Michael lay in bed, drowsy from the painkillers they had given him. Despite his obvious sedation, his uninjured hand continued to stroke Nikita’s hair. She had fallen asleep finally, drained from the entire ordeal, her head on his chest. She refused to leave his side, even after the doctors upgraded his condition to stable. He didn’t mind. In fact, the only way he was able to rest at all was knowing that she was there.
Neil returned from his visit to the Samuelle house and stated most emphatically that Michael’s children were not only fine, but amazing. Michael smiled at Neil’s exaggeration.
"Come on, Neil," Michael slurred slightly, one of the medication’s more interesting side effects. "They’re driving Madeline crazy, right?"
"Actually, she’s coping pretty well. I think it’s been great therapy for her...and I enjoyed spending some time with them myself," Neil admitted almost reluctantly.
Michael smiled sleepily. "They are great kids, aren’t they? Who’d have thought we’d ever get so lucky?" Michael seemed to be speaking more to himself and Nikita than anyone else. He began closing his eyes, but he was clearly struggling to remain awake.
Neil touched Michael’s arm. "Why don’t you take a break and sleep?"
"It’s so hard to sleep in a hospital. I have...bad memories...of hospitals." Neil didn’t know what Michael was referring to, but Nikita did. She stirred restlessly against his chest as she came awake.
Nikita slid her hand along Michael’s cheek, in an effort to reassure him non-verbally. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Michael. Not while I’m here." The truth was, Nikita felt almost invincible right now. They had come through another terrible moment, and in an almost superstitious way, Nikita believed her presence was keeping anything bad at bay.
He murmured to her, "I know," and closed his eyes. Now he could rest. His children were safe. His wife was protecting him. Everyone should be so lucky.
***
When Michael woke again, he knew one thing above all else. He wanted out. "Neil!" he called, uncertain how long he had slept or if the doctor was even still around.
Nikita stretched her arms and yawned. "Is there something you need, Michael?"
"Where’s Neil?"
"He went to get something to eat...I think it’s morning." Nikita squinted at her watch. "Yep, early morning."
"I slept all night?"
"Pretty much. Why? Are you in pain again?" Nikita looked ready to bolt down the hall for the nurse at a word from Michael.
"I want to go home," he whispered.
"You will, Michael. As soon as they get you better." Nikita smiled wearily and kissed him before standing up.
"No," he said firmly. "I want to go home now."
Nikita stared at him. "Michael, you’re hurt, you need--"
"I know I’m hurt, Kita, I can be just as hurt at home. And what I need is to get out of here." Michael was adamant. It looked like he had no intention of cooperating nicely with medical personnel or hospital policy this morning.
She didn’t even waste time arguing with him. If she thought his injuries were life-threatening, she would make him stay. Against his will. But he was a mass of bruises, strains and sprains. Actually, though he didn’t realize it yet, those were going to be more difficult to heal than if he’d suffered broken bones. But it would be counter-productive to keep Michael here if he was actively seeking to get out. If they denied him, he would get out. By himself. Somehow. She didn’t doubt it for a second.
She smiled patiently and pressed a finger on the intercom, raising a friendly voice on the other end. "Could you please page Mr. Samuelle’s doctor?"
***
In the end, Michael signed himself out AMA. Against Medical Advice. No surprises there. Neil suggested that Michael spend a few days in bed in-hospital, at the very least, but Michael refused to listen. The ambulance was waiting to transport him home, and Nikita had obtained a wheelchair, over Michael’s protests. He insisted he would be able to walk, despite his obvious unsteadiness on his feet, but Nikita used her considerable power over Michael to change his mind. It was the thought of having to come back to the hospital with new injuries that made Michael re- think his position. Enough was enough.
***
Michael in a wheelchair. It was a sight to behold. Oh, the family understood that it was temporary. Michael was going to walk again, as soon as his gait was steadier. But the image was incongruous. Michael was the epitome of health and athleticism, under the best of circumstances, and finding him in a wheelchair did not sit well. With him. Or anyone else.
Nikita would have suggested that he use a cane, just to have something to lean on, but his present mood indicated that he might be more likely to use it as a weapon than an aid. Michael was frustrated by his body’s limitations. It was something he was completely unused to. Back at Section, if he were acutely injured, he was sedated to the point where he knew nothing, until he was ready to resume near-active duty. They knew something he was just finding out. Michael could not deal with being injured.
He could work through pain, hell, he could even ignore pain unless it was so severe, it threatened his consciousness. But he could not depend on his legs to support him, or his arms to lift him, and his back would go into spasm at the mere thought of standing for more than a few minutes. He was not happy. And now that he was home, neither was anyone else.
***
Walter glanced at Nikita. "Sugar, you look tired. Is His Majesty running you ragged again?"
Nikita wiped a bead of sweat from her brow with one hand. Her eyes were blurry from lack of rest and her indefatigable energy was finally starting to run low. Taking care of Michael and the twins was hard. Madeline had offered to take the twins to her house, where she and Neil could watch them, until Michael was able to get around better. But Michael had vetoed that idea out of hand.
Declan and Birkoff were helping out with the twins as much as possible, but Michael’s interference made that, too, problematical. It was as if he was suddenly aware of a million things, and he felt like he had to do something. About all of them.
"Kita!"
Nikita sighed. It was Michael, yelling from the other room. He would get himself into a place he couldn’t get out of easily, but rather than ask one of the others for help, he called her. She didn’t resent him coming home too early from the hospital. She loved him, she wanted him here with her. Truly, she did. But...
"Kita!"
On the other hand, if he bellowed her name one more time...
Nikita was exasperated. "Michael..." She heard the hostility in her own voice and immediately shifted gears. "Michael..." she said in a much softer tone, "what do you need?"
He looked lost. Just for a second. But that was what saved him. Nikita was so close to letting him know how drained she felt, and that he was the major reason. But that lost look on his face caught her by surprise. It took her aback to see Michael so vulnerable. It made her rethink her strategy.
She knelt in front of his wheelchair, so they were almost on the same level. As usual, Michael was wearing a soft fleece sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. He insisted on dressing himself, though it was obviously painful to do so, and the sweats were his only concession. She lay her head on his knee, knowing it was one of the few spots on his body that did not actively ache or hurt in some way.
That felt good. Relaxing. So relaxing, Nikita promptly fell asleep where she lay. Michael watched her and abruptly realized how hard he’d been driving Nikita, almost punishing her for being his right hand the past few days. If she’d been awake, she might have seen the apologetic look or felt the tender kiss he pressed to the top of her head. But she didn’t. Michael let her sleep.
***
Walter nodded absently at Birkoff. "I see, and then this...sorry, I forget, what was her name?"
Birkoff chortled. "She goes by the handle MsThunder."
"As in thunder and lightning?" Walter shrugged his shoulders. "What is she, a weathergirl? Sheesh, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m dying of curiosity, I wouldn’t ask you another question."
Birkoff fairly danced around the room. "But you will, Walter, you will. I know you. You can’t resist."
Walter admitted as much to Birkoff. "Y’know, I’m kinda glad you stopped by the old workshop, Seymour. You’re gonna laugh, but I was starting to feel a bit left out lately, what with you spending so much time with Declan and all."
Birkoff flushed. "I don’t spend that much time with him."
"Hey, don’t go getting defensive on me, Seymour. It’s not that big a deal."
Birkoff changed the subject. "Anyway...MsThunder, or Lola, as her friends call her...wants to meet me."
Walter snorted. "Sounds like a stripper. Are you sure you should meet this girl, Birkoff? These Internet romances can be very dodgy."
Birkoff’s whole demeanor changed. "I’m not a kid anymore, Walter. I know how to be careful. In fact, on occasion, I’ve even been known to be able to protect myself."
"I’m not denying that, Birkoff." Walter cast an interested glance at Birkoff. There was a curious intensity to Birkoff’s gaze. He’d give anything to know what he was thinking. Unfortunately, Birkoff was right. As he grew older, he discovered there was precious little he could do for anyone but himself. But that was probably just the way of things.
"Anyway, Birkoff, you make sure you meet this girl somewhere public and--"
Walter sounded so caring, so fatherly, it nearly broke Birkoff’s heart. Rarely had anyone else showed such affection for him. Rarely had anyone else made him feel as if he mattered. It was a shame he didn’t honestly care more about meeting this girl. He even wondered why he was doing his best to make it happen. It was at odds with where his interests lay.
"Are you listening to me, Birkoff?" Walter broke into Birkoff’s thoughts suddenly.
"Uh, yeah...I hear you, Walter." He colored, as if Walter could read his mind.
"You seem so distracted lately, Birkoff. You must be in love." Walter snickered.
Birkoff blinked, his chocolate-brown eyes growing huge in his face. "God, I hope not."
Walter watched Birkoff as all the color slowly drained from his face. What an odd reaction. He smiled patiently at the young man, feeling more than ever like Birkoff’s uncle. "Well, maybe it’s just lust then, Birkoff. Sometimes the two are mistaken for one another," he said in the manner of someone imparting wisdom.
"Besides, you hardly know this girl," he added.
Birkoff closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Right, Walter. It’s not like I know him all that well."
"Him?" Walter asked, perplexed.
"Her, I meant her." Birkoff hooked his hair behind his ear. His hair had grown so long, he hardly recognized himself any more. His hair, now touching his shoulders, was thick and shiny and completely unlike his former Section image.
He sighed. Sometimes he didn’t have a clue where he was going. Sometimes he did. He wasn’t sure which scared him more.
***
Nikita woke up with a start. She was in bed. Alone. The covers were pulled up to her neck. That made her stop and think. She wouldn’t sleep that way. The last thing she recalled, she was going to see what Michael wanted...Michael! Oh, no, what happened? How did she end up in bed? Well, she knew one thing for sure, Michael could never have lifted her in his present condition. So it had to be someone else who brought her upstairs.
Michael was sleeping downstairs, in one of the spare bedrooms, until he could negotiate the stairs without as much difficulty. It was simply too dangerous for him to try. He didn’t think so, but she did. And she put her foot down. She was not willing to risk his life or his health.
But the sleeping arrangements were yet another cross for Michael to bear. He hated being apart from Nikita. It didn’t give him a stronger incentive to get better, however. It made him feel like he was being punished.
Nikita, for her part, wanted to share the downstairs bedroom with Michael, but Michael rejected that idea. He felt useless as it was. He could barely manage to pull on his clothes in the morning. He certainly could not make love to Nikita, and he wasn’t sure who it would torture more if they slept in the same bed for the duration of his recuperation.
If Nikita had understood where Michael’s mind was going with this, she could have reassured him. But she didn’t. Part of the way Michael protected her was by forcing her to wear blinders part of the time. It was an old habit, left over from their days in Section. Bit by bit, she was tearing away at his old defenses, once he had constructed new ones, healthier ones. But it was hard when she didn’t realize what he was thinking, and Michael was no stranger to subterfuge.
***
Nikita crept downstairs slowly, taking care not to make any noise. She was on a mission. To her husband’s room. She had something to prove.
She found him. He was lying on top of the bed, his body seeking desperately to find a more comfortable position. He was awake.
"What are you doing, Michael?" she said indignantly, her hands on her hips.
He turned and looked at her, his eyes dry from lack of sleep, his facial expression filled with pain he couldn’t hide quickly enough. The blank stare settled into place over his face, unfortunately with an ease born of long practice.
"You woke up, finally." It was a statement, not a question. "You fell asleep on my knee and--"
"Did I hurt you?"
"I let you sleep. You must have been so tired, Kita, to sleep so long. I--what?" Michael had a delayed reaction to what she said.
"I said, did I hurt you?"
"No, why?"
"I thought I must have. You sent me away. To sleep alone." Nikita’s tone was filled with reproach.
"Kita...we’ve been over this before. There’s no point in us sleeping together, we can’t be together, not the way you want." Michael’s expression reflected a state somewhere between anxiety and depression.
"Do you think that’s the only reason we sleep together?" Nikita was in a teaching mood. She had a particular lesson in mind, and she was aching to teach it to Michael.
"Excuse me? I--well, no, of course not."
"Then why can’t we sleep together? In the same room. In the same bed."
Michael sighed. "I don’t have the energy to go through all this again with you, Kita."
"Good, cause I didn’t even come close to believing it the first time." Nikita paused, evidently collecting her thoughts. "Michael, if you want to punish yourself, I can’t stop you. But I will stay wherever you are. That’s how it works."
"But--"
"No buts, Michael. I love you. I’m staying. Now move over. I can’t fit into that tiny space you left me." Nikita pretended to be completely unaffected, but in reality, she was scared silly that Michael would see through her and order her out.
Michael shifted over in the bed, making a larger space for Nikita to occupy. He was still in shock from the way she casually commandeered the bedroom. He was in awe of her sometimes. Like now.
They lay on their sides, facing each other. For long moments, there was nothing but silence. Michael held onto his composure for as long as he could. He broke first. Gingerly touching her shoulder with his uninjured hand, he felt his eyes fill with tears. "I love you, doucette."
She smiled knowingly. "I know, Michael."
Birkoff drifted into the kitchen, casually surveying the damage breakfast had done. Spotting Declan clearing off the table, Birkoff immediately began to help.
Declan’s expression was more or less unreadable. Neither welcoming nor unfriendly. He stopped what he was doing. "What are you doing, Seymour?"
"Helping clear off the table."
"That’s not what I meant." Declan fixed him with a stare that would have made Michael think twice about crossing him.
"What do you--ohhh, you mean, Lola?" Birkoff was constantly astonished at the speed with which news traveled throughout the household.
"Is that her name, then? I heard it was something infinitely more colorful." Declan’s smile was sardonic. He stacked the dishes in the sink and rinsed his hands.
Wiping his hands on a towel, Declan tried to clear his mind completely. It was dangerous to think what he was thinking. The unknowable had become known. Suddenly. His breathing grew erratic. He was not going to have an anxiety attack. He hadn’t had a bloody anxiety attack since he was a child in Ireland, and he was not about to start now. He shook his head, and his long red hair broke loose from its band, sending it spilling down his back.
Birkoff said simply, "MsThunder, you mean." He was almost hypnotized by the change in Declan. One moment, he was calm and controlled, the next, he was coming apart.
Declan doubled over, trying desperately to catch his breath. He knew it was in his head. He wished it would stay there, instead of invading the rest of his body. His hands clamped over his knees, he struggled to breathe normally, fighting the urge to run screaming from the room.
"Are you all right, Declan?" Birkoff asked almost tentatively, as if sensing that he was part of the problem.
"Do I look like I’m all right, Seymour? Bloody hell!" Declan gasped.
"Is there something I can do?"
"No, you’ve done quite enough. Thanks." Declan’s sarcasm passed right over Birkoff’s head.
"Jeez, all I did was help you clear the breakfast dishes, Declan."
Declan sighed, which was no mean feat, considering how difficult it was to breathe. "Your capacity to misunderstand people borders on the unbelievable, Birkoff."
Declan gradually straightened up, as he felt the attack coming under his conscious control. As it started to respond to his attempts to relax his body, Declan began to feel better. "Lola.." he muttered under his breath.
Birkoff’s eyes narrowed interestingly. "What did you say, Declan?"
Declan brushed past Birkoff slowly, his storm-grey eyes flashing sparks. "You asked me once why I told you to go out and grow up? This is why! You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, Seymour!"
"I think I do."
"You think." Declan paused, on his way out of the kitchen. "Why did you make sure I found out about your hot Internet date, Birkoff?"
"I didn’t. I had no idea that anyone would tell you. Or that anyone would even care," Birkoff stammered nervously.
"You’re playing a dangerous game, Seymour. See that it doesn’t happen again." Declan’s warning came through, loud and clear.
"I’m not sure what you mean." Birkoff’s eyes crept anxiously over Declan’s face, flickering back and forth.
"You don’t know what you want yet. That’s the difference between us."
But if Declan looked almost menacing, shrouded in mysterious intensity, Birkoff abruptly stopped backing up and stood his ground. "I know I don’t want Lola."
Declan stepped so close to Birkoff, the two seemed separated by mere breath. "Careful, Seymour, I almost think you mean it."
"I-I do."
Declan’s lips parted involuntarily as a gasp escaped him. He stared at Birkoff for a long moment. "I won’t be part of some experiment," he said softly, his voice so low, Birkoff had to strain to hear him.
Birkoff couldn’t speak. He nodded.
"I don’t do casual."
"Neither do I," Birkoff answered without thinking.
Declan almost groaned at Birkoff’s continued naiveté. He looked pensive. "I won’t risk what I have here, Seymour. You’re not ready for a commitment to anything but your own youth."
"Declan, you’re barely a year older than me! That’s not fair!" Birkoff found himself reacting angrily despite his earlier cautions to himself.
"It’s fair if I say it is, Seymour." Declan looked at Birkoff sadly, hardly able to believe he was pushing him away with both hands. "You’re not bloody ready, and your Internet romance just proves my point."
"I told you I’m not interested in her!"
"Then you need to ask yourself why...." Declan said with a heavy sigh.
Birkoff was so frustrated, he could hardly bear it. "Why, what? Why I don’t want her?"
Declan closed his eyes for a second and whispered, "Aye."
Madeline smiled as she wandered amongst the flowers blossoming in her gardens. She felt truly at peace here. It was her special place. No one disturbed her when she was in the gardens. Not even Neil.
She took a deep breath and frowned as she saw a figure on the horizon. Who was that? Who dared intrude upon her here? Her initial reaction was one of frustration and resentment for the intrusion. But when she saw who it was, she softened.
Declan made his way carefully into the gardens, knowing how precious each and every bloom was to Maddy. He would never have come, if he had a choice. But he knew he had no choice. Not now. He had to talk to someone who understood him. There was no one else.
"Declan," she cried, her smile widening. "I’ve missed you."
He half-smiled, knowing that he had stayed away deliberately, to allow her to bond with Neil. That was the way it should be between husband and wife. Or any two people who loved each other. They should depend on each other in a special way that no one else could possibly share.
He dropped his gaze to the dark green grass that carpeted the gardens. "It’s beautiful here, Maddy."
"Yes, it is. But you didn’t come here to discuss my gardens, did you?"
He shook his head. But still, he didn’t speak.
"Declan, your body language is telling me something is wrong. Do you need to talk about something?" Madeline looked concerned. Declan had always had a special place in her heart, and he probably always would.
Maybe it was the way Madeline spoke his name, or the concern and very real affection she showed him, but Declan was undone. She was the only person he ever felt understood him. She was the only person he ever believed he loved. Until he joined Michael’s makeshift family. But there were many different kinds of love. That was why he was here.
He stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, a gesture that was as characteristic of Declan as his long red hair, carefully tied back with a clashing red bandana now. "Maddy, you know me. Do you think I’m...unlovable?"
Madeline’s smile left her face as quickly as it came. "Declan, no. What--oh! You’ve found someone," she pronounced with a sudden flash of insight.
"Sort of," he replied vaguely, beginning to frown himself.
"How do you feel about that?"
There was a long pause, then a sigh. "Ambivalent."
"Why? Is this person not free? Is this person married or involved with someone else?"
"Not exactly."
"Declan, you’re probably making this way too complicated. Why don’t you just tell this person that you love him?"
"Cause we already have a good relationship. As friends. Well, we’re more than friends. We’re like brothers. I don’t want to risk losing that."
"There’s nothing worth having that is without risk, Declan. You know that, probably better than anyone. Just tell him."
"I can’t."
Declan’s tortured features would be etched in Madeline’s mind for a long time to come. She had seen him in many different ways, including when he was being physically tortured, but she had never seen him like this.
Madeline moved closer to him, and Declan felt drawn in, as if her impending motherhood somehow gave her a magnetism he could not resist. "Do you think he’s the one?"
"Aye, I do," he whispered.
She took a deep breath, reflecting on what she knew about Declan’s background and how conflicted this might make him feel. "Declan, I know how hard it was for you, when you first realized you were gay...your Catholic upbringing made it especially difficult for you to reconcile what you needed with what the Church demanded of you. But you can’t remain celibate forever. That’s a temporary lifestyle at best."
Declan gave in to the normal impulses that drove a young man when he was but a youth of 15, a year before he was recruited into Section. It was how he discovered just how different he was, and how much he disliked being cast as the outsider. But his self-revelation tormented him to the point where he chose celibacy, rather than confront the realities of managing an alternative lifestyle. He didn’t want to be different, he just was. So ultimately, he embraced that quality of different-ness. He accepted himself. But he never broke his vow of celibacy. In truth, he had never felt truly tempted before now.
As he had told Michael, somewhere along the line, he had evolved into an honorable man. He had a deep sense of what he wanted. He wanted stability, he wanted commitment. He wanted the love and the affection, and yes, the devotion, he saw between Michael and Nikita. He didn’t care if he had to wait forever. He would not compromise. He wanted a relationship. He wasn’t even remotely interested in anything less than that.
Declan’s eyes searched Madeline’s face for answers. "It’s not about sex, Maddy. I could live without it. I already do." He looked pained. "But now that I know how I feel...I can’t un-know it. Do you know what I mean? It changes everything..."
"Does this person return your feelings?" Madeline had inadvertently hit on the core of the problem.
"That’s the question I can’t answer, Maddy. And it’s driving me mad."
"Let’s look at this another way. Are you in love with someone who is capable of loving you?"
Declan flinched. "If I didn’t at least believe that much, I’d shoot myself right now. No hesitation."
Madeline saw just how serious Declan was. "Declan...do you want to tell me who this person is?"
"Part of me wants to, Maddy." Declan looked at her, obviously conflicted, with real tears in his eyes.
Madeline reached for Declan and held him. He was so much taller than she was, he rested his head on her shoulder while she hugged him. "Maddy, I don’t think he’s ready for this yet. I could wait, and hope, but what if he’s never ready?"
"Is he straight?"
"He thinks he is. Isn’t that what matters?" Declan closed his eyes, drawing comfort from just being in Madeline’s arms.
Madeline pushed Declan away from her, deliberately forcing him to make eye contact with her, albeit tearfully. "Declan, what matters is the love. Love doesn’t care who or what you are, it just is. Would you love this person just the same if he was a woman?"
Declan looked shocked, then he laughed. "Yes! Yes, Maddy! I think I wouldn’t care who he was!"
"Then maybe he loves you the same way," Madeline reassured Declan.
Declan glanced at her hopefully. "You think he could?"
His face fell. "Maddy, he’s still got a ways to go yet. But I’ve been the essence of discretion, Maddy, I swear, I haven’t told anyone about this except you."
"I still think you should tell this person." Madeline was adamant. "You have nothing to lose and everything to gain."
"You don’t understand, Maddy! I have everything to lose! My position! My new family!"
Madeline smiled. "Now I know you’re overreacting, Declan. Michael and Nikita aren’t like that. They’ve been very accepting."
"Oh, I know! But bloody hell, Maddy, what do you think Walter would do to me if he knew I was in love with Seymour?"
Aghast that he had mentioned Birkoff’s name, Declan immediately closed himself down. If he had thought he was having an anxiety attack earlier, he was now in full panic mode. He could barely see straight. His hands shook. He backed up slowly, waiting to see Madeline’s reaction. Was she disgusted? Embarrassed? Furious? What?
She stared at Declan for a full minute, then she laughed. "Thank God! Oh, Declan, you had me so worried!"
He didn’t see what was so funny. This was his life they were talking about.
She saw his face, and she slowed her laughter to a few intermittent giggles. "Sorry, Declan, but I was so afraid that I was going to have to defend Michael’s honor!"
Declan raised an eyebrow. "He’s not my type," he declared imperiously.
"But you have to admit, he’s prettier than Birkoff!" Madeline managed to choke out between gasps of merriment.
"Does this mean you approve?" Declan said with a trace of his former good humor.
"Oh, you have my blessing, Declan. But what does Birkoff have to say about all this?"
Declan’s eyes darkened as his mouth tightened. "This...is where I came in..."
Madeline gave the matter careful consideration before she spoke again. "I realize that not knowing is frustrating, Declan, but my advice would be to give Birkoff more time."
"I know he needs more time, Maddy. I’m not pushing him."
"Good." She smiled warmly, knowing that Declan was feeling the sting of disappointment, no matter how brave a face he put on. "It works both ways, you know. Birkoff might be tempted to push you into acting on your feelings, but don’t give in yet. He needs time to work things out."
"Aye, Maddy, I understand." Declan looked lost in thought. "I don’t think he even realizes how I feel, though. It’s not like we’ve talked about it. We’ve danced around the issue for days, but..."
"Declan, if you need to ask my permission to tell him you love him, then you aren’t ready either," Madeline said wisely.
"It’s not that, Maddy." Declan fretted openly. "I’ve never told anyone I loved them. Not even you." He all but wrung his hands. "I don’t know if I can say it."
"Declan..." she frowned, "are you telling me you’ve never been in love before?"
He shook his head. "Never."
She gazed at Declan thoughtfully. "You two are more alike than you think. I know Birkoff has never had a serious relationship, but I’ve always chalked that up to his basic insecurity around people."
"I think you need to let Birkoff know that you care, Declan, and that you can be hurt by him. For your own protection. Birkoff would never hurt you intentionally, but you need to be upfront about everything."
He nodded carefully, wondering how things like love, which seemed so simple, could turn out to be so complicated.
"But I wouldn’t tell anyone else just yet."
Declan looked despondent. "You don’t think it’ll work out."
"I hope it will, Declan." She put her hand on his arm and rubbed gently. "For your sake."
***
Declan took Madeline’s advice to heart, but the journey back home seemed longer than usual and fraught with perilous thoughts and feelings.
He threw the keys to the Jeep onto the kitchen table and went in search of Birkoff. The sooner he told Birkoff, the better. The waiting was killing him.
He found Birkoff sitting on the back porch, playing with Josephine. It was hardly as private as he would have liked, but maybe it was better if they weren’t completely alone. Meaning to cut right to the chase, Declan found himself wandering right off topic. "Where are the twins, Seymour?"
Birkoff stopped playing with Josephine for a moment. Josephine objected, and she let Birkoff know it. She batted his finger playfully, attempting to get his attention back, but it was no use. So Josephine, apparently well used to the vagaries and emotional baggage of humans, sprawled across the grass at Birkoff’s feet.
"Michael and Nikita have them."
"Oh," said Declan in a small voice, not really interested in anything else but getting this over with.
"Seymour...we need to talk."
"So talk. I’m not stopping you." Birkoff’s reaction was hardly amicable. Declan wasn’t sure why.
"Could you at least look at me, then?" Declan begged, noting how Birkoff cast his eyes away from him.
Birkoff sighed and turned to face Declan. "Is this better?"
"Yes," Declan whispered bravely. He sat down next to Birkoff, abruptly realizing that proximity was not necessarily helping in this case.
"This is not about you...it’s about me," he continued. He swallowed, finding it easier to go on now that he’d started. "I’m--" Declan stopped.
"What the hell is it, Declan?" Birkoff demanded angrily.
"Why are you so angry, Seymour?" Declan couldn’t help but be sidetracked by Birkoff’s openly hostile reaction.
"Maybe we can figure that out later. Together." Birkoff’s words were a challenge of sorts, but Declan refused to be baited.
"You’re so damned cryptic, Seymour, when I least expect it."
"Must be part of my charm," he drawled.
"Can’t be, you don’t have any," Declan quipped in return.
Belatedly, Declan realized that Birkoff was doing exactly what Madeline had said, he was trying to push Declan, for whatever reason of his own, into acting on his feelings. He knew he felt sorely tempted.
Declan touched Birkoff’s hand, and he felt a telltale tremor run through the former comm operative. He was not as unmoved as he pretended. Even better, he didn’t pull away.
He looked straight into Birkoff’s dark chocolate eyes and said, with considerable intensity, "I’m in love with you."
Birkoff’s hand jerked under Declan’s, but still he did not pull away. Birkoff’s eyes softened, as if he would cry, but he did not. "I know."
Declan blinked. "You know?"
"Yeah," said Birkoff, not elaborating, but his eyes grew even gentler, if that were possible.
Declan felt himself grow short of breath. "I just want you to know, I don’t expect anything from you. I-I just needed to tell you how I feel. That’s all." Declan was surprised that Birkoff knew, he’d been so careful to disguise his feelings, but maybe it was better this way.
"Maybe this makes you uncomfortable...but all I have is the hope that someday, you might love me back." Declan felt light-headed after making that declaration. He tried to slow his breathing, but it was almost out of his control.
He rubbed his hand back and forth on Birkoff’s, and Birkoff finally moved, edging closer to the other end of the porch. "I’m sorry," whispered Declan.
Birkoff glanced at Declan, finally allowing his eyes to linger on his face. He was vulnerable in a way Birkoff hadn’t seen before. It empowered Birkoff as much as it scared him.
"You think I’m going to hurt you, Declan."
Declan shook his head. "No, I know you won’t, Seymour."
"But you expect me to, don’t you? You’re afraid."
A groan escaped Declan. "Jeez, Seymour, you’re not making this any easier." He pressed a hand to his forehead. Watched as Birkoff watched him.
"You love being part of this family, Declan. You’re afraid of losing that."
"Aye," he said in a low voice.
"You think I’m going to tell you to get out, get the hell away from me, or something." Birkoff seemed to have given this a great deal of thought.
"Maybe I’m afraid...that you won’t." Declan’s voice dropped to a husky croak.
Birkoff smiled, his expression almost unreadable for once. "Maybe I won’t, Declan."
Declan’s heart skipped a beat. Then two. Cripes, he was going to die of a heart attack if Birkoff said he loved him.
Birkoff’s smile faded. "I’m not sure I like having the power you just gave me, Declan. How do you know I won’t misuse it?"
Declan let out a deep, sorrowful exhalation. "You won’t."