By Genevieve and JayBee

Part Five

Four Days

�See you ma�ana, amigo.� Walter playfully cuffed Birkoff on the ear as he passed his desk. �I�m outta here.�

Birkoff didn�t look up from his keyboard. �Another hot date?� he asked, more than a trace of envy in his voice.

Walter winked as he zipped up the front of his leather jacket. �I�m not one to brag, but��

�I don�t know when you have the time to find these women,� Birkoff muttered as his fingers flew over his keyboard.

Walter waggled his eyebrows. �It�s all about priorities, my friend.�

Birkoff finally looked up at him. The overhead light glinted off his glasses, making it hard to see his eyes. �Considering my track record, I think I�m better off staying here,� he said forlornly.

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, knowing Birkoff would just die of embarrassment if he smiled. But it was true - the kid had rotten luck with the ladies. He�d dated that little hottie Gail for a while, but she�d turned out to be less than devoted. To make matters worse, just when it seemed he�d accepted the inevitable � that he was never going to get the blonde - he�d scored a roll in the hay with Nikita�s exact double (who�d then promptly dumped him on his ass). Not exactly the kind of thing to leave you brimming with confidence.

�You just need to look up from that keyboard once in a while.� He reached over and patted Birkoff on the shoulder. �There�s plenty of talent down here, amigo.�

�For you, maybe,� Birkoff muttered carelessly, and Walter felt a sharp pain lance his heart. Glancing up at him, Birkoff suddenly looked stricken. �Oh god, I�m sorry. I didn�t mean to��

Feeling a familiar burning at the back of his eyes, Walter shook his head. He didn�t want to talk about Belinda. Not in Section. Never in Section. �It�s okay, Birkoff.� He made a show of straightening the cuffs off his leather jacket, then gave Birkoff a determined grin. �Gotta go � can�t keep the ladies waiting.�

�Sure, sure,� Birkoff said hastily, obviously wishing he�d kept his mouth shut. �See you tomorrow.�

As he headed for the ground access elevator, Walter felt as though he�d been kicked in the guts. Isn�t it always the way? You manage not to think about it at least a whole day, and then a couple of innocent words can make you feel like complete crap.

As he passed Systems, Walter noticed Operations and Madeline having what looked like a deep and meaningful conversation. He ignored them. His head was full of Belinda, and he wasn�t sure he could smile and play nicely just at the moment. He felt their eyes on him as he passed by, but he just kept walking.

When he reached the real world that lay five hundred feet above, it was lined with snow and looked bright and shiny, almost too bright for a pair of old eyes that had spent the last ten hours under artificial lighting. He fished out his sunglasses, then considered his options. Despite what he�d let Birkoff assume, he had no plans of the female variety for the evening. No, the only thing he planned to do was find some quiet corner in the nearest watering hole, sink a few beers, then go home to bed. Alone, he told himself determinedly, then sighed as two long-legged, forty-something brunettes sashayed past him, chattering excitedly in their native tongue. There was nothing like a handsome French filly, Walter thought appreciatively, but tonight he just wasn�t in the mood.

He started walking in the direction of the nearest bar, then stopped. He wasn�t in the mood for staying out for a few drinks either. Or catching a movie, or going for a burn on his latest bike. Walter stopped walking, letting the Parisian shoppers � their arms laden with exciting looking parcels - rush past him. Tonight, he really only wanted one thing. The problem, it was the one thing he couldn�t have.

Walter turned on his heel and headed for home. It was a twenty-minute walk, but he wanted to clear his head. He was certainly in no rush to get home. No matter how much he wished it to be otherwise, his apartment would be dark and empty. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes watered, making him blink angrily. Damn it, he�d lived alone for years and it had never bothered him before. But that was before he�d met Belinda, and for a few, glorious days, had known what it was like to have it all.

It was true what that old song said, Walter thought sadly. A taste of honey was worse than none at all.

~*~*~*~

After stoking the fire to a glowing roar, Walter poured himself a whiskey � straight up, no ice � and returned to his battered but beloved leather armchair. The whiskey � the finest Dublin had to offer � was as smooth as silk, but it did nothing to smooth his ruffled thoughts.

God, how he missed her. Missed that cute little lop-sided smile. Missed hearing her delighted chuckle when he told her one of his jokes. How had she gotten to him so much, so quickly? Christ, he�d only known her two weeks before he�d found himself getting down on one creaking old knee and asking her to marry him. Walter took another sip of his drink, his eyes blurring with tears. If he�d been surprised by his own question, Belinda�s answer had almost floored him. She�d said yes. Yes, to him, an old coot who liked to play around with gunpowder and remote triggers.

Walter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. You silly old bastard, sitting here crying into your soup. He had to admit, though, there was a lot to be said for feeling sorry for yourself. It was almost a perverse pleasure to wallow in the misery he hadn�t let himself show or even feel for months and months. Birkoff�s little comment earlier that day had been the trigger, but it wasn�t the kid�s fault. Birkoff knew better than anyone that Belinda�s death had nearly been the end of him. After all, Birkoff had been the one to break the news that Walter�s bride of only a few hours had been on the business end of an abeyance mission. Walter didn�t want to think about the murderous rage that had filled his heart that day, but he knew he�d managed to scare the bejeezus out of both Birkoff and Nikita.

Birkoff had come to see him at home the next day. Walter�s rage had subsided somewhat, but he�d still been in no mood for chitchat. He could still see the look of determination on the kid�s face as he�d put his booted foot in the door. �Walter�wait. Belinda told me�.uh�.she wanted me to tell you�she said to tell you that it�s not a bad thing to die on the happiest day of your life.�

Poor Birkoff, Walter thought guiltily. He must have gone through hell steeling himself to pass on that message, and all Walter had done was slam the door shut in his face. Miserable, he�d then gone back to bed, burying himself in a bottle of scotch and sheets that smelled of Belinda�s perfume.

The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie. Still nursing his glass, he rose from the armchair and sauntered over to the telephone. Must be Section. He couldn�t think of anyone else who�d be calling him here. Biting back a heavy sigh, he answered the phone. �Yup?�

�Walter?�

He had to smile. �Who else would it be, amigo?�

�Yeah, I guess. I hope I�m not interrupting your date,� Birkoff sounded faintly nervous, which wasn�t like him at all. Maybe he still felt bad about accidentally bringing up the subject of Belinda. Walter felt a flicker of guilt. Poor kid. No use both of us feeling like crapola.

�That�s okay, she didn�t show,� Walter hedged slightly, �What can I do for you, kiddo?�

There was a brief pause, then Birkoff said in a hesitant, quiet voice, �Gail�s working the late shift tonight so I�ve got some downtime.� He cleared his throat. �I thought I might go catch that James Bond double at the Metro, and was wondering...�

Walter put his glass down on the nearest flat surface, a grin tugging at his lips. Birkoff suddenly sounded as though he was about ten years old. �And you were wondering?�

�If you wanted to come along,� Birkoff said in a rush, and Walter�s grin widened. Did Birkoff know all along that his �hot date� was a ruse, or was he so anxious for company that he was willing to risk interrupting that hot date?

He could almost feel Belinda standing beside him, her long fingers tangling with his, her chin resting on his shoulder. You�re too young to sit around here all night, drowning your sorrows and feeling sorry for yourself, Walter Jay. Don�t make me get tough with you.

Walter took a deep breath. Maybe it was time he took his own advice. Life wasn�t just about the destination, but the journey along the way. �Sure thing, amigo,� he replied softly, his eyes gritty but dry. �I�ll meet you there in fifteen.�

Three Days

"Hey, Walter, here's that calibrating software you wanted," announced Birkoff, stepping across the threshold into Munitions with a disk clutched in his hand.

Seeing no one, he halted and glanced around in surprise. The workroom was oddly quiet, the low-frequency hum that suffused every location in Section clearly audible, broken only by the disembodied echoes of foot traffic and conversation seeping in from the main floor outside.

"Walter?" he called out, more hesitantly.

Walter had to be nearby -- a haphazard pile of loose wires and stray electronic components strewn across the table testified to his recent presence. As carefree as Munitions Chief seemed to be about other things, he was meticulous about keeping his workspace clean and orderly. As meticulous as Birkoff himself about writing clean code. It was one of the reasons they probably got along so well, despite their outer differences.

"Helloooooo, Walter? You back there?" Birkoff raised his voice slightly, peering into the depths of the storage area.

When he heard no answer, he set the disk on the table and headed into the rear corridors, glancing to each side for a sign of his friend. To his left stood rows of locked rifles, their barrels polished and gleaming, encircled by glass wall cases brimming with scopes and replacement parts. On the right, the armaments were more varied: handguns, tear gas launchers, tranq guns, tasers, and strange-looking contraptions that he couldn't even recognize. Further down were glittering knives and bladed weapons: row after row, shelf after shelf. There were implements of killing in every direction, but nowhere the bandana-wearing man of peace who tended them all.

Leaving the weapons, he made his way through racks of hanging gas masks and bulletproof vests. They swung slightly to and fro as he passed, like columns of soldiers standing at attention, ready to fall in line and march behind him. Finally, he entered the deepest region of storage: a cluttered warehouse full of dusty boxes and pallets, their sides bearing cheerful warnings like "Caution: Corrosive Materials."

Oh, boy. It's a miracle there hasn�t been a chain reaction in here. Yet.

This was pretty much the end of the road, and Walter was nowhere in sight. Oh, well. He could stop by and talk to him later.

Turning to leave, he spotted a small wooden crate poking out from behind several boxes. It seemed woefully out of place, overwhelmed by the massive containers surrounding it. In fact, it looked suspiciously like something off the books.

What are you up to now, Walter?

He dragged the crate from its hiding place and squatted down to peek inside. He shook his head in amusement at the contents: bottles, several empty, but most filled with an ominous-looking reddish-purple liquid, the color so bright he could swear it was radioactive.

Sure enough, Walter had made that toxic cranberry concoction again. Birkoff always refused to touch it, not wanting to kill off precious brain cells with some hippie equivalent of moonshine. In return, Walter scoffed at his squeamishness.

You gotta loosen up a bit, kiddo, Walter had told him the night before. That's why the girls give you the brush-off. Being nice and sensitive is all well and good, but you've got to show them that you can be fun and spontaneous sometimes, too.

Fun. Spontaneous.

Okay, Walter, he thought. I can loosen up. I'll prove it right now.

He reached determinedly into the crate and withdrew one of the already-opened bottles. Pulling off the top, he sniffed the contents warily. Whew! It smelled ghastly, like the vile chemical brew they used to sterilize the White Room after each use. He gulped, gathering courage to take a swig from the bottle, when his gaze landed upon a collection of shot glasses arranged lovingly upon a shelf.

Sheesh, he's got quite the setup back here, he thought, half expecting to discover a lawn chair and a barbecue lurking behind another group of boxes.

He snatched a glass from the shelf and poured a shot of the day-glo liquid, forcing himself to hurry before he came to his senses and changed his mind. He took a deep breath, counted to three, then threw the shot back like he'd seen people do in movies.

Holy cow!

His entire throat, nose, and even sinuses seemed afire. Coughing and gasping uncontrollably, he sprayed half of the drink out his mouth and across the front of his shirt, soaking it with deep scarlet splotches.

"God, Walter," he exclaimed aloud, eyes tearing, "you could remove paint with this stuff!"

Thumping his chest in an effort to recover, he didn't hear the footsteps approaching until they were nearly upon him. Shit! Someone was coming, and he was standing there with a shot glass in hand and wet cranberry stains on his clothes.

Please, God, let it be Walter.

"Walter?" asked Michael, sounding mildly concerned as he came into view. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes flicking up and down as he gazed at Birkoff without expression.

Self-consciously, Birkoff wiped traces of the liquid from his mouth with his sleeve and set the shot glass back down on the shelf. A hundred possible explanations for the situation ran through his mind, but none of them made any real sense. Better not to say anything yet.

Michael watched him in silence, then finally spoke. "I was looking for Walter," he said softly, nothing in his demeanor giving the impression that he thought anything remotely odd was going on.

"Uh, he's not here," Birkoff answered, his face flushing uncomfortably.

Was that the dumbest thing to say or what? Way to state the obvious, Birkoff!

"I see," said Michael. He stood there for a moment, and added, "I'll come back later."

Birkoff nodded hastily. "Yeah, okay. If I see Walter, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

Michael stared at Birkoff for another split second. He had this way of looking at people without really looking at them that would have come across as almost creepy if Birkoff hadn't known Michael so long. It was the kind of look he must use on terrorists right before he snapped their necks. "I would appreciate that," Michael said quietly, and then walked out as suddenly as he had arrived.

Oh, boy. Could it get more embarrassing than this? At least it was only Michael, and he'd never say anything to anyone -- even if he did think Birkoff had lost his mind. But what if it had been someone else? Someone with a big mouth, who would have gone blabbing about how Birkoff was drinking on the job? What had he been thinking?

God, I'm an idiot. Only I could screw up "loosening up."

How did people like Walter make being fun and spontaneous seem so effortless? No matter how hard he tried, it was hopeless. Maybe it was a skill someone had to be born with. Once upon a time, he had thought it could be learned: that if he'd only had a normal life, things could have been different. That, raised in another environment, he could have been a life-of-the-party type, as much a ladies man as Walter, even if not as suave as someone like Michael. Yeah, right, he thought sourly. Short, skinny, nearsighted. All the raw ingredients for a playboy, all right.

Let's face it, you'd be a nerd anywhere, Seymour. At least in Section you're important. Well, kind of, until they can figure out a way to replace you.

This gloomy train of thought was cut short by Walter's booming voice. "Well, I'll be damned! Can't an old man take a bathroom break without someone raiding his stash?"

Birkoff sighed. Yet another witness to his stupidity. "I'm sorry, Walter. You were talking about how good it was last night, so I decided to see for myself."

Walter grinned, a look of almost fatherly pride dancing in his eyes. "Good for you, amigo!" He walked over to the crate and pulled out one of the unopened bottles, and thrust it at Birkoff. "Here. Take one. Consider it an early Christmas present."

Birkoff shook his head. "That's okay. I didn't like it that much. You should keep it for yourself."

"No, I insist," Walter scolded, forcing the bottle into Birkoff's hands. "Keep it around -- it's not like it's going to go bad anytime soon. Maybe one of these days you'll change your mind." He chuckled. "Once your palate matures," he added, winking.

Birkoff shrugged noncommittally. "Okay," he said, taking the bottle reluctantly. "But if you want it back, just say so."

"Don't worry, I will. And Birkoff?"

"Yeah?"

"Go change shirts, okay? The ladies aren't usually too impressed by a fellow who drools on himself."

Birkoff stifled a groan of embarrassment. "Gee, thanks, Walter."