Michael didn’t want to move. He could have sat there, holding Nikita in his arms, forever, without even thinking about it. He stroked her hair silently, waiting for his own emotions to calm, waiting for her tears to subside. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Kita..."

She looked up at him, her eyes drenched like cornflowers left out in the rain, and he was struck once again by her beauty. He kissed each of her eyelids shut, slowly, one at a time, and sighed contentedly. He, who had once had so little, now had so much. "Sleep, ma belle femme. I’ll hold you till you wake again..."

Nikita snuggled under his chin, placing her cheek against his heart. The sound of his heart beating reassured her, and she drifted off into a dreamlike state, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Michael rocked slowly, gently, finding the motion soothing himself, and thanked Madeline for thinking of the rocking chair. He closed his eyes, and in his mind’s eye, he saw himself holding his daughter, in much the same way as he now held his wife. It was a beautiful image, and it helped assuage the pain and loss that always accompanied his thoughts of Adam. No one could replace Adam in his heart, but he would be grateful for this new life they were bringing into the world, and he would love and cherish her as he did her mother.

***

Birkoff knocked on the open door to the bedroom. He saw Michael holding Nikita, and for a moment, he felt a pang of something akin to envy, but it subsided as quickly as it came. Michael turned his head and motioned to Birkoff to be quiet, putting a finger to his lips. Birkoff approached softly.

"I’m sorry, Michael, but Madeline’s surprise is...well, it can’t wait much longer. There’s complete chaos downstairs, and we need you to come and straighten things out."

Michael sighed. So much for his dream of sharing a quiet moment or two with Nikita. "Chaos, you say?"

Birkoff nodded. "You have no idea."

"Is Walter involved?"

Birkoff made a face, feeling his loyalty to Walter torn by his greater fear of holding anything back from Michael. "Um...well, yeah, he’s sorta in the middle of it."

"I’ll be there as soon as I can."

Birkoff turned away, stopping at the door for a moment. "Michael..."

Michael glanced at the younger man expectantly.

"Thanks. Thanks for bringing Nikita back safe and...for taking care of her..." Birkoff wiped at his eyes quickly. "She’s like the heart of this family...you know?"

"I know," Michael agreed. He turned back to the sleeping treasure in his arms. "I know."

Michael shifted Nikita carefully off his lap, and she stirred sleepily against him. "Birkoff, come here a moment."

Birkoff looked puzzled. "Um...sure, Michael."

"Would you do me a tremendous favor and stay here with Kita? I don’t want her to wake up and feel like I abandoned her."

Birkoff was overcome by a surge of emotion. "You would let me do that?"

Michael smiled. "You’re family, Seymour. Family takes care of its own, don’t they?" He pulled on the younger man’s arm, directing him to sit down in the chair. Birkoff seemed curiously paralyzed by indecision. "Go ahead."

Birkoff sat, albeit tentatively and on the edge of the rocking chair, as if afraid to move. "Wh-what do you want me to do, Michael?" Michael shifted Nikita again in his arms and kissed her hair. "Sit back, Seymour."

Birkoff stared at Michael, but he did as he asked. "Maybe you don’t know what a real family does for the people inside it, Seymour...I’m sorry you didn’t have what I had, growing up." He rubbed Birkoff’s shoulder.

"I’m going to hand Nikita over to you." He carefully lowered Nikita onto Birkoff’s lap, adjusting her so she would be more comfortable in the shorter man’s embrace.

"Just hold her, Seymour. She needs all of us right now."

Michael looked at the two of them, sitting together, Birkoff so stiff and uncomfortable, Nikita all relaxed and pliant against her newfound brother. "See, she’s getting better and stronger everyday. Just like you."

"Michael..." Birkoff looked vaguely anxious.

Michael smiled. "You can do it, Seymour. I’m giving you my greatest treasure to hold onto. I trust you. You won’t fail me." He leaned over and kissed Nikita, trailing his hand over her hair softly.

When Michael left the room, Birkoff felt overwhelmed for a moment. How could he do this? He didn’t know the first thing about being brotherly. His childhood had been painfully lacking in that area. It wasn’t just the abuse he had suffered, but the neglect. His self-esteem suffered from a failure to thrive and grow as it should have. His confidence was never nurtured by caring people as it might have been. As it was now. He felt tears spring to his eyes, and he cautiously wrapped an arm around Nikita. Walter and Michael had been so supportive, God, he couldn’t believe it even now. They made him feel like he was worth saving. Like he was someone who had value. He felt Nikita’s warmth against him, and he began to rock back and forth, very slowly. Some gifts weren’t immediately visible or even tangible. This one was.

***

Michael strode into the kitchen, seeing Walter backing an unfamiliar young woman up against the wall. Eyebrows raised, Michael barked commandingly, "What the hell are you doing, Walter?"

"This--this girl," Walter’s lip curled malevolently, "came into our kitchen, claiming that Madeline and Neil sent her here to cook for us."

"Did you call Madeline?"

"Huh? What? Well, no...I just assumed..." Walter began to sputter apologetically.

Michael crossed his arms and waited for the inevitable apology that followed Walter’s outbursts. The girl was about twenty years old, a petite brunette, clearly frightened out of her wits by Walter’s antics. "You know, Walter, how badly we need a cook. Nikita needs to eat. We all do. And here you are, scaring this pauvre out of her mind."

"Yeah, well, she was a little hard to understand, and I’m just trying to protect Nikita’s best interests, you know that, Michael."

"What do you mean, Walter?"

"She doesn’t speak much English, Michael. Maybe you can understand her?"

"Mademoiselle, parlez-vous francais?"

The girl answered positively in a flurry of French that made even Michael’s head spin. "Lentement, lentement, ma’m’selle." He turned to Walter and chuckled. "I don’t think this is going to work, Walter. She seems a bit too high-strung for this household."

"You’re telling me," Walter shrugged.

Soon afterwards, they were joined by a sleepy Nikita, who was rubbing her eyes, and Birkoff, who was close by her side. "I didn’t wake her, Michael, honest."

Michael smiled warmly at Birkoff. "I’m sure you didn’t."

He turned to Nikita. "Look, doucette, we have a present from Madeline. She’s here to cook."

Nikita stared at the younger girl, then announced, "Nope, not this one."

After her announcement, Nikita flounced angrily over to the kitchen table. "Will you call her or shall I?" Michael looked more amused than anything else. "Can you tell me what you object to specifically?"

She glared at Michael. "I see why you’d like her, Michael. She’s pretty, she’s tiny..."

Walter chimed in, unwittingly making things worse. "She speaks French..."

"Oh, isn’t that just the best? Well, what’s not to like then?" Nikita pressed her hands to her face, which was rapidly becoming flushed. Michael sat down next to Nikita. "Why are you reacting like this? She’s just a cook, Kita."

"Look at me, Michael. Take a good look. She’s all the things I’m not. She’s petite, and I’m a great hulking giant next to her. Do you think I want someone like that competing for my husband’s attentions?" She was almost tearful. "And then, in a few months, when I’m really ugly and blown up like an elephant, the two of you will be off--"

Michael grabbed her wrists in his, gently. "Don’t even finish that sentence, Nikita! Your husband doesn’t want anyone else." He moved closer, leaning his forehead on hers, watching as the tears fell gracefully down Nikita’s beloved face.

"You have no reason to be jealous, Kita. You’re not ugly, doucette. Not to me. Not ever. And if you were, it wouldn’t matter. It’s your heart and your soul that I love." He kissed her as tenderly as he could, feeling his love surging behind him like a great tidal wave.

"Oh..." Nikita’s anger subsided as suddenly as it came upon her, leaving her tearful once again. "I’m sorry, Michael."

"Don’t be. It’s okay." He reached out for her and she hugged him tightly to her, burying her face against his neck. He looked up at Walter and Birkoff, who were both more or less speechless at this incredibly poignant but public display of emotion between Michael and Nikita.

"Would now be a good time to tell you that I’d already decided not to keep her, Kita? She’s too high-strung for us. We need someone more down to earth, more--"

"Male!" Walter chirped merrily. "That’s we need here, a male cook. No threat to anybody. How’s that for inspiration?"

Nikita smiled. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, Walter."

Michael protested weakly, "But what about me, Walter? I don’t want some good-looking Lothario waltzing in here to sweep my wife off her feet either!"

Nikita laughed. "No sweeping necessary. I have everything I need right here, Michael." She laid her head on his shoulder.

"Sounds like the head of the house has spoken." Michael chuckled.

Walter saluted Nikita with a snappy hand gesture. "By the way, Captain Sugar, the furniture you bought last week is here. It’s in the garage...on the front lawn...on the back lawn...it’s pretty much everywhere. Any chance we could tackle that today?"

"Won’t you need help lifting, Walter? I don’t want you putting your back out or something."

Walter grinned. "You’ve got three able-bodied men in your house, Sugar. You must be joking."

Birkoff jumped up, patting Nikita on the back. "Later, Sis." And with that, he was gone.

Walter stared after him. "What was that about?"

Michael smiled at Nikita. "Just a little self-promotion he needed, Walter. It seems to be working."

Michael turned to the petite brunette still hovering in a corner of the kitchen, obviously not understanding a word of what was going on. "Let me give the cook a ride to Madeline’s, and I’ll join you, Walter."

Nikita laughed, a sly grin curving her lips. "Not on your life, Michael. If you think I’m letting her have a shot at you, you’re dreaming."

"Even after the way I reassured you, Kita?" Michael’s expression was the epitome of innocence.

"I trust you, Michael. It’s her I don’t trust." She giggled. "You know how naughty the French can be..."

He gasped. "Are they now?"

She moved closer, taking one finger and running it casually down the length of his body, stopping just above his lower abdomen. "I’ve been under the influence of one for some time now...and you see how wicked I can be..."

He bent his head quickly, stealing a kiss from her lips before she could even register his approach. "They’re sneaky, too..." he whispered. "Maybe you can show me later...how much you’ve learned...at my...hands...." He paused significantly between words, and she blushed, belatedly remembering they had company.

Walter laughed at Nikita’s blush. "I’m amazed you can still blush, Sugar, after being exposed to this one for the past few years."

***

Madeline laughed when Michael told her why they had to return her gift. "It’s not that we don’t appreciate the thought, Madeline. But you understand about not upsetting Kita."

"Of course, should have realized about the distortion in body image the abuse created, not to mention the raging hormones in her system now. You do realize that as her pregnancy progresses, the mood swings and emotional lability will undoubtedly get worse?"

He nodded. "I assumed as much. So what are we going to do about the cook situation?"

"Well, tell me that Nikita didn’t skip breakfast this morning." Michael winced. "I can’t, Madeline. We both did. We were...sick..."

"Sick? How?"

Michael explained to Madeline about his sympathetic morning sickness, and she laughed so heartily, she quite trampled his ego. "Thank you--"

Madeline sobered, sorry for being so unprofessional, especially to someone she cared about as much as she did Michael. "Sorry, Michael, it’s just that you two are so in synch with one another, it’s frightening. You finish each other’s sentences, you read each other’s minds, you intuit things that could not possibly be divined any other way but by some kind of spiritual connection. And now this."

"You must tell me someday how you do it." Madeline shook her head.

Michael said, "You mean, it’s not like that with Neil, Madeline?"

"Michael, it’s not like that with anyone else I’ve ever heard about, read about, or studied. You two are special."

She paused thoughtfully. "I might have someone to remedy the cook situation, Michael. But I warn you, he’s...a trifle eccentric."

"Is he worse than Walter?" Michael queried.

"No, just different." Madeline answered.

"Then bring him over, Madeline," Michael replied, hanging up the phone.

***

The exchange of the cooks was something everyone anticipated with considerable enthusiasm. They moved furniture all morning, finally managing to get the chairs that matched the kitchen table inside the kitchen, amongst other things. Nikita, being unable to lift, had the pleasure of supervising the men in her life for once. Holding Josephine in her arms, Nikita looked like a typical housewife, and for people craving normalcy where once there was none, this was a fact that was not lost on any of them. Still, the colors were more vivid and the air vibrated more than usual when she was around. Maybe not as typical as she seemed, after all.

By the time lunchtime rolled around, they were all hungry. As if on cue, Madeline walked in, accompanied by a slightly built young man about Birkoff’s age. He had long red hair, pulled back into a ponytail, and stormy grey eyes. Madeline escorted the petite French girl outside and asked her to wait in the car before she introduced the new cook to the assembled group. "This is Declan. Declan McLaren. He’s from Ireland originally, as I’m sure you’ll be able to tell from his accent."

"But please, don’t hold that against me. I’m an excellent cook," Declan stated with considerable authority for someone so young.

"Declan, Nikita is to eat every meal. This is not negotiable. You work for Michael and Nikita now, but you still answer to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"There are only two rules here, Declan. Don’t upset Nikita, and don’t upset Michael. Actually, there’s only one rule, they’re the same thing. Upsetting Nikita upsets Michael. So don’t. Got that?"

Madeline’s briefing of the new cook would have been funny except for the fact that every word was completely true. Michael smiled at Nikita and put his arm around her.

"Got it, ma’am." Declan gave Madeline a cheeky grin, and she winked at him. She noticed Michael’s curious look and explained. "Declan and I go way back, Michael. You might say I once liberated him from Section, too. So feel free to trust him as you would me."

Walter snorted and muttered under his breath, "That wouldn’t be all that far, Maddy."

"I heard that, Walter. Just for that, no dessert tonight. No fair maligning Miss Maddy. I won’t hear of it." Declan spoke with the maturity of someone considerably older and borne of responsibility.

Michael grabbed Madeline’s arm before she could leave. "Explain to me why I shouldn’t be worried about Declan, Madeline. He’s entirely too good-looking by half. You promised me Nikita would be safe from his advances, but this guy looks like a valentine op and has the charm of a leprechaun to boot."

Madeline smiled serenely. "Trust me, Michael, Nikita is not his type."

"Why doesn’t that reassure me, Madeline?" Michael was beginning to smoulder.

She pulled Declan into the huddle with Michael. "Explain to Michael why you’re no threat to his wife."

"Oh, that." Declan sniffed. "Not that it has anything to do with cooking, but I’m gay."

"As if being Irish wasn’t enough of a cross to bear," he laughed heartily.

Madeline paused before leaving to speak with Nikita. "Nikita, I noticed you have a cat in the house. Do you have a litter box or does the cat go outside?"

"Outside, Madeline. Why?"

"That’s good. Neil will be happy. He wanted me to tell you that pregnant women must be careful handling cat litter. There’s a risk you could pick up a virus and pass it on to your baby."

Nikita gasped. "Oh, no! Michael!"

Michael hugged Nikita fiercely. "It’s okay, Nikita, we don’t have to get rid of Josephine." He kissed her cheek. "Okay?"

She didn’t look completely reassured, but she nodded. "Okay," she said slowly.

"By the way, your check-up is tomorrow morning, isn’t it? We can have lunch after you’re done." Madeline smiled warmly at Nikita and left.

Nikita immediately turned to Michael, her heart in her eyes. "Michael, how can she possibly think I could eat after the check-up? I’m a nervous wreck as it is. I may never eat again, just thinking about it."

He sighed. "I see Declan has his work cut out for him. Tempting you to eat has never been easy, but if you don’t, Kita, the baby will suffer. You don’t want that, do you?" He spoke softly, but his words carried great weight with Nikita.

"No," she whispered, knowing she would eat more, if only to please Michael and to protect her baby.

***

Lunch was a curiously happy affair. Declan made club sandwiches filled with delicious slices of tomato, lettuce, turkey and bacon. He coaxed Nikita into eating some of his homemade cole slaw and when she consented to eat it, he seemed genuinely pleased. "You could use a bit of fattening up, y’know, Mrs. Nikita."

"Just Nikita is fine, really," she said with a grin.

Birkoff smiled as he bit into a fresh slice of tomato. "Wow, so this is what real food tastes like."

Declan studied Birkoff. "I hear you people were living on cereal ‘fore I came."

Birkoff nodded. "And soup. Lots and lots of soup."

Declan shrugged. "Interesting. And they say the Irish are strange."

Birkoff was unsure whether to laugh or not. He wasn’t really good at making conversation, his sarcasm sometimes got the best of him, and he really didn’t want to offend the cook. His cooking was every bit as good as he promised.

Declan leaned over to Birkoff. "That was a joke, son. You have my permission to laugh. Anytime now. Don’t hurt yourself."

Walter chuckled. "Birkoff is worried about being politically correct, Declan. But I must say, hearing someone your age call another man the same age ‘son’ boggles my mind. Wherever did you pick up that attitude?"

"I think I was born with it. Truly. But seriously, Birkoff, how old are you?"

"Um, I’m 23." Birkoff continued to look somewhat perplexed, not really sure what to make of Declan.

"I’m 24. You look younger. Sorry about calling you ‘son’. It must sting. You prolly get it a lot."

Birkoff nodded. "I do. But I’m used to it." He looked back at his food and wondered why his appetite had disappeared.

"Eat up. Don’t let me put you off your food. And don’t get used to things you don’t like, either. That’s never a good idea." Declan collected Nikita’s plate, which was completely clean, and smiled. "Good report going back to Miss Maddy, Mrs. Nikita."

"Um, please call me Nikita."

"That wouldn’t be respectful, Mrs. Nikita."

Michael took a deep breath and sighed. "Let me put it this way, if you call her that one more time, I might have to change your outlook for you."

Walter almost spat his coffee out. "Michael...be nice," he growled warningly.

"Well, let’s just say, in this house, there are no servants." Michael almost smiled at Declan’s obvious discomfiture. "No titles. Okay?"

"Sure, Mr.--" Michael glanced at Declan briefly, and Declan automatically corrected himself. "Michael."

"Good meal, by the way. You’re a welcome addition, believe me." Michael had genuinely warmed to Declan, and he meant what he said. He could feel how relaxed Nikita had become in Declan’s presence, and making her feel safe and happy was Michael’s first priority.

Nikita helped Declan clear the table, and once they were in the kitchen together, she told him that Michael liked him. "He does. He’s really warmed up to you, I can hardly believe it."

Declan stared at her, his grey eyes meeting Nikita’s blue ones. "Then what does he say when he dislikes you?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, you won’t hear him say an unkind word, Declan. He’d just shoot you," Nikita said dryly.

***

It was decided that Birkoff would move downstairs, to a bedroom closer to Walter’s. It was never brought up that Birkoff, and indeed the rest of the family, preferred that Michael and Nikita have the second floor to themselves for privacy reasons. But it was of primary concern to all of them, most of all, Michael. He believed, and Madeline agreed, that things were perhaps going to become slightly more difficult during the second part of Nikita’s pregnancy. He was basically a private person, and the thought of airing all their dirty laundry in public didn’t sit well with him.

They finished arranging and then rearranging the furniture, as Nikita was wont to do, several times, before they were through for the day. Nikita seemed distracted, and Michael assumed it was because of the pre-natal check-up scheduled for the following day.

"Kita, we need to talk about this."

She gnawed on her finger. Michael put his arms around her. "What is it that bothers you most? Getting undressed? Getting into position?"

"Michael...I dunno if I can get through this." Tears filled her eyes, and she hated the thought of crying any more. She swiped angrily at the tears. "I hate this! I get angry! I cry! I’m such a mess, Michael."

He slid his hands into hers. "Kita, you’ve done surprisingly well today. Look at everything you accomplished. The furniture, the cook. Doesn’t any of that count?"

"Okay...but what about tomorrow? Are you gonna be in there with me, holding my hand so I don’t fall apart, Michael?"

"Yes, Kita, if that’s what it takes." His calm was unshakable. He refused to give in to the pressure Nikita was exerting on him to sabotage things. "We’ll all be there for you, Kita, if you need us. We’re your family."

He held her, groaning as he felt more tears coming his way. "Kita....please don’t cry. It’s not good for you or the baby to be this unhappy." He kissed her temple, then her forehead. "I love you, doucette. Please don’t push me away when you need me so much."

She buried her face against his chest. "I’m sorry, Michael. I don’t mean to. I need you there. But I don’t want anyone else to see me this way."

"Okay, we’ll do it together then. Okay? Doucette?" He cupped her chin and looked at her tear-drenched face. "Oh, ma pauvre." He kissed her gently, his lips caressing hers so briefly, she reached out to hold him there, her hands trembling.

"You’re so good to me, Michael. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"You’ll never have to find out, Kita. I’ll always be here for you. No matter what." He kissed her tenderly, deepening the kiss slightly before releasing her. "Tell you what, after dinner, we have a date. Just you, me, and the rocking chair."

"I’d like that." She smiled, seeming more at peace finally.

After dinner, which Nikita dutifully ate, thanks to Michael’s and Declan’s watchful eyes, she walked slowly upstairs. She stared out the window, overlooking the back lawn, and thought about how badly things had gone since she and Michael had finally gotten together. She didn’t realize that she had been speaking out loud until his saddened voice answered hers from behind her.

"Is that what you truly think, doucette?"

He turned her around to face him, placing both hands on her shoulders. His mouth tightened, as if he were controlling some terrible unseen pain. "You wish you’d never met me?"

"No! Oh, no, Michael, no!" She reached up with her hand and stroked the side of his face, watching him close his eyes at her touch. He grabbed her hand, pressing it hard to his face, then kissed it.

"Then tell me...what you’re thinking, Kita. I can’t stand not knowing." His voice rasped on her already heightened senses.

"Come..." She led him to the rocking chair, but when he would have sat down, she shook her head. She sat in the chair and beckoned to him, exhorting him silently to sit on her lap.

"I don’t want to hurt you, Kita."

"You won’t, love. Please, sit down." She held out her arms and Michael sank gratefully into her embrace.

"What are we doing?" He searched her face, his green eyes dulled with pain.

"Healing each other," she whispered.

His expression never changed outwardly, except for a telltale quiver in his lower lip. He tried to turn his head away, but Nikita brought it back, her hands firm on his face. Tears stood in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall, his mouth set almost mutinously.

"I never meant for you to hear all my doubts and fears, Michael. You seem so hard, but underneath, you are just as sensitive and vulnerable as I am."

"Only to you, Kita," he said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded. "What you heard me say was...our luck has been so bad since we decided to marry..." she began slowly, seeing the pain sharpen as it resurfaced in Michael’s eyes.

She kissed his forehead, as he did to her so often, and he closed his eyes, leaning on her at last. His breath caught in his throat, and she suspected he was still holding back tears. Her hands tightened around his neck, pressing themselves into his nape as he bent his head down and away from her scrutiny.

"What you would have heard me say next was...but the good memories we’ve already made so far outweigh the bad ones, there is no way I could ever wish that you hadn’t come into my life, Michael." She kissed his hair, and she felt him move.

He shifted his weight so that he could press his face against her heart. He listened to her heart beating so steadily, so true. She was telling the truth. Or was it that he needed to believe her so badly, he was deluding himself? Filled with self-doubt, he raised tortured eyes to Nikita’s face. "I want to believe that."

"Then believe it, Michael. It’s true." She kissed him fervently, her lips warm against the coolness of his. She drew back, studying his expression. "Do you want to know what I was thinking, Michael?"

"I was feeling sad...and angry...and bitter...because we’ve had so much stolen from us. Love thieves, Michael. They came back. Just when we least expected them. That’s how they are." She didn’t even realize she was crying, until Michael wiped a tear from her cheek with a shaky finger.

"Then you don’t blame me, Kita?" he asked in the most heart-wrenching tone she had heard yet come from his lips.

"No," she whispered, looking down at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. "How could I? You are my one and only true love, my life." She felt the sob that came between them as they kissed, but she couldn’t tell if it was her or him. They were that close.

"You are my heart...and my soul...and what’s left of my humanity...doucette."

"I love you, Michael."

"I love you, Kita."

They lay in each other’s arms, their hearts and souls entwined, and the rocker moved gently back and forth, for a long, long time.