Author: Daydreamer
Date: 26 February 2003

The Visit

There was a knock on the door and since I was closest, I got up to answer it. It was my mother. I took one look at her and snatched her up in a hug. "Naomi!" I'm always so surprised by how much I've missed her when she suddenly shows up again. You'd think at my age, I'd be over some of that.

She was clinging tightly to me as well, and I could tell she'd missed me. It was nice to know. I could feel Jim sorta hovering in the background -- waves of worry rolling palpably off of him -- and I had to wonder what was up with that.

I know he has some issues with Naomi, but man, she is my mom and I couldn't believe Jim would do or say anything to make her feel unwelcome. I shouldn't have worried though, 'cause next thing I know, he's smiling and kissing her cheek.

"Hey, Naomi," he says, "what brings you by?"

She laughs and that fake smile Jim's been sporting -- good enough to fool Naomi but not me -- is replaced by a real one. No one can deny my mom for long. There's something effervescent and irresistible about her.

"I'm on my way to Alaska for an environmental thing. We're trying to increase awareness of the rapidly diminishing natural lands and raise funds for education and preservation."

The smile on Jim's face fades and he just nods. "Oh," he says, and I can't help but feel a little sorry for him. I mean, I'm used to Naomi's various crusades but Jim's still a novice with this and it can be a little overwhelming. I run through my memory and try and see what I remember about the hot issues in Alaska.

There's land and logging, and something about cruise ships. Waste dumping, I think. "Oh, man, I read about some of that stuff," I say as I pull Naomi into the loft. Jim's still standing there, so I figure he can get her stuff. It'll give him something to do and at the same time, give him some time to adjust to Hurricane Naomi. Jim isn't the most flexible guy in the world and sometimes dealing with the unexpected can sorta stress him.

I'm pulling Naomi to the couch when my Sentinel sneezes. I immediately turn and look, wondering what the hell Naomi brought with her this time, but Jim seems okay. Probably just something left over -- maybe sage from a cleansing ritual. Jim hates sage. But he's got all her bags hung from various portions of his anatomy, he's kicked the door shut, and now he's standing in the living room like he doesn't know what to do.

Confused Jim is so cute and I'm tempted to tease, but I take pity instead. After all, it was Hurricane Naomi that brought on his confusion, so without really thinking I just say, "Put them in my old room, Jim."

Jim's eyes widen and I wonder if he thought I was going to try and hide our relationship from my mother. I shake my head. He should know better than that. Naomi is the original open mind.

He heads for the room under the stairs and I start talking about what I remember about Alaska. "There're timber issues and ATVs tearing up the terrain ..." I look up and Jim has the bags stowed, but he's still standing in the doorway, like he's not sure where to go or what to do. I wave at him, trying to get him to come out and join us.

"And the roadless rule is up for reconsideration," Naomi adds. "Don't forget that."

Jim's back in the living room now, and I can see he's a little uncertain about where to go, what to do. Naomi is sitting next to me on the couch and I've got my arm around her. I learned early on, it's best to hang on to her if you want her to stay for a while. Otherwise, she has a habit of getting away. But where Naomi and I are sitting is where Jim and I usually sit, and it's usually Jim with his arm around me. I can see him looking at us, sizing up the change and he's not sure he likes it. But he just shrugs and sits in the chair. "Roadless rule?" he asks, and I gotta admire his fortitude. In all honesty, I'm sure he could give a rat's ass about Alaskan issues, but he's trying.

I love this man.

"Clinton administration passed it," I explain. "Loggers can't go cutting roads throughout all the forests they're destroying."

He looks at me and smiles and there's something about that look, that smile that makes the rest of the world go away and I feel like I'm the most important thing in his life. My throat suddenly goes dry and I have to swallow hard because, besides NanaKat, he is the only person who has ever made me feel this wanted, this loved.

"Doesn't that make it hard to get the timber out?" he asks, blue eyes wide with laughing innocence. I want to laugh because I know what he's doing. He's feeding me lines to wind me up, and as much as I enjoy an opportunity to expound, I also know he likes to watch me. It makes him smile, and I never miss a chance for a full-blown, all-out Ellison smile.

I look at Naomi and we both say, "Exactly," and burst out laughing. My mom and I may not spend a lot of time together, but I'm never surprised by how quickly we get back in sync when we do hook up.

I'm feeling so happy, I think my heart is about to pop out of my chest. It just can't contain the way I feel. I remember this time Jim and I were in the grocery store and there was this older woman at one end of an aisle, and a young woman at the other end. A little boy, maybe three years old, was running back and forth between the two women, collecting hugs at each stop. You could see the young woman -- the mother -- was getting irritated. She told the kid to stop running a couple of times and even threatened to put him back in the cart. But the older woman -- the grandmother -- she just kept hugging the kid every time he came to her, and smiled at him like he was the greatest thing in the world. She was moving up the aisle toward the mother, and when she got there, I heard her tell the young woman not to fuss at the boy. That right now, in a grocery store of all places, that boy was as happy as he could ever be. He was with two people he loved, and they loved him, and you should never be fussed at for wanting to love someone.

Jim had leaned over and whispered in my ear that that was what we'd both missed when we were growing up -- being loved like that.

But right now -- for just this moment -- I felt that way. My mother was laughing with me, and Jim was smiling at me from the chair. I was between the two people who loved me most in the world, and I was deliriously happy.

But when I look at Jim again, he's looking at me -- at Naomi and me -- like he wants to evict her from the couch, from the loft, from my life. I know that look. He's worried she's going to hurt me, but hey, I'm a big boy now and this is my mom. I want to see her, to spend time with her. I need to see her.

But I don't want the evil green monster of jealousy to to take Jim over, so I figure I'll just plunge ahead like I don't know he's feeling left out. Like I don't know he wants my mom off the couch so he can be sitting here. "Bush's people have been trying to overturn the law since they got in," I say, smiling at Jim, trying to let him know he's included. He kinda cocks his eyebrow as he watches me and gives me a half-smile, so I figure he's evening out, accepting that I need to spend some time with Naomi. And hopefully not feeling too threatened by that. I look at my mom and ask, "Are you dealing with the cruise ship dumping?"

She wraps her arm around mine and cuddles up next to me. "You know it, sweetie," she says. "That's one of the biggies.

Jim's lost again. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Naomi and then he asks, almost reluctantly, "Cruise ship dumping?"

I gotta hand it to him -- this is probably way up there on the list of things he doesn't particularly want to know about, but he's making the effort. So I crank up my enthusiasm, too. "Oh, yeah," I say, "there's like, tons of waste just dumped off cruise ships every week."

"I can't remember all the numbers," Naomi pipes in, "but

I do remember that there's a million gallons of graywater dumped every week, by every ship."

I'm nodding, trying to remember the different pollutants that make up graywater. Blackwater is the worst, but there's not nearly as much of that dumped as there is of the graywater, so the overall impact of the gray is almost as severe as the black.

"Graywater," Jim says. I can tell he had to pry the words out. Part of him is wishing for anything else to do, but part of him is watching every move I make and I can't help but wonder what he's thinking. Being watched by a Sentinel is intense.

"Graywater," I repeat, dropping into my teacher mode. "It has solvents and detergents and pesticides in it. Not as bad as the raw sewage they dump, but there's just so much more of it." It's depressing to think about. I decide to go see what we've got to offer in the kitchen and I get up. "You want tea, Naomi?"

Mom gets up too and follows me, and when I look back, I see Jim has risen as well. I pull out the tea canister, then drag the kettle from the stove to the sink and start filling it. I'm trying to think what's in the fridge, what can I make to eat, when I feel strong arms wrap around me from behind. Jim. He's always needed to touch me, but the urge seems unusually strong since we became partners in the bedroom as well as everywhere else. I lean back against him, relishing that controlled strength that makes me feel so safe, and for a minute, he is all I can think about. My mother clears her throat and I jolt away, looking over to see her studying us. But hell, Naomi is open-minded, she shouldn't have any problems with this, should she?

I smile at her, hoping she can see how happy I am and let myself lean back against my Sentinel again until the kettle is full. When I step away to put it on the stove, Jim moves back and when I look for him, he's standing in the living room, his arms crossed.

"Your old room?" Naomi asks, and it makes me blush, which pisses me off. My relationship with Jim is nothing to be ashamed of, and I wonder at the tone in her voice. I nod, because I don't trust my voice yet.

I glance at Jim and see his jaw twitching and I have to wonder what he's seeing that I'm missing. What is it that has him so on edge?

Naomi is staring at me -- that practiced look of hers that says 'don't move -- I'm not done with you, yet.' Her voice is soft, low, when she says, "Oh, sweetie, are you sure about this?"

Sure about this? Only more sure than I've ever been about anything in my life. "Oh, yeah," I say with as much conviction as I can muster. "Absolutely positive." I look over at Jim and give him my biggest smile, the one he says makes his insides melt with happiness, which believe me, was like a major emotional moment for Jim Ellison to not only acknowledge but verbalize it. He just grins back at me and I can't help but think how good he looks when he's happy.

But Naomi is talking again, so I shift my attention to her. "I mean," she's saying, "have you processed it, baby? Really worked through everything?" She's moving toward me and I reach out and grab her, pull her to my chest and hug her hard. This is my mom and I love her. I really want her to be okay with this.

I look from her to Jim and realize these are the two people I love most in the world, and I need them to be okay with each other. I take a deep breath as that realization sinks in, because along with it comes the realization that Jim will never be okay with Naomi as long as he thinks she had anything to do with me being hurt. I suddenly know I'm gonna have to talk to her about -- stuff.

I decide to start with the good stuff -- with Jim. I want her to know how great things are with him. "I've processed, Naomi," I say, and then without thought, other words fall from my lips. "Seems like lately all I've done is process." Just saying it out loud seems to wear me out and I let my head fall onto my mother's shoulder, subconsciously seeking her comfort I suppose. "There's been a lot of stuff I've had to process," I admit.

For a minute I am content to let my mother hold me, but then I look at Jim and I see he is frowning.

Naomi has this almost accusative tone in her voice when she asks, "Have you really thought about what life with a -- a cop will be like?"

I really hate the way she says that -- like being a cop is lower than dirt. Like being someone who protects others is something to be ashamed of. Like being strong and brave and willing to risk your life so that other's lives will be safe is too humiliating to bear. And suddenly I find, there are things about my mother that I hate.

Jim is still frowning, and now I am, too. I realize I'm resting on Naomi's shoulder, my arms wrapped around her but she is stiff within my embrace, and she has kept distance between our bodies. It infuriates me, but I strive for control. I pull back and look at her. "Why would it be any different than it has been since I moved in?" I ask, and even I can hear the snappishness in my tone. "We already lived together, ate together, worked together. We shared rides and expenses and house responsibilities. Jim's had my power of attorney for over a year now, and I have his." I can see her eyes widen at the thought that Jim and I have legal entanglements.

And despite it all, I desperately want her to understand. To say it's okay. To love me and to love Jim, because I do.

I want her blessing.

"But -- Jim," she says, and her hands flutter in the air as if I'm supposed to understand what she means. When I say Jim, it represents love and safety and home and a sense of permanence that I've never had before. When Naomi says his name, it's as if it were something dirty, and I am ashamed of her.

Ashamed of myself that I have let her bring her anger, her distrust, into our home.

Jim's fists are gripped at his side; I can't bear to think of the effort he is expending to exert control. He hasn't said a word -- deferring to me and following my lead on how I want to handle my mother.

I pull away from her, disgusted by her touch, and begin to pace in the kitchen. "And just what's wrong with Jim?" I demand. I look over and see his tension has eased marginally. Did he really doubt I would defend him? "He's a cop -- we've established that. But he's been a cop ever since I met him. Why would you think that would make a difference now?"

Naomi shakes her head, that patented 'you're missing the point' action that used to piss me off when I was kid and still pisses me off today. She's reaching for me, but I avoid her grasp.

"Is it because he's a guy?" My voice is rising -- I can't believe she is doing this to me. To us. "I thought you were more open-minded than that, Naomi." It's the worst accusation you can make against her -- accuse her of being anything other than open-minded.

Jim's following us like a verbal tennis match -- his eyes dart back and forth. His teeth grind, his fingers flex. I can't imagine what it's taking for him to stay in one place, not to say anything.

"Of course it's not that!" Naomi snaps at me. "You know me better than that!" Her face is flushed; but is it anger, embarrassment, or something else?

"I thought I did," I say, nodding, and I realize that this new view of my mother saddens me. It's -- ugly -- and I don't like it. I want my mother to be carefree and accepting, high-spirited and non-judgmental. I always thought she was all of those things, but today, I begin to see differently, and I can't help but wonder what else I've not seen clearly through the years. I study her closely as I say, "But I'm beginning to wonder. What is it exactly that worries you about Jim?" I move to stand beside him. I don't want to have to choose, but if I have to, I know what my choice will be.

Naomi looks at Jim as if he were something the cat dragged in. She rolls a cold, appraising eye over him, then says, "What does he get out of this, Blair?" Her tone is detached, professional, as if she were a clinician making an assessment. "You have a place to stay, help with your thesis, an in at the police station." She's actually circling him, and I am reminded of sharks circling a life raft. I step closer to him. If she's the shark, Jim and I are each other's raft -- I won't leave him to face her alone.

"But what does Jim get?" she asks, and Jim's jaw twitches yet again.

When I don't respond, she says, "He's older than you."

Well, that's a ridiculous argument if I ever heard one. Naomi has been with guys twenty and thirty years older than her. "Some," I acknowledge, determined not to get into a pissing contest over something that inane. "So?"

"He's a cop," she says again.

"Been there, done that." I know she's got something big, something real that's she's going to use, and I just want her to go on and get it over with.

"Blair," she says, looking at me while she lowers her voice. If she thinks that will leave Jim out, imagine how surprised she'd be to read my work on Sentinels. Jim can't be excluded. "He kills people," she says, and my mouth drops open. I can't believe she would say that, can't believe she would do that to him.

Jim moves now, his hands no longer fisted, but flexing at his side. "Only when I have to," he growls, and I can hear the deadly undertones in his voice. I move to stand between them, my mother and my lover. The immovable object and the irresistible force. I'm facing Jim, my back to Naomi and I lift my hand, resting it against his chest. I know I haven't got a snowball's chance in hell of stopping him, if he decides he wants to move, but he remains still and gives the illusion that I have held him back.

"Easy, big guy," I say, my voice too low for Naomi to hear. "She doesn't mean it like that." I glance back and wonder if Naomi realizes that she's playing with fire. I wonder if she knows that it is only Jim's love for me that protects her. She has this frightened look on her face, but at the same time she looks satisfied, as if she's provoked the reaction she expected, but isn't quite sure of what to do with it now that she has it.

"He'll change you, Blair," she says. I feel her hand on my back, and I flinch from her touch. She's moving closer, her arms wrapping around me as she tries to sway me to her position. My hand is still resting on Jim's chest; I feel his heart beat steadily beneath my touch. His eyes hold mine and I see such love shining from them, total acceptance of who I am, respect for my strength, my abilities; patience with my weaknesses, my vulnerabilities.

She leans in then to whisper to me, and I realize that when I moved between Jim and Naomi, I may have started out to protect her from him, but the roles have changed. I find that now, I am protecting him from her. Trying futilely to use my body to shield him from the emotional damage I know only too well she knows how to inflict.

"You're an innocent, Blair," she whispers, and I nearly choke. What kind of fantasy world does my mother live in? I haven't been 'innocent' in a very long time. "Incorrupt," she continues. "You have a purity that comes from having always been protected, always been loved."

She's delusional, this woman. I can't believe that thirty minutes ago I was thrilled to see her. Now I wish she'd never come. I'm not ready for this. I'm not strong enough for this. But I look at Jim and I see nothing but faith in me in his eyes and it gives me strength. I think I can do this.

"He'll take that and destroy it." Naomi's voice is still buzzing in my ear and I shake my head as if that will dislodge her hurtful words. "And then," she pauses and I see the way she looks daggers at Jim, "when he loses interest, he'll abandon you."

I can't believe her! I can't believe the words that drip from her mouth -- the venom that infuses their every syllable. I drop my hand from Jim's chest and am suffused with a physical ache at the lack of contact, but I step away. "Innocent?" I cry. "I'm innocent?" I am absolutely in shock. I can not believe she thinks this -- would say it to me. "Are you shitting me?"

I start to completely unload on her -- to tell her all the things I have shared with Jim over the last few months but then I look at her face. She's got this injured look there, as if I've hurt her and she doesn't understand why. I swallow some of what I was going to say -- I pull back the words about Don and the beatings and the bad times in the other places. But I can't let it all go -- I just can't ... Her self-delusion is too great to continue to stand without some attempt at a reality check.

"Do you really think I was always protected?" I say, my voice rising despite my best attempts to remain calm. "Always loved?" Jim is watching me -- so afraid for me, but suddenly I can't spare anything extra for him. I am totally focused on Naomi. "How the hell would you know if I was loved and protected?" I whirl away from her, shaking. My hands fist at my side and I fight for control, fight not to scream, not to cry, but I lose it and spin back around, yelling, "How the hell would you know? YOU WERE NEVER THERE!"

Naomi takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and it infuriates me. I've seen this so many times before. She doesn't like the way things are going, so she decides to just psychically detach. It made me feel lonely and insecure when I was a child. Now it just enrages me.

I lower my voice and know that even if she pretends calm on the outside, she is hearing every word I say. "Let me tell you about loved and protected," I say, my voice infused with rage and pain. "I was so well-loved that you left me in a park when I was four. You just forgot about me. And you left me on the beach when I was seven. Do you even remember that? And what about the time you just drove off and left me in the rest stop on the highway? I was eleven, Naomi, eleven. I was scared shitless. I hid in the men's room all day -- terrified any time someone came in. Let me tell you -- I did not feel loved or protected any of those times."

Jim is suddenly there, reaching for me, but I feel so fragile that I know if he touches me I will shatter. I step away, wrapping my arms around myself in an almost vain attempt to hold myself together. I can't believe I've let Naomi into our lives -- let her come with her self-absorption and self-pity to try and tell me what I can and can not do with my life. It hurts to see her this way -- to know that she is far more responsible for my pains of childhood than I ever wanted to admit. I still can't call her on all of it yet, but I won't let her speak badly of Jim.

"Jim is always there, Naomi. He doesn't forget about me, or leave me on my own. He's steady and dependable and predictable. He's given me a home -- a real home -- where I feel safe and secure, and HE WOULD NEVER ABANDON ME!"

She opens her eyes and looks at me, sighing. I brace for yet another episode of 'detach with love.' I can tell when Naomi is getting ready to split. "I can see you're too emotional to deal with this now, sweetie" she says. She turns and heads for the room under the stairs. "I'll just get my stuff and get out of here. I can see you need your space."

"Right, Mom," I say. I mean, what else did I expect? "By all means, get your shit and run. It's what you do best. But you'll excuse me if I don't wait around this time to watch the big departure. I think I have enough paper kisses to last a lifetime!"

I head for the door. Jim's hand comes out, but he drops it before he touches me and lets me leave. I throw house rules to the wind and slam the door as loud as I can. It is strangely satisfying.

I freeze in the hallway and through the closed door I hear Jim roar, "STOP!" I almost go back in but then something in me says, 'fuck it.' Jim won't physically hurt her, and as for anything else, she's a big girl. Let her deal with it.

I head for the stairs, thinking I'll go get in my car, go somewhere, but I can't. I don't have my keys, my wallet, anything. And besides, I know Jim is tracking me and he'd panic if I actually left the building. I'm crying now, as I head down the stairs and then sit near the bottom. I'm as far away from Naomi as I can get and still be out of sight of anyone coming in. I may be the kind of man who's not ashamed to cry, but I don't want just everyone to see me doing it.

I sit here with my head in my hands, tears on my face, a snotty nose, and I feel like I'm about six years old. Only instead of wanting my mom, I want Jim. I wish he'd just leave Naomi alone and come and get me. I want to feel his arms around me, hear his voice whispering to me that it'll be okay.

I want to cry on his shoulder and have him rub my head and push my hair back from my face and then kiss my tears away.

I want him to take me upstairs, all the way upstairs to the big bed we share now, and I want him to undress me and put me to bed and bring me tea. It'll soothe us both. Jim because he's doing something and me, because, hey, I admit it, I love having someone take care of me. I've never had that before.

And Jim really does know how to take care of me.

I hear him racing down the steps and then he sees me. He slows and the care he takes in how he handles me goes straight to my heart.

"Hey, Chief," he says softly, "can I sit down?"

I nod and move over and he sits with me.

"She's gone, isn't she?" I ask.

"No." Jim shakes his head. "Why would you think that?"

"It's what she does." I shrug and lean my head against his arm, so hungry for contact with him. "She runs when things get too intense." Jim reaches out and takes my hand and I realize he's bleeding. He's got a Kleenex wrapped loosely over his knuckles and I have to wonder what the upstairs hall looks like. We just finished redoing it last week. I unwrap the tissue, wipe gently at the broken skin on his knuckles. It's only now occurring to me that I never considered that he might have hurt Naomi. Jim just wouldn't do that. Walls and windows, yes. My mother? Never.

I lift his hand and kiss it, an oddly old-fashioned gesture that seems to touch Jim. He swallows hard and clears his throat, but leaves his hand in mine. "She's still there," he says. "She's waiting for you to come back up."

I know he wouldn't have hurt her, but I can't resist teasing a little. "What did you do to her?" I ask, a hint of a smile on my lips.

"She's still in one piece, if that's what you mean." He's fighting a smile as well, trying to play the tough guy for me. "But she did push me hard enough I had to check out the walls."

God, I hope he doesn't mean the brick walls in the loft. I look at his hand once more, then kiss it again, and he flushes with pleasure. Jim likes being taken care of too. I wasn't the only one who missed that growing up.

"That's my mom, man," I say, teasing him.

He reaches out and hugs me. "I know," he says and then he's leaning over, his lips brushing mine. "She knows you need to talk about this stuff. She's willing to wait."

I can't believe he got Naomi to hang around. The man is incredible. I lean against him, secure in the knowledge that he can hold me -- he won't let me fall. "This is a first. Naomi's here, ready to talk, and I don't know if I can do it." I shiver, suddenly cold, but Jim holds me tighter, not letting go, never letting me go. His chin rests on my head, and then he is dropping little kisses there, against my hair, down by my ear.

"I'm sorry, Blair," he whispers, "I don't know what to do."

And that is a huge admission from my Jim. He needs to do something. Anything. He can deal with anything, just as long as he can do something. He doesn't know how to handle it when he can't take action. "You got her to stay, Jim. Major accomplishment there."

"I could make tea," he says, and I burst out laughing. It started months ago -- Jim and his tea-making. It all comes back to that biological imperative that needs to do something. He laughs as well and suddenly it is easy between us. I'm not broken and he doesn't have to be strong or try and fix me. We're just two people in love, laughing together. The simple routines are also the simple pleasures. The things that remind me of how lucky I am to have found this man.

"I could do tea," I say, nodding.

"Good." We sit quietly and I lean in against him even more. I need to touch him. I need to be near him. If I could, I think I would crawl inside him. But that's out for now, so I cuddle against him -- there's no other word for it, even if we are sitting halfway down the steps in the stairwell of our building.

I can tell my need to touch him has him remembering. I can see it in his face, in the way he holds me, in the tightening at his groin.

He's remembering my nightmares and how he'd gently insisted I sleep with him -- just sleep. But it worked. The nightmares didn't go away, but they lessened in both intensity and frequency. And it wasn't long before I'd wake up in his arms, my head pillowed on his chest and I'd know that he was the one who had held the bad dreams at bay.

As the nights progressed, I moved more and more into his space. Not just my head on his chest, but my leg over his, my arm across his belly, my hand clutching his.

I knew it had to have made him uncomfortable -- I mean, here I was in his bed, sprawled all over him. And Jim was the poster child for Mr. Straight America -- hetero all the way. But he never pushed me away, never made me feel awkward or embarrassed. Wouldn't let me apologize or feel guilty. And if I tried to pull away from him too fast, he'd hold me to him, tight enough to keep me in place, but never tight enough to hurt. He'd stroke my hair and murmur nonsense until my heart would still and I could relax sleepily into his warmth. He'd lull me back to sleep, then slip away and go downstairs to shower and shave and get our day started.

I got spoiled, waking up next to someone who really cared about me. Funny how it was the sleeping together that led to the sleeping together. But then, we did everything together. Working, cooking, cleaning, even playing. Over the last few months, as I worked through my childhood issues, I noticed Jim had completely stopped dating. And while I still went out every now and again, I stopped sleeping around.

The allure of a quick and almost meaningless orgasm as a pick-me-up was lost to the tangible comfort of knowing there was someone at home waiting for me, someone who would always be there -- not just when I went to bed, but when I woke up as well.

Jim's breathing has increased and he's watching me now. His eyes are so blue. It was his eyes that drew me across the line. I'd awoken one night, screaming, and he'd let me shake it off a bit, then pulled me into his arms. I'd been shivering, not crying really, but just totally unable to let him go. I'd clung to him like a drowning man to a raft and he'd held me and rubbed my back and soothed me with wordless sounds.

And when I looked up, he was watching me and there was such hunger, such longing in his gaze that before I knew it, I was kissing him and he was kissing me back and then we were doing a lot more than kissing.

I never really thought about being gay, or not being straight. I think if someone asked me my sexual orientation, I would probably respond "Ellison." There's nothing else to say.

When we woke the next morning, Jim had this most amazing look on his face -- like he'd been given some rare treasure of inestimable value. I've never been looked at like that before, and I don't ever want to lose the feeling it evokes.

He's humming now, a tuneless sound that he makes when he's content. I think of it as the human version of his spirit animal's purr. He stands and steps down one step, then pulls me up as well. I'm just slightly taller than him this way, and he lifts his face to me, waiting for me to meet him halfway.

I do.

I meet him halfway.

It's how things work for us.

When I am weak, he is strong, but it doesn't diminish me in his sight. He knows that when it's his turn to be weak, I'll be there, holding him up.

We kiss and I wrap my arms around him, holding him close. No one would know how much Jim Ellison needs to be touched, needs to be loved. No one realizes that he suffered as much as I did when he was a child. No one understands how hard it is for him to be the kind and caring man he is today.

No one but me.

"I love you," he says, and the emotion in his voice almost makes me cry again. That he has chosen me is a gift beyond measure.

"I know," I tell him, and I am suddenly reminded that my mother is in the loft, waiting to talk to me. I sigh and say, "That's the only reason I can even think about going back upstairs."

Jim looks so sad, so worried, I have to do something to make him smile again, so I run my hand over his cock, grinning as I feel it twitch at my touch.

"Well," I add, "maybe not the only reason."

His voice is raw when he croaks, "Tease." It makes me laugh and he silences me with a kiss.

I'm thinking of Naomi now, and I lean into him, suddenly feeling this overwhelming necessity to connect with him. It's not sexual, it's not romantic, it's not quantifiable.

It just is.

"Need you," I whisper desperately.

" 'm here. Always." His words are balm to my troubled soul. "I'll be with you every step of the way."

I know he will. When Jim tells me something, I can count on it. My head rests against the broad width of his chest and I nod. "I can do this," I mutter, more to myself than anything.

"Yes, you can," he says, holding me tight for a moment and then pushing me away. He looks up at me and now, in addition to the love that shines from his eyes, I see admiration and such faith in my ability to handle this, that I have to blink tears back once again. "You are the strongest person I know, Blair. The strongest."

I am humbled by this faith he has in me.

He's staring at me now, and I have no choice but to believe in myself. He will accept nothing less.

"You absolutely can do this."

I nod. How can I not agree with him? "Don't leave me," I murmur, the words Sentinel-soft for his ears only. "Please?"

"Never."

And I know he never will. Jim's promises are forever.

"You ready?" he asks, holding out his hand.

I take it and we head back upstairs to face Naomi. I can do this. With Jim at my side, I can do anything.