engine almost angrily, his mouth a thin line. Madeline put out a hand to stop him, and he nodded imperceptibly. He pulled the helmet off, glaring at Walter, a muscle ticking uncontrollably in his cheek. "Michael..." Madeline said, "...I don’t think you should drive right now."

He shook his head. "I don’t care."

Madeline looked frustrated. "Michael, please don’t do this."

"Take her home."

He revved the engine again, spinning the cycle slightly before straightening out and heading for the road that led down the mountain. Walter stared after him in disbelief. "Crazy! He’s crazy! What the hell is going on?"

Nikita’s lower lip trembled. "Walter, it’s not his fault. I just had some morning sickness, that’s all."

"Yeah, well, why didn’t you answer the phone?"

Nikita looked embarrassed. "That was me, too. I turned off the phone, Walter. I-I wanted us to have some privacy. I’m sorry..."

Suddenly Walter looked contrite. "No, Sugar, I’m the one who should be apologizing. You’re right. I’m new to this father thing, you know. I’m just starting to get the hang of it." He took Nikita’s hands in his. "I keep forgetting you two just got married. Your wedding was ruined, you never had a honeymoon. Of course, you want to be alone."

"No, Walter, it wasn’t like that at all. Why do you keep painting Michael as this sex fiend who can’t wait to jump on me?" Madeline took in Nikita’s flushed face and her obvious overreaction to Walter’s statement, and guessed that whatever happened, had something to do with what she’d just said.

Madeline took Nikita aside and said, "Did Michael make love to you, Nikita?" She shook her head.

"Did you want him to?" Nikita’s eyes flickered anxiously. "Yes," she whispered.

"What happened?" Madeline asked gently. But Nikita glanced at Walter. "I can’t tell you now. Not here."

"Very well, we’ll continue this at my office. When we get back."

Madeline turned back suddenly, focusing on Nikita’s anxious face. "Should I be worried that Michael went off by himself on the motorcycle?"

Nikita wrung her hands briefly. "Yes..." she whispered.

Madeline swung into action a moment later, galvanized both by what Nikita said and what she didn’t say. "Walter, stay with Nikita." She took out her cell phone and dialed. "Birkoff, I need you."

Nikita looked puzzled. "But how?"

"I’ve had a tracker on Michael since we returned from Section, Nikita. I wasn’t about to lose you two again."

Madeline snapped around, closing the cell phone. "Birkoff’s got a location on Michael. Walter, you sit in the back with Nikita. I’m driving."

Walter backed up, both impressed and afraid that Madeline was going to drive them all down the mountain. He grabbed Nikita and gently pushed her inside the car.

Nikita sat in tight-lipped silence all the way down. If something happened to Michael, she would never forgive herself. She refused to cry. She’d cried enough tears for a lifetime. Still, her vision blurred, and she felt the lump in her throat grow big enough to choke her. Michael, please be all right.

***

They found Michael sitting astride the motorcycle, his helmet on the ground next to him. He was parked on a deserted stretch of land overlooking the water. What he was contemplating no one knew but him. But Nikita guessed that it had something to do with driving that motorcycle into the water. Before Walter could stop her, Nikita wrenched open the car door and ran towards Michael. He saw her coming, and the color drained from his face.

"Go back, Nikita."

"No!" she shouted.

Walter came up behind her and pinned her arms to her sides, making it impossible for her to reach Michael. "Sugar, come back to the car."

"No!" she screamed louder. "Michael! Please!"

He closed his eyes, her voice a necessary pain he had to bear. Walter succeeded finally in wresting Nikita away from Michael and into the car. But she continued to escalate, almost hysterical in her desire to reach Michael. She pounded on the windows of the car, crying, and Walter held onto her tightly.

Madeline reached out her hand to Michael. He glanced at it, noted its presence, and continued to stare out at the water. "Michael, you need to tell me what you’re feeling."

"Why?" His voice had no color, no timbre, no texture at all. Madeline was deeply worried. She had seen Michael in a bad way before, but this was different, more intense, more powerful...more dangerous.

"Because I want to help you."

"Why?"

Michael turned his anguished eyes on Madeline. "You can’t help me, Madeleine." Michael’s accent had grown stronger, and he pronounced Madeline’s name the French way.

"Michael, whatever you’ve done...or think you’ve done...we can talk about it. Come back to the office with me."

"No." His whisper was soft, but strong. He wasn’t moving voluntarily.

Madeline didn’t want to leave him, but she needed help. She went back to the car. When she saw how distraught Nikita was, she despaired. Maybe they were both too damaged, by Section, and by their respective pasts, to continue. She asked Walter to help her, and she almost expected him to refuse. If he did, she knew it would be the end of Michael, and eventually, the end of Nikita.

Walter made sure that Nikita was locked inside the car, and somehow, he managed to get out without letting her loose. He strode towards Michael, Madeline at his side. Together, they faced Michael, who was clearly grief-stricken himself.

"Michael, come with us willingly, or we will drag you from here." Madeline implored him.

"Please don’t."

"We will. You know we will. Michael, Nikita is beside herself with grief. You have to come back with us. To her." Madeline kept her voice low and controlled. But inside, she was truly frightened.

"She’ll...get over it..." Michael choked on the last word.

"Michael, I’m sorry, I know you would never do anything to hurt Sugar. I just went nuts when you two didn’t come back, and then when you called and said she was sick...my heart just plain stopped, Michael. I swear it’s the truth."

Michael shook his head, his mouth clenched so tightly, Madeline swore she could hear him grinding his teeth.

"Take him, Walter. Please."

Walter dragged Michael off the Harley, knocking him to the ground. He lay there, doubled over, and Walter feared that he had actually hurt him. But Michael staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on Walter. "Walter..." Michael choked out. "Please help me..."

Walter grabbed Michael and held him as tightly as possible, afraid to take his eyes off him, even for a moment. Here, he’d been worried sick about Nikita, and all the time, it had been Michael who needed him. He hadn’t forgotten how close they’d become during the weeks without Nikita. Ever since then, there had been a special bond between the two of them. Not unlike the bond that existed between him and Birkoff.

Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. But she knew it wasn’t over. They still had to get Michael back to the car, and once he was in the car with Nikita, she didn’t know what would happen.

She needn’t have worried. Once Walter managed to drag Michael to the car, Michael automatically gravitated towards Nikita. He stared at her for the longest time, and then he grabbed hold of her, pressing kisses all over her face. She clung to him, tears streaming down her face, letting him touch her wherever and however he wished. He leaned back against the window, cradling her in his arms, his eyes dark and wet with pain. "Je t’aime, je t’aime..." he chanted in a low voice only Nikita could hear.

She couldn’t bear the pain in his voice. He was near bottom himself, and he was reassuring her that he still loved her. "I love you, too..." she whispered to him, her arms shaking as they slowly wrapped themselves around his neck. She pressed her face against his chest, searching for something, and smiling tearfully once she finally found it. She closed her eyes and went to sleep against his heart. He continued to murmur in French to her, all the while feeling his heart beating next to hers. "Je t’aime, mon ame..."

Michael glanced at Madeline, who was clearly studying the two of them with considerable concern in her warm brown eyes. "Madeleine...merci."

Without even thinking twice, Madeline answered, "Il n’y a pas de quoi." She saw how peacefully Nikita was sleeping, and wondered if the emotional storm had passed. "Comment ca va, Michael?"

"Comme ci, comme ca." He tried to smile, but it was beyond him.

"Et Nikita?" She indicated Nikita, asking how she was doing. "Elle va mieux, n’est-ce pas?"

"Better, yes." Michael blinked, suddenly realizing they had been conversing in French for the better part of ten minutes.

"Michael, is she okay?" Walter asked, looking in the rearview mirror as he drove. "Yes," he replied.

Walter glanced behind him before adding, "Are you?"

Michael looked down at the sleeping woman snuggled against him. "I am now."

Once they reached Madeline’s office, in the house she shared with the good doctor who treated Nikita’s wounds, Michael and Nikita were separated. Madeline saw the very real fear on Michael’s face. "It’s not forever, Michael. Just for now. I need to talk to both of you about what happened."

He nodded. Walter took the sleepy Nikita into his arms and hugged her. "Come on, Sugar, I’m gonna feed you. I figure even I can’t ruin soup."

Michael smiled weakly. "I wouldn’t be too sure about that."

Once Walter left with Nikita, Michael inquired as to the doctor’s name. "We can hardly keep calling him the good doctor, Madeline. Does he have a name?"

She smiled enigmatically. "Of course. Actually, it’s quite a nice name. Neil. Neil Hunter."

Michael nodded. "He seems nice enough. Is the partnership working out all right?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. And as much as I am glad you asked, Michael, why are we making small talk instead of talking about you?"

He shrugged. "I’m not nearly as interesting."

"Oh, but I think you are. I think you’re extremely interesting, Michael, and much more complicated than I originally thought."

Michael paced slowly back and forth in the office, and Madeline, who was sitting to his left, sat in a comfortable leather chair. "I suppose that’s what passes for a compliment in a psychiatrist’s office."

"You’re not comfortable with the process, are you, Michael?"

"I don’t understand what you mean, Madeline."

"I think you do."

"Don’t go all Section on me, Madeline. I have enough bad memories." Michael narrowed his eyes, and Madeline shivered, despite her professional calm.

"You were the perfect operative, Michael. You did what you were told, you were a good team leader..."

"Why do I feel like I’m being debriefed, right before I get canceled?"

"I don’t know. Why do you find personal questions so threatening?"

"I think you were making more sense when we were speaking French, Madeline." Michael snarled as he passed by her chair for the third time in as many minutes.

"You seem angry."

"What an astute observation," he said sarcastically.

"But is it me you’re angry with?" This time, when she smiled, Michael wanted to slap her.

"You tell me."

"You’re very good at this, Michael. We could do this all day long, and never get to the bottom of what’s bothering you and Nikita. Why are you resisting talking about what happened?"

"What do you know about what happened?" Michael’s expression was grim.

"I know that Nikita was very upset, that she wanted to make love, but you didn’t, for some reason."

"Is that what she told you?" Michael was incredulous.

"Isn’t that what happened?"

He laughed harshly. "No!"

"Then tell me what did happen, Michael." She waited.

He shook his head. "Not that easy, Madeline."

She stopped him from pacing any further. "Michael, you need to talk about this."

He raked his hands through his hair, mussing it so completely, he was unrecognizable. "I can’t, Madeline."

"Could you tell Walter?" Madeline asked.

Michael looked anguished for a moment. He considered it, but he felt so embarrassed, he didn’t know how he would manage it. "I don’t know if I could, Madeline." His entire tone of voice changed. The anger was gone, replaced by something else.

Madeline leaned forward. "Michael, what did you do that was so terrible you can’t forgive yourself?"

He began pacing again. Madeline jumped up and grabbed him, as if to shake him. He flinched, trying to avoid her eyes. She saw everything. He’d always believed that at Section. He was sure it was true.

"Michael!" she shouted.

"Frottage!" he shouted, closing his eyes. He colored and turned his back on her.

She nodded slowly. "You rubbed yourself against her until you climaxed?"

He trembled before answering. "Yes," he whispered.

"Did you initiate this?"

"No."

"Did you resist?"

"I tried. But I was too weak. When she touched me...I didn’t want it to stop."

"Did she seem upset by this?"

"No...she said she wanted to do it...to relieve the tension."

"Did you believe her?"

He turned to face Madeline, his shoulders visibly shaking. "No," he whispered.

"Why do you think she did it then?"

"I don’t know. Because she loves me?" Michael walked to the window, staring outside at the sunset. How could it be so beautiful outside when it was so bleak inside?

"Michael...for Nikita, making love is her way of expressing her love for you. It’s how she validates her own feelings as well as yours."

He bit his lip till it bled. "She said I...relinquished control to her. And she thanked me...as if it were a gift."

"Knowing how much you value control, I would say she was right. That was a very loving thing to do, Michael. Especially when you consider how much pain it’s causing you now."

"I don’t know about that. I thought what she did was kindness itself. I was in such pain..." He closed his eyes against the tears that he refused to shed in front of Madeline.

"Then what she did was a gesture of love, too. Can you see this, Michael?"

He nodded faintly.

"But go back. Why were you in such pain?"

"Because I wanted her and I knew I couldn’t make love to her."

"And this was so painful you couldn’t bear it?" Madeline deliberately flexed her vocal muscles, trying to elicit a response. Michael was so emotionally closed down, it was hard.

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"Are you going to tell me?" Michael ran his hands along the window sill, feeling the wood’s smoothness beneath them.

"Yes, I think I will, if it will help. Because you cannot express your feelings for her in any other way."

He turned around at that. "What?"

"I said, you can’t say what you feel with any fluency, Michael, so you’ve come to rely on non-verbal ways to tell her. For you, making love is the same as for Nikita. It’s the way you let her know how much you love her."

He half-smiled. "You understand, why can’t she?"

"I’m not in love with you, Michael."

"Are we--are we done here?" Michael was holding himself together by sheer willpower, and he knew if he didn’t escape soon, he was going to break down completely.

"Yes," she whispered.