I will follow you will you follow me
All the days and nights that we know will be
I will stay with you will you stay with me …

Mickey Kostmayer moved through the crowd like a tiger through high grass, intent on his prey. He had one hand in his pocket. He fondled the cold metal of the handcuffs as he moved. No time for uncertainty, not now; he moved with familiar, decisive precision.

He gained on the woman, despite the crowd, aided by the fact that she stopped often. Five people separated them, and then three, and then one. He waited while she took another picture and lowered the camera, waited until her left hand came down. Then he grabbed it with his free hand.

She snapped around, but he was faster. Before she saw him he'd snapped one of the cuffs around her wrist. "What the hell?" she exclaimed, and her right arm came around, camera and all, aimed at the side of his head.

Mickey grabbed her wrist, stopped her in mid-swing and held her there. "Easy," he said quietly, "it's just me."

Her eyes registered this, but it didn't make her any less angry. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Anne hissed.

"Shh, shh," Mickey soothed. "Just listen a minute, just listen …"

She jerked fiercely at the chain. "Let me go right this minute."

Don't like it either, do you, Mickey thought bitterly. But he shoved it out of his mind. "Here. Here's the key." He pressed the key into the palm of her hand. "You unlock it whenever you want. Take the cuff off, walk away. You have the key. You make the call."

Anne stared at him, confused and still a little frightened. He tried to call up his best crooked smile, but it wouldn't come. He was frightened, too. "Annie, please," he said, very softly.

A hand the size and weight of a whole ham landed on his shoulder. "This guy bothering you, ma'am?" a deep Texas bass demanded.

Kostmayer turned, annoyed. He looked the intruder squarely in the chest. The chest was as Texas-sized as the voice. Well, he thought, coiling, the bigger they are, the harder they hit you.

"No, it's okay," Anne answered quickly. She lifted her hand and tugged the chain lightly; Mickey could feel her trace it to the end, to the cuff around his right wrist. She got it, at least some of it. "He's just a … a …"

"A romantic fool," Mickey supplied.

The massive American considered the two of them. "Well, all right then," he thundered, and vanished into the crowd.

Mickey turned back to Anne. She studied his face, still confused, but now unafraid. Her fingers toyed with the cuff on his wrist. "Mickey," she asked softly, "what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm trying …" he began, and unexpectedly his voice caught. He blinked, looked down, licked his lips. The crowd pushed them closer together, or maybe it was just Anne moving to him; either way, her closeness gave him comfort and courage. He looked up again. "I'm trying to fix this," he said simply.

Anne frowned. "With handcuffs?"

"I'm staying with you," Mickey explained. "I'm staying until you unlock the cuffs and tell me to go. I want to … to … try to talk this out. I don't know if we can – if I can – but I want to try. Please, Annie, let me try."

"Oh, Mickey." Her hand came up, chain and all, and touched his cheek. He could see in her eyes that there was no question. Of course she would give him another chance. His heart lurched, and just for a moment he couldn't speak. He turned his head and kissed her palm.

The crowd buffeted them again. "Let's go somewhere quiet," Anne suggested.

"No," Mickey answered firmly. "You will never get pictures like this again."

"It doesn't matter …"

"God, I love you for that," he blurted. He caught her behind the neck and kissed her, hard. "But it matters. You take your pictures. Go wherever you want, I'll come with you. We'll talk as we go."

Anne smiled, shaking her head. "I thought you were taking me to your work, not the other way around."

Mickey shrugged, his own crooked smile returning. "Well, I try not to be a chauvinist about these things."

"Yeah? Since when?"

"Since your career started paying better than mine."

Anne sobered. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Mickey answered tersely.

She stared at him, waiting for more. "Because sometimes you act like it bothers you."

"It doesn't."

"Oh." Anne looked down and toyed with the camera.

Mickey sighed. Talking, they were supposed to be talking. He was supposed to be talking. He took a deep breath. "I love your work, Anne. I love that you're successful. I love it that you're getting the recognition that you deserve. You have a huge talent, and you've worked your ass off, and you deserve it. And – and I'm really proud of you, even though I don't really think I have any right to be." He paused for breath. "Your mouth is open."

"That was amazing," Anne answered warmly. "I don't remember the last time you said that many words in a row."

Kostmayer felt his cheeks grow warm. "Yeah, well. It's all true." He pointed past her shoulder. "Look."

There was a crowd of students on top of the Wall again. They were helping a very old man climb up to them. He wore a black suite and a black fedora and a bow tie. Anne raised her camera and shot as he was hoisted up, as he was steadied by the welcoming, turbulent hands of the Wall dancers. As he reached into his jacket and brought out a jeweler's tiny silver hammer. As he knelt, still protected and supported by the youngsters. As he raised his tradesman's tool and brought it down defiantly on the reviled concrete that had broken his city.

His frail blows were largely ineffective, raising only dust, but the crowd applauded his gesture anyhow. He struck the Wall over and over, wincing as every blow wracked his gnarled hand, but jubilant beyond words.

Anne Keller wiped her eyes impatiently on her sleeve and kept shooting until the old man tired and was lowered carefully, lovingly, to the street again.

She sniffed. "That was great."

"Yeah," Mickey agreed. His own voice was just a little unsteady.

Anne turned, used her fingertips to wipe away what were definitely not tears from his eyes. "You done good, boy," she whispered.

Mickey shook his head. "I didn't do this."

"You helped."

"So did you."

"Me?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "I've never even been to Berlin before."

Mickey shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The pictures you take, they make people see …" He faltered, searching for the right words. "They make people see how alike we are. The way you see things … when you're done, that won't just be an old man in Berlin. He'll be everybody's grandfather." He shook his head again, impatiently. "I'm sorry, I don't have the words for this. But what you do – it's important. It's really important."

She leaned against him, out of words herself. "Thank you. I didn't know you felt like that."

"Well, I do."

"But what you do," Anne argued, "it's just as important. It did make this all happen."

"Maybe," Mickey conceded. "But half of what I do …" He hesitated. "Half the time, I think what I'm doing just makes things worse."

"But for a greater good."

"I used to think that. Now I'm not so sure."

Anne studied him for a moment. He'd never talked about his job with her, not like this, not about how he felt about it. He could tell she didn't know quite what to make of it. "Then why don't you quit?"

Kostmayer sighed. "For the other half, I guess."

She nodded seriously. "The things you do for Robert. They help you keep … even."

"Yes," he breathed, relieved. "I wasn't sure you'd understand that."

"I would have if you'd ever told me."

Mickey looked away. "I'm trying, Anne."

"I know you are," she answered, touching his face again. "You're doing so good."

The crowd shifted, moving them north again. Anne checked her camera, frowned, rewound and started patting her pockets. She got her arm tangled in the chain; Mickey moved quickly to unwind her.

"This is kinda silly," Anne said as she reloaded. "The chain. It's sweet, it really is, but it's not necessary."

"Take it off, if it's in your way," Mickey answered quietly.

She looked up at him. "You don't want me to."

He shrugged, expressionless. "It keeps me from losing you in the crowd."

"You won't lose me."

"I already did once," he said solemnly.

Anne shook her head. "I would have taken you back. I always do."

"Not this time. This time you were done. And I don't blame you."

"Are you saying I was right?" Anne asked, fumbling for an empty pocket for the exposed film.

"I might be," Mickey agreed. He took the film from her and tucked it into a back pocket on her vest.

"Then, ah, you'd be admitting that Lily was right, too."

Kostmayer froze up. "Leave Romanov out of this," he warned.

"She was trying to help us, Mickey."

"Leave it," he snarled. "I will settle things with her later."

"I won't let you hurt her, Mickey."

His eyes narrowed to furious slits. "You think you can stop me?"

Anne took a half-step back. "Mickey, stop it."

He could see her fear, and he hated it. But his rage at Lily was white-hot again, and he couldn't hide it. "It's between me and Romanov," he warned darkly. "You stay out of it."

"I can't, Mickey," Anne protested, defiant through her fear. "What she did, she did for both of us."

I am going to kill her, Mickey thought fiercely. But if he said that aloud to Anne – if she ever found out – and then there was Control, coming after him, which hadn't mattered, when Anne was gone –

Damn it.

"Promise me you won't hurt her," she demanded.

"Fine," Mickey snapped. "I'll make sure I kill her quick and painless."

Anne stared at him. Then she jerked away, forgetting about the chain until it snapped taut and spun her back around. "You're crazy!" she shouted. "She's your friend, she did everything she could to help you, and you want to kill her for it?"

The crowd was turning towards the commotion. "Anne, stop it," Mickey ordered, low and dangerous.

"Stop it? I'm not going to stop it! You just said you …"

"Anne, shut up!"

She froze for one instant, swallowed, blinked back tears. Then she fumbled frantically for the cuff key.

Mickey knew at once what she was looking for. He also knew, with great certainty, that if she got the cuffs off, she was gone. Really gone. "Annie, don't."

She found the key. "We've got nothing to talk about."

Anne reached for the cuff. Mickey's hand closed over hers. "Anne, stop."

"Let go. Get away from me!"

"Anne, please!"

For the second time in less than an hour, she swung her camera at him. He caught her other wrist, stopping her, and then he twisted her around so that her back was to him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and his arms around her. "Annie, just stop," he said directly in her ear. "Just stop."

She struggled, and brought her foot down as hard as she could on his instep. "Let me go!"

"There is a problem?" a voice in the crowd said.

"Go away!" Anne shouted. "Damn it, Mickey, let me go." She gave up escaping his arms and turned her efforts back to unlocking the cuff.

"Annie, please," he said desperately, "I love you."

She shuddered, stopped struggling. "And I know you love me," he continued.

"I don't even know you!" she yelled.

Mickey sighed. "Okay," he said. "Okay." Slowly, he released his grip. "Then go."

Anne turned to face him. "I don't want to go. I want you to say you won't hurt her."

"You don't understand."

"I understand just fine. I understand that you're mad at her because she got the drop on you. She embarrassed you, is that it? She faced you? And you're so mad at her you're willing to let me go to get at her. That's it, isn't it?"

Mickey growled. "Yeah. That's it."

"And you couldn't find her in this crowd. If you could, you'd be off killing her instead of trying to fix things with me. Isn't that right?"

"Absolutely," he agreed darkly.

Anne unlocked the cuff from her wrist and handed the key to him. "Good bye, Mickey."

He watched her, numb, dumbfounded, as she moved away into the crowd. Michael Kostmayer was a man who lived by his wits, by his ability to make a quick decision, and suddenly he was rooted, unable to move, to think. To decide.

It was such an easy decision. Let Lily Romanov live, let his rage go, or give up the woman he loved more than his own life.

Insane that he should even have to think about it.

But he was so furious still.

But he loved Anne Keller.

Love, or rage.

He took one deep breath, and went after her.

Mickey moved up behind her again, but didn't grab her this time. Instead, he leaned very close and said, "All right. I'll let her live."

Anne spun around and snapped the cuff back on his wrist. "Damn, but you're a pain in the ass to live with."

Mickey grinned uncertainly, still off-balance. "Yeah. I know."

Well, the government bugged the men's room in the local disco lounge

And all she wants to do is dance, dance

To keep the boys from sellin' all the weapons they could scrounge

And all she wants to do is dance

But that don't keep the boys from makin' a buck or two

And all she wants to do is dance, dance

They still can sell the army all the drugs that they can do

"We're gonna die," Jimmy said grimly.

Stock shot him a look, but he wasn't entirely sure his companion was wrong. The three young black men they faced were grim and determined, and any one of them outmassed the two agents combined by a factor of at least two. From the look of them, they also outgunned the agents by at least as much.

"You Lily's friend?" the tallest of the black men asked.

"Yes," Stock answered. "I'm, uh, Jacob, this is Jimmy." It seemed wiser not to use last names. In his mind, he designated the three men Tall, Round, and In-Between.

"Where's Lily?"

"She's been called away. She'll be back for the party, though."

The three young men exchanged looks warily. "You look like a cop," In-Between said.

"We aren't cops," Jimmy assured them. "We're just looking for a place to have a party. We have cash."

The tall one said, "You don't look like a cop. He does, but you don't."

"We aren't cops," Jimmy said again.

"Lily said you could help us," Stock prompted.

Another look. The young men came to some silent agreement. "Come on inside," Tall said.

Jimmy and Stock shared a look of their own. Jimmy patted the back of his jacket significantly. They followed the young men into the warehouse.

The ground floor was empty and bare, concrete and dust. "Parking," Round said. "There's a door in back. Nobody can see you from the street that way."

"Good, good," Stock answered. That would make Control happy, anyhow.

They continued to a freight elevator at the back wall. The five of them were not very crowded on the brief ride to the second floor. "You understand," Tall said, "it's not that we don't want to help. But this club does not appear on the official records of the City of New York."

"You don't have a liquor license," Jimmy translated. "We don't care."

"No license, no inspections, no limit on our hours. This is a private club, not an open bar. It makes the paperwork easier. You understand."

"We understand," Stock assured him. "We're not into any kind of law enforcement. We just want to throw a party."

The elevator opened onto a small lobby. Beyond, double doors opened onto the main club.

"Welcome to The Velvet Elvis, gentlemen," In-Between man said, ushering them into the club.

The agents considered the club for a long moment. "This'll work," Jimmy pronounced, with more than his usual enthusiasm.

"Oh, yeah," Stock answered. "This'll be great." He considered the bar, the dance floor. The lights, the speakers, the mural behind the bar – well, at least he knew where the club got its name and holy cow, did anyone really think Elvis had been that well-endowed? There was everything they needed here, except food, and that was Sterno's problem. "It'll be great," he repeated.

"We close at midnight tonight," Round told them. "The cleaning crew will be done by five a.m. and you can have the keys then. We re-open at noon on Monday."

Jimmy shook his head. "If you're not on the books, why close on Sundays?"

The three men turned as one to look at him. "Sunday is the Lord's day," the tallest one said. "Wouldn't be right to sell liquor on the Lord's day."

"Oh."

Round snickered. "Besides, his mama would kick his ass."

"Oh."

Stock and Jimmy shared another look. There were details to work out, money, bartenders, and so on. But they had a place to party.

I, I can remember
(can remember)
Standing by the wall
(by the wall)
And the guns shot above our heads
(above our heads)
And we kissed as though nothing could fall

They walked in silence for a long while. Anne took pictures of the Wall dancers, and the Wall woodpeckers, the people with hammers and mallets and other creative tools of destruction. She found a baby-faced East German soldier peeking through a new hole in the Wall and took a dozen pictures of his grinning face. She caught some of the graffito on the flat places, found shred of ancient torn cloth on barbed wire. Mickey moved with her, anticipating what she needed, more film, a different camera, a different lens. His hands moved freely over her vest, keeping hers free for the camera. But for a long time they found no words.

Lily had said they needed to talk, he thought bitterly, and now because of her they had nothing to say to each other.

But then – what had she said? Something about a deal-breaker. "Do you want to have children?" Mickey asked abruptly.

"What?"

"Do you want to have children?" he repeated. "If we were married, would you want to have children?"

Anne lowered her camera and looked at him. "Honestly?"

"Yeah, that would help."

"No."

"No?"

She shrugged. "If Gregg had lived … it would have been different. I mean, if we'd had him …" She gestured around. "But I wouldn't be here, then. Neither would you, probably."

Mickey nodded slowly. If their child had survived, if he hadn't been stillborn, all those years ago … he shook his head. Too many roads had ended with the child's unstarted life. To think about them now was madness. "I just always assumed … I mean, you come from such a big family and all."

"I think that's the problem," Anne answered. "From the time I was out of diapers, practically, I was changing somebody else's. I mean, I love my brothers and sisters, I do, but … when you and Nick were out playing kick the can, I was feeding babies. Remember?"

He considered. He hadn't ever thought about it that way. "But it would be different with your own kids, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe," she agreed. "And sometimes I think about it … but mostly … I'm scared I'd turn into my mother."

"Your mother and her frightening hips."

Anne laughed. "You see what I mean." She slipped her hand into his and they moved further along the Wall. "Do you? Want kids?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess not. I mean, I don't feel very strongly about it either way. If you wanted them I'd go along with it, but … apathy means no, right?"

"Right."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I can't believe I didn't know that about you."

"You never asked."

"I know."

They walked a little further. The crowd had thinned here to normal street traffic, and even that was fading as the light left. Berlin had been celebrating for more than a day; it was finally going to bed.

"I like this," Mickey said, quiet and surprised.

"Walking and talking?" Anne asked. "We could do it more often, you know."

"Yeah." He jingled the chain between them. "I might have to keep this."

"We don't need that." She squeezed his hand warmly. "We have these."

He stopped, and she turned, and they kissed.

"Not so hard, is it?" Anne coaxed.

Mickey smirked. "It's a lot easier when you aren't yelling at me."

"It's a lot easier when you stick around, too." She touched his face gently, almost by way of apology. "How come I can't get a decent argument out of you?"

"I don't see any point in arguing." He was already stiffening up. "I mean, you yell, I yell, nothing gets accomplished."

"But nothing gets accomplished when you just leave, either."

"Maybe. But at least we don't break up."

Anne frowned. "You won't fight with me because you're afraid we'll break up if you do?"

"Well … yeah."

"We damn near broke up because you didn't."

Mickey's shoulders inched up. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

She sighed. "I'm not mad, Mickey. And I'm not going to yell, I promise. But I think we really need to talk about this."

He drew a long, deep breath, and started walking, still holding her hand. "I just … I just don't see why we need to fight. I just don't."

"All couples fight."

"No, they don't."

"Of course they do."

"No," Mickey repeated with certainty. "They don't."

Anne considered, then tried a different strategy. "Didn't your parents ever fight?"

"No."

"They must have."

"Nope."

"Maybe when you weren't around."

"Anne. My parents never fought."

"Never?"

"Never."

"I can't believe that. All couples fight."

"They didn't."

"Never?" she asked again.

"Never," Mickey insisted. "Just that once."

Anne heard the catch in his voice. "Mickey?" she asked gently.

He looked pointedly in the other direction. "I don't want to talk about this," he said again, and this time his voice actually cracked.

"Mickey." Anne stopped him with a gentle pressure, turned him towards her and put her hands lightly on the sides of his face. "Mickey, what happened?"

He still wouldn't meet her eyes. "They had a fight, okay? A big blow-out argument like we're always on the verge of having. And then my dad left."

"And then what?"

"And then nothing." He jerked his head away from her, turned so that his shoulder was towards her. "He never came back."

"Oh, Jesus … oh, Mickey!" Anne went around in front of him, and though he tried to turn away again, she caught him, this time with her arms, wrapped them around him and held him tightly. He resisted, stiffening against her. "Oh, Mickey," she murmured, "oh, love, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Slowly, the stiffness left him and he wrapped his arms around her as well. He buried his face in her shoulder and held her tighter still. One of them, or both of them, trembled. She kept murmuring reassurances, apologies, and he shook his head without looking up. "How could you know, Annie? I never told you."

"You should have told me, I never would have … oh, Mickey, I'm so sorry. If I'd known … my parents fought all the time, I never thought about … oh, Mickey, I'm sorry."

"Okay, stop," he muttered. He untangled himself, but gently, from her embrace. "It was a long time ago, it shouldn't matter any more, it's just … it's just …"

"That every time we argue you think I'm going to leave you. Because that's what you learned."

Mickey shook his head. "I should know better."

"I should, too. I wish you'd just said something."

There was a long silence. Mickey looked around them. It was nearly full dark, and the streets were almost deserted here. There were houses between them and the Wall now. He'd hidden in a chicken coop once that used the Wall as the back of the pen. Close by, in fact. The place with the weird graffiti.

"Come here," he said, moving again. "I want to show you something."

She followed, willing but concerned as they cut behind people's houses.

"Your parents argued all the time?" he asked. "I didn't know that."

"All the time," Anne answered, chuckling. "Screaming, yelling, about everything. But it never meant anything, they still loved each other. It was just how they communicated."

He nodded thoughtfully. "So that's how you thought couples should be."

"Yeah, I guess I did. And all the time that was exactly the wrong way to be with you … I'm sorry, Mickey."

"My fault, too. I didn't even realize that was why I kept leaving." He sighed. "Damn it."

"What?"

He twisted his mouth. "I hate it when Romanov's right."

"You don't have to tell her.'

"No. I don't think I will." He stopped just beside the Wall and pointed. "Read this."

Anne squinted in the shadows. Mickey produced a pen light and pointed it to a tiny spot. There were shallow scratches there, old words almost too faint to be read. "My ear?" Anne read curiously. "Is that what it says?"

"Uh-huh. 'My ear, my ear, where the hell is my ear'."

"What's it mean?"

Mickey shrugged. "I have no idea. I found it a long time ago, when I was hiding out here." He hesitated, then went on. "The spotlights have sweet spots. Dead places, places they don't reach. So if you come off the Wall, or through it, you can just stay here, wait until they quit looking."

"But I thought once you got to the West you were safe."

He gestured towards the top of the Wall. "High-powered rifles, they're not great respecters of boundaries."

She followed his gesture, gazed at the Wall for a moment. Then she looked back at him. He could see her putting it together. Him crouching here – right here – in this small sweet shadow, while above men with guns waited for a glimpse to shoot at. Men right there, trying their damndest to kill him … she shuddered, and he touched her arm. "Annie, I'm right here."

Her eyes filled with tears anyhow. "You were … you could have … how often have you … ah, shit. I was happier when I didn't know so much about your job."

"Yeah."

She framed up the scratching on the Wall and took a couple flash shots. "I'm tired," she announced.

"We can head back," Mickey answered. "There's not going to be much more to see tonight."

"In a minute." Anne leaned her shoulder against the Wall, resting. Mickey joined her, took her hand again. "What are we going to do, Mickey?" she asked softly.

"About us?"

"Uh-huh."

"We're doing it," he answered. "We're going to talk it out. Everything we need to talk about, we'll talk about. That's all."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Well, it ought to be a little easier now, anyhow."

"Now that I'll quit yelling at you."

He shook his head. "It's okay if you yell at me. As long as I know you're not leaving me."

"You think … maybe you could yell back sometimes?"

"That's a stretch. But I can try, if it's important to you."

"It is."

"Why?"

She considered, biting her lower lip. "My parents had these big screaming fights, and then they'd go upstairs and make up. They weren't quiet about that, either."

"You're kidding."

"Mickey, until I was about six years old, I thought people made babies by screaming at each other."

Mickey laughed. "Oh. So you're trying to pick fights with me to spice up our love life?"

"No, but …" Anne stopped and thought about it. "You know, maybe that is part of it."

"We're quite a pair, you know that." Mickey took a deep breath. "I love you, Anne."

"I love you, too."

He looked around. The sweet spot. No surveillance here, no spotlights, even if they'd been running tonight. The chicken coop blocked them from the street, mostly. The houses were dark and quiet. The concrete of the Wall was cold on his back, and colder still through his jeans. Anne's hand in his felt like an ember. "We could try it," he ventured softly.

"The fighting or the making up?"

"Yeah." He turned and put one hand behind her neck, drew her face to his and kissed her long and hard and deep. "Yeah."

Her body came tight against his – and the cameras and film and lenses in her vest pockets jabbed at both of them. "Wait," Anne murmured against his mouth. She got her hand between them, unzipped the vest and pushed it open. Less hindered, she drew tight against him again, her arms twined around his head as far as the chain would allow, and the kiss continued.

The explosion happened almost directly over their heads. Mickey lifted his mouth and moved their bodies in one instinctive motion, pushing Anne roughly against the Wall and covering her with his own body even before he looked up to the source of the blinding white light.

The firework blossom faded, the embers hissing down to the cold earth below.

"Shit," Kostmayer breathed. Other fireworks went off all along the wall. He moved off Anne's body enough to stop crushing her. "I hate fireworks. You okay?"

"Uh-huh," she said faintly.

Mickey leaned back and studied her. Her eyes were cloudy, but she wasn't frightened, wasn't hurt. It was some other emotion entirely. His body recognized it before his mind did. It made his mouth go dry, his knees go soft. "You, uh, want to head back to the safe house?"

"No," Anne answered. She pulled his close again and kissed him, deeper than before, harder.

"Anne," Mickey said desperately, "Anne, please." This was crazy, he thought. His jeans were suddenly way too tight. It was cold, the fireworks kept exploding over their heads, they were literally in the shadow of the Berlin Wall, it was the middle of the night, and if she kissed him like that one more time …

She did. She moved so that her foot was between his, and then her knee, and then her thigh was tight against his, her whole body, and he could feel the heat through their clothes, way too many clothes between them, his reindeer sweater that was no less itchy from the outside than the inside, his leather jacket too cold, too slick, he fumbled to get that zipper open, too, and that was better, they were closer, still not close enough, they were never going to be close enough …

This was insane. "Anne," he said, as firmly as he could, "stop it. We can't do this."

She nibbled at his left ear, and her hands found their way under his shirt, ran up his chest. Her hands were warm, but the trailing handcuff chain was icy; the combination was intolerable. "Why?" she purred.

"We … you … damn it, Annie …" Her left hand had found the most sensitive spot on his chest. The chain dragged frozen across his taut stomach. And her right hand was … was … "Annie," he groaned, half protest, half resignation.

"The Wall won't be here in a month," she protested. "We'll never get another chance."

"But … but …" Mickey insisted. His mouth continued to protest even as hers closed over his, but his body had already agreed with her logic … if that's what it was. Maybe it was just a lack of control … oh, hell, if Control ever found out about this … too many people, too many cameras, too much risk, out here in the middle of everything …his hands were all over her, now, too, and the cold didn't matter, he didn't even feel it, neither did she, only the heat, mouths and hands and skin and heat …

… too many clothes, too many clothes in the way, zippers and buttons and shirts and what he wanted was his skin against hers, what he wanted was … was …

Another explosion overhead, and he moved, backed her against the wall again … the Wall, he corrected … still way too many clothes, but the important ones out of the way and nothing else mattered, he moved and they were together, joined in heat, his body held hers tight against the Wall, her arms around his neck, her leg came up around him and they were together, so close, so tight, so impossibly hot where they met …

It couldn't last, and it didn't, but it ended as swiftly and as spectacularly as the airbursts that continued over their heads. Mickey fought for air and for balance as Anne's body slumped against him. He got his feet a little further apart, braced himself and just held her for a moment. She was trembling. Or maybe it was him. After another moment, they both started to feel the cold.

Anne put her feet down and steadied herself. "Um."

"Uh-huh," Mickey answered. They both adjusted their clothes, standing very close still, covering each other until they were decent. They got tangled in the chain of the handcuffs and had to stop. Anne started to giggle. Mickey grumbled, then started laughing himself. They got untangled, eventually. Zipped each other's coats. Anne patted her pockets, found her camera. Assembled, respectably holding hands, and without another word, they stepped back into the light.

They had walked perhaps fifty yards before Mickey said, rather plaintively, "Now can we go back to the safe house?"

Anne laughed. "That depends. Will Ginger be there?"

"I hope not."

"After this, I thought you might be up for two redheads."

"You are such a brat."

"I know. And you're so very indulgent."

He grunted. "If they weren't tearing this Wall down …"

"You'd have done it anyhow."

Mickey glanced sidelong at her, a small grin playing at his mouth. "Yeah, I would. With you, I would."

"You say the sweetest things."

They walked a little further. "Maybe your parents had something," Mickey finally ventured. "Maybe there's something to this fighting after all."

"Told you so." Anne bumped against his shoulder as they walked. "We should do it more often."

"Yeah."

"But you were right, too," she admitted. "Maybe a little more talking, a little less yelling."

"Uh-huh."

"You're not talking," Anne pointed out.

Mickey cleared his throat. "Sorry. I was just wondering … only we're doing so well, I don't want to bring it up again …"

"Getting married?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to marry you."

They walked a little further. "But?" Mickey asked.

"But what?"

"You'd like to marry me, but."

"No but. I'd like to marry you. If the offer still stands."

"Oh." They walked; Mickey's face was perfectly expressionless. "It's the handcuffs, isn't it?" he finally ventured.

"Well … they helped."

"You're just a little kinky, aren't you?"

"A little. And you like it, just a little, don't you?"

"A little."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So do you still want to marry me? Kinks and all?"

Mickey shrugged. "Let me think about it."

"Oh, and you said I was a brat." Anne stopped in her tracks, grabbed his face, and kissed him again. "Don't make me throw you up against that Wall again, buddy."

He stood very still and considered her for a long moment. "Okay."

"Okay."

"Okay, let's get married."

Anne grinned. "Okay."

Mickey sighed. "Now can we go back to the safe house?"

They did. They found a warm room with a door that locked securely, they took off the handcuffs and many other things, and sometime before the dawn, he finally remembered to put his mother's engagement ring on her finger.