March:

The CheyTac Intervention was a bolt action sniper rifle manufactured for long range soft target interdiction. It was fed by a detachable single stack magazine which held seven rounds of .375 ammunition. The rifle was capable of accuracy to within less than a minute of arc at ranges of up to twenty-five hundred yards, one of the longest ranges of all sniper rifles of his day and Earth. The one in John?s hands was the M200 model. Extended, the entire weapon was fifty-three inches long. The barrel alone made up twenty-nine inches of that length. It weighed thirty-one pounds. It was a matte black.

The man called "Wheels" in the back of Rhydin's collective head stepped carefully over the tiles of the roof toward the peak, carrying the rifle and its tripod with him. The roof he was walking across was not the inn's, but the roof of the building directly across the street. The employees of the bank beneath him had never seen him. He had not gone through the building to reach the roof. Neither had he climbed the side of the building, crossed from another, or been somehow magically flown over by little fairies. Trebor overhead was a day from full, and the lamplighters had come and gone, so visibility was excellent. He had no trouble finding his way.

When he reached the peak he dropped to one knee, looked up and down the lane, then stretched out full length on the tile. The stock was cool against his cheek as he peered through the sight. Through the front window, he had a good view of the bar and its occupants: a child, a pregnant woman, a redhead. He lifted his head and checked the street.

Below him, his target?s white coat was ablaze in the moonlight. Her chin was tilted down, gaze fixed on the cobblestones, her gait uneven as she avoided cracks in the pavement. How someone like her could be superstitious, he could not say. It was more likely a manifestation of the obsessive-compulsive disorder he had caught hints of during his time with her. She was moving and the angle was bad?the better, easier shot was through the window. He eased back on the trigger and waited.

Anyone looking at him would have assumed that he was perfectly relaxed. His muscles were loose, his breathing was undisturbed, his heartbeat was steady. Despite all those things, John was caught in the heart of a whirlwind of anguish. As he watched her climb the porch steps, he agonized in silence over what would come.

In eighteen years of doing what he did, he had never known the name of one of his targets before. He knew this woman?s name. He had been invited into her house, a place that was so private for her that, when pressed, she could only recall one other person ever entering. He had made dinner for her there. They had talked, then and afterward. They had drunk together. He had danced with her in his arms. He had gotten the sense that she had no real friends. She might not have cared, but he understood alienation, so he made the effort to reach out to her, past her prickliness and standoffishness. He had tried to be her friend.

And now the voice in his head was demanding that he kill her.

She hurried across the porch, pushed the door open, and disappeared inside. He waited, as a rider on a horse clip-clopped down the street below. The horse whinnied, the sound echoing hollowly off the buildings in the nearly empty street below, making his damaged spine tingle. A strong feeling came over him that he was not alone on the roof, but when he lifted his head again and looked around, he saw nothing.

When he received it the night before, he had been so dismayed by the demand of the voice ringing in his head that he had turned to an animate piece of plastic for advice. ?How,? he had asked it, ?do you ask forgiveness from someone when you thought you could offer them friendship and found out that you were wrong??

The doll had smiled at him out of her painted eyes and said, ?Deus diligo vos.? God loves you.

Under the sound of the rider whistling below he murmured, ?In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,? peered through the sight again, and finished, ?amen.?

There she was, just inside the door. Go to the bar now, he begged in the silences of his own head, don?t make me wait any longer, and was washed with relief as she did just that. She stepped past the break in the bar, reached for a glass and the black label whiskey that they had sipped together. Her shoulder was facing him. The pregnant woman spoke to her, and she turned her head to respond.

The CheyTac was made for extreme long range. A hundred yards was nothing. Even knowing that, he wanted a clearer shot. ?Turn,? he whispered to her. ?Turn around.?

She turned with the bottle in her left hand to set the glass in her right on the bar top, and nodded a hello to someone out of the scope?s sight. John breathed in. He whispered, ?I?m sorry.? He let out his breath on a long slow sigh, and when he was sure it would not affect his aim, he squeezed the trigger.

The muzzle brake was designed to vent all the combustion gases, and so there was almost no recoil. He put one shot through the window, slid the bolt back smoothly and fired again. The two shots cracked one right after the other as the window exploded, the echo of the second overrunning the first. He had had a lot of practice with the weapon, and the spread was less than two inches between the two shots, both directly into the center of Fury's chest.

He would swear, afterward, that she looked up and into his eyes. Her own were impossibly wide with shock. The whiskey bottle slid out of her hands, and he did not know what happened after that?he was rolling away from the roof line, still hearing the shots reverberating in his head.

?I?m sorry,? he panted over his shoulder at the inn. He hefted the still-hot rifle, braced himself, and slid down the slope of the roof tiles toward the far side of the building. He was still remembering the feeling of someone being with him on the roof and imagining Fury gasping out her last breath when he slid down between two fat stovepipes, into a flare of golden light, and was gone.

(Information on the CheyTac Intervention taken from here and here. Adapted from live play with FuryRevisited et al, with thanks.)

December:

?I should tell you up front, before you decide to move in.? Harper scratched her left knee with a too-idle scrape of her thumbnail, not looking at him. ?I had an incident on base, before I accepted this job. It involved a patient.?

They were sitting together in the living room of her apartment: she on the red couch, he in his chair. She was wearing a heavy sweater and a pair of sweatpants, and he was about seventy percent sure there was no bra underneath. It was hard not to stare. Hell, it was hard not to drool.

?Mm.? It was an idle noise, a noncommittal noise, encouraging her to go on. John rubbed a hand over his mouth, propped his chin in his palm.

?I went through the usual round afterward. I got a clean nod to return to duty after the required leave,? She hastened to add that, looking up to make sure he got it loud and clear, ?and I did return, but my tour was almost done and I decided not to re-up. Honorable.? That seemed to matter a lot to her. Her face and her body told a story that was at least as informative as the words coming out of her mouth. She didn?t want to admit her vulnerability, she didn?t want him to think she wasn?t strong. He wondered about her family. His hands itched for skin contact.

Flexing the fingers of his free hand to try to stop it, he tucked it between his thigh and the side of the chair. ?Anything I need to do or not do? Like...waking you up suddenly, or whatever.?

Sharp guy, that glance up at him said. ?I still have the occasional?nightmare?about it. And sometimes I sleepwalk. So, yeah. Not something you wouldn't notice, if it happens,? she admitted reluctantly, and crooked a grin at him. ?Don't let me run with scissors or anything, I suppose.?

?Mm. You gonna tell me what happened, someday??

Her jaw worked once, side to side, as she decided how much to give. ?He found out where I lived, broke into my house, and set himself on fire in my living room,? she said finally. Her tone was chillingly matter-of-fact.

He passed his hand over his mouth again. His sigh was loud in the silence following her words, underlain by the rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight in the chair. ?Do you keep guns in the house?? Clearly he couldn?t keep his entire stock in the house, not if she was a sleepwalker. Not that it had really been an option to begin with.

She pushed herself up off the bed. ?Yeah. In the kitchen. I'll show you.? She had to walk past him to get there. When he pulled his hand out and offered it up to her, she paused, head cocked to one side, before sliding her own into it. When he gave it a squeeze?just one?and let go, she sighed like she?d been holding her breath and hadn?t realized it. Then she led the way into the kitchen. He followed after, frowning. Set himself on fire. Jesus.

?Not a normal place to keep one, I suppose,? she was saying as he focused on her again. Small talk about firearms. It roused him out of the frown, made him smile.

?All I have right now is a case under my bed in the inn,? he lied.

?I didn't think keeping it in my bedroom was probably a good idea.?

?That was where I was going with this, yeah. Whether you were comfortable keeping them in the house given that you sleepwalk, where you wanted mine to go if you were.?

There was a shelf in the pantry where, instead of canned goods, there was a hard black plastic case. She took it down and set it on the counter. ?Does your case lock??

?I dated a girl once, she used to sleepwalk,? he tossed the comment off casually. ?Said she woke up one time standing over her parents' bed with an empty bottle of ketchup in one hand and an axe in the other. Yeah, it does. Should we upgrade to a safe?? At some point he?d made the decision: we. He was going to take her up on her offer.

She stopped and looked at him with an expression of mingled horror, amusement, and disbelief. Was he serious? she was clearly wondering. About the Lizzie Borden routine? ?A safe is a good idea. I considered it, but never got around to it with the move.? The key to the case was in a drawer on the other end of the kitchen. She dug it out and came back, to open the case and let him see what she carried. Inside was a standard issue combat weapon: A Glock 39 .45, a little subcompact handgun with a cushioned grip...and three clips, one in the gun and two spares. ?I had to turn mine in, of course. But you can buy them from a dealer, with a thirty-day waiting period. I figured I should stick with one I was familiar with.?

?Nice. I've got a couple of Smith and Wesson forty-fives, and a little Browning nine mil.? He glanced up at her for permission, the reaching hand pausing. When she nodded her consent he drew it out of the foam casing, weighed it, sighted down at the floor between his knees. It was small for his hands, but the balance was good.

?That's a lot of firepower for an MD,? she observed.

He shrugged. If you only knew. ?Everybody's got a hobby. I liked spending time at the gun range.? He returned the gun to its case a minute later.

?I hardly ever practice anymore. I suppose I should.? She closed the case, clicked the clasps and turned the key to lock it up again.

?Yeah, you should.? There was something both twisted and deeply funny in the idea of his lecturing anyone else about good gun ownership. ?I haven't found a range around here yet.? Another lie.

?Probably something in Stars End. I can ask around. You hungry?? she asked over the slope of her shoulder as she returned the case and the key to their places.

?Yeah, I seem to recall someone bragging about her hot pasta.? His tenor voice was ripe with amusement.

?The hottest,? she said cheerfully, and started rummaging through cupboards. ?You like clams??

He chuckled. ?We'll see about that. My ma's spaghetti is pretty freakin' awesome. She had to learn how to make it in self-defense. Clams??

?Self defense?? She grinned. ?You've never had a red clam sauce??

?Spaghetti con vognole,? he said immediately. ?Hell, yeah, I've had it. This should be interesting.? He rolled around to the counter. It was a little tall for him in the chair, and he pushed himself up straighter. ?My pop would have spent all his time at his mother's house if she hadn't learned how to cook Italian. She never woulda seen him. Thus self-defense. You want I should help??

?Of course, I want you should help.? She was a good mimic. ?I don't have fresh clams?we'll have to make do with canned.? There was more digging in cabinets, as she unearthed the required pots, pans and ingredients.

He slid out of his hoodie, sent it sailing onto a kitchen chair with a clatter of zipper. It was too cold in December for a shirt, too warm inside for much more than the hoodie: he wore a matching gray wife beater underneath. The crucifix on the chain around his neck sparkled in the light. ?What do you want me to do??

?You want to mince some garlic and onion?? She set out the chopping board and a knife and went rummaging through a basket on the counter.

?Bring it.? When she slid everything his way, he went to work.

?What kind of music do you like?? She took the big pan to the sink and ran the water into it, then hefted it over to the stove and got that going. Salt and a little oil went into the water at the burner.

?I can listen to anything. You got any Gregorian chants??

?Um...? She blinked at him. ?I don't know. Let's see. I just use the vid's audio channels, but they have so much on the menu, and I can't say I've ever specifically looked.? She vanished into the living room. A minute later she called out, ?Buddhist...Tibetan...Alchemical...Aboriginal...Tr appist...? there was a pause, and, ?Those are what you want, maybe??

?Try the Trappist, yeah.? He started chopping.

When she came back into the kitchen she had a remote in one hand. She?d lost the sweater, stripped down to a white tank. He kept his appreciation to a single glance: once she laid the remote on the counter she had her arms up, tightening her ponytail, and?yeah. She washed her hands, got started on the sauce as he minced up garlic. There was a companionable silence for several minutes, threaded through by the arcing and swooping kestrel-voices of Trappist monks.

?Do you know what they're saying?? she asked him as she poured the can of clams into the beginnings of their sauce.

?Mm, no,? he lied. ?That's old-school stuff. My Latin's a little more modern.? He sniffed, wiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist?he?d moved on to the onions?tilted his head as a fresh chant started, and said, ?That?s?ecce exalta es super choros angelorum.? He felt her eyes settle on him. Time to fake it. ??something pro nobis??

She tossed the can into the trash and returned to watching him, upping the intensity. He could feel her curiosity rising. Time to change the subject completely. He shrugged, looked up at her, dipped his gaze, and said, ?So?no, no bra. Cool.?

Her face twisted through three different expressions, rapid-fire: pleased, embarrassed and amused, in that order. She plucked the dishtowel off the bar and threw it at him. As the vid cycled into a full prayer service in chant, he scrubbed at his eyes with the towel and tossed it back at her. She took his own amusement at the teeny-tiny bottles of wine she used on the sauce with good grace, then settled against the counter and said, ?So tell me about your family.?

?Okay.? He maneuvered around her to the sink, leaned in to wash his hands. ?What do you want to know??

?What are they like? I didn't have a big family.? He felt her eyes on him again.

?Loud.? He sat back in his chair, looked up at her. Nice angle. He kept his focus on her face with an effort. ?We're a bunch of noisy sons of bitches. Everything is high-volume. We fight a lot and make up easy. I think my pop said once that Ma was quiet when she married him?she came out of a big family too, seven kids there, but she was the baby and everyone else was grown and gone by the time she came along?but she got loud just to be able to stand up to him.?

That got a grin. ?Self-defense again??

?Yeah. Don't get me wrong, my mother is one tough cookie. I love her to death, but I'm scared of her.?

A chin jerk toward the living room in invitation. ?Wanna go get comfy while it cooks??

?You lead, I'll follow.? Turning in place, he rubbed absently at the back of his neck. ?Look, I don't know what was in the report you had to vet me with for the job, so I'm just gonna pretend that you don't know anything about me, okay??

She cut around him to lead the parade back into the living room, but paused in the door. ?That?s fine. So why are you scared of her??

He grinned, then rolled along after her. The bamboo-analog flooring creaked the quietest of protests, and the wheels themselves hush-hushed in return with every stroke of his hands. She was always going to know where he was, in the apartment. No sneaking up on her. ?She's a schoolteacher.?

?So she knows how to handle rowdy little boys.? She dropped onto one end of the couch.

?She teaches algebra and I think calculus at the New Design School on the Lower East Side, where they live. And let me tell you, that woman is ferocious with a ruler. I was more afraid of her when I was in trouble than I was of my dad's belt. My dad teaches English at Lower East Side Prep school. Lot of Chinese immigrants there, so he knows some Chinese too. Mostly he uses it for swearing.?

She?d been frowning a little at the mention of belts and rulers as behavioral modification, but flashed a quick grin at the swearing comment.

?Since my mom doesn't like it in the house,? he explained. ?The swearing. They're both Catholics, go to Mass twice a week. My youngest brother's lapsed, but the rest of us usually go with when we're in town. I'm the second of four. My older sister teaches, too. Pre-algebra, junior high level. She got married and moved up to freaking Maine.? He made a face, then laughed. ?Stop me when you've heard enough.?

?I'm enjoying it,? she protested. ?What are their names??

?Well, my pop is Bernardino?Big Dino. My ma is Mary Catherine, no big surprise there.? He rolled his eyes in an ?Irish Catholic, what can do you? face, to hear her laugh again. ?My sister's name is Evangeline,? he added, pronouncing it with a long i.

?Evangeline...I like that.? She was bending to unlace her boots.

?She doesn't. Usually goes by ?Eva.??

There was no comment from ?A.L.,? as she slid her boots off and tucked her feet up on the couch. He wondered, not for the first time, what the initials stood for.

?Third brother is Simon. He works for Morgan Stanley...they keep swapping out names, I think it's Morgan Stanley Smith Barney now...? They used to have offices on the South Tower of the World Trade Center.? A small pause, and he added, ?He was home with the flu on September eleventh.?

She inhaled and met his eyes. He said lightly, ?So that was nice.?

Harper searched his face, clearly looking for a response, before settling on, ??yeah.?

?He's married, too,? he continued. ?His wife's a neurosurgeon. Two kids, boy and a girl. Eva's got one. My youngest brother is Little Dino. He's out in LA trying to make it as a filmmaker or actor or something, I don't even know what. He's calling himself Bernard. I think he's gay and just doesn't want to tell us about it.? He flapped a hand, slouched a little deeper into his chair.

She nodded. He could see the professional in her kicking into high gear. ?Well, that might not be true. And if it is...? He's still your brother.?

He started to say something?It?s a problem if he can?t have kids and Simon and I are killed, maybe, or my parents can?t separate his sexuality from his genetics?but none of it would fly. He couldn?t tell her any of it. He hesitated, then started again. ?I think we'd?his siblings?would all be fine with it.? Lie. She nodded her best doctor?s encouragement, and he went on, ?I think my parents would probably take turns blowing up and having crying jags and all that jazz. But they'd come around, too.

?I mean, I get that it's hard. We're Catholic. But I think it's ultimately harder for him to say than it is for us to hear, if that makes sense,? he finished spinning out the prevarication?the best were partly true, partly lies?and sat back.

?It makes perfect sense.?

?Good.? Time to deflect again. ?Maybe I should just, you know, check to make sure you don't have a bra under there. You don't want one sneaking in or anything when you're not paying attention.? He turned on that ready grin.

?We could dance,? she countered. ?Not that the monks aren?t just snappy as he?anything.?

Kibosh. He switched back to their conversation. ?Yeah, so, Dino's not married, no kids, no girlfriend that we know of, doesn't come home all that often and doesn't go to church. I miss him. He was a sweet kid. But ultimately I respect his right to do whatever the hell he wants to with his life.? Up to a point.

?You're a good brother.? She seemed sincere.

He shrugged. ?I was working sixty-plus hours a week at the OCME. I didn't have time to get intrusive. Anyway?my parents live in a walkup on the Lower East Side. Simon and his family lives, and I lived, on the Upper East Side.?

Behind her glasses she was looking thoughtful. ?What made you leave? It sounds like your family is really close. That had to be hard for you and for them.?

Uh-oh. Time for the biggest lie of all. He put it together as the seconds passed and she waited patiently, assembled all the bits and pieces of it, and launched it. ?I think,? he said slowly, well past the point at which anyone who wasn't clinically trained to poke into someone's motivations would have grown uncomfortable at the silence, ?that it was the right thing to do. I'm needed here. In Manhattan, I was a gear in the machine, you know? They're gonna go on just fine without me. Here, I can really make a difference. When I saw the old spectrometer and chromatograph they were using, saw the morgue, the way everything was scattered around?I knew I?d made the right decision.?

There was a clarity and a focus in her gray eyes as she listened. The light shone on her gold lashes as she blinked at him. ?You moved here without a job. That's pretty risky. You must feel really strongly about that.?

That?s enough poking around in my motivations for the night, Doctor Harper. ?I must, huh.? He tempered it with a grin.

?Sorry. I?? she smiled sheepishly. ?Wow.? The smile slid skittishly away. ?Let me go check the sauce.? She unfolded her pretzel legs and padded in her sock feet to the kitchen. He watched her a** as she went.

Over the sound of the lid coming off and the spoon hitting the sides of the pan, he told the empty room, ?I?m just saying, I?m not a patient, Harper.? Then, raising his voice, he called out, ?Bring the remote back with you!?

?I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to analyze you. Really.? She came back with the remote in hand and offered it like a peace pipe.

?I figure it's probably habit.?

?Yeah.?

?It?s okay.? He took it from her, saluted her with it, then started paging through the music menus at high speed.

?You know, I forgot something.? She cocked her hip and watched him engage in the primitive man-sport of channel surfing. ?There's a gym in the basement. This building and the two next to us all share a basement, and they put a gym in down there for the residents.?

?Yeah?? He looked up at her for that. ?What do they have??

?Exercise equipment and a game room on one side...pool, shuffleboard, that sort of thing. Then a multipurpose court on the other side that can be used full or as two half courts with a net wall. For basketball or handball, volleyball. Things like that. And a track runs around the whole thing. I run down there sometimes.?

?Is there enough room for me down there, you think?? Tracy Chapman started crooning from the speakers.

?Yeah.? She nodded. ?I think so.?

?Right on. I'd like to check it out.?

?Sure. Whenever you want.? She added, ?I like it better than the gym at work. Not as crowded.?

?Okay, so...when am I moving in??

She smiled down at him. ?When do you want to move in? Tomorrow? This weekend? End of the month??

?I'd move in tomorrow, but I need grab bars and a bench seat installed in the shower. How soon do you think we could get somebody in for it??

She cocked her head, looked off at nothing. ?Probably tomorrow...the next day. I'll call the office in the morning. There shouldn't be a problem. You could always use the tub until they get it done, if it takes longer than that.?

With you helping me in and out? Sure, I?m down for that, he thought, but limited himself to, ?Okay.?

Still, there was enough of it in his face that her reply was a wary, ?What?? softened by an uncertain smile.

?Nevermind. I'll just wait until you've got 'em in. Let me know if the landlord wants you to pay for it, and I'll reimburse you.?

?Okay,? she echoed him. Then she leaned in, bracing both hands on his shoulders with a flex of her fingers, and gave him the kiss she'd decided to the night before and missed with his preemptive move. She tasted tart from the tomato sauce, a hint of beer, a commingling of salt and sweetness, her lips and tongue cool against his. He made a pleased little rumble in his throat and reached up, trapping her face between big callus-roughened hands. It was a thorough and tender and searching and proper kiss, nothing at all like he?d imagined. He kept his touch gentle through it, as she sank down onto his knees.

Her eyes were still closed when she drew back enough to whisper, ?Spend the night??

His breath caught. He looked at her: her question, her half-smile, the nervousness and the desire. So much for gentleness. He growled, ?Screw dinner,? and pulled her shirt over her head and off.

(Adapted from live play with AL Harper, with thanks.)

December:

Tomorrow. He had checked the paper. The moon Trebor was phasing into full tomorrow. He could feel it on his skin, like an itch on the other side of it, something he couldn?t reach. She?d shown him a slip of paper earlier in the evening, a prescription with the words?

?Drosperinone and ethinyl estradiol,? he said. ?Estradiol's a sex hormone. Birth control??

?Yeah.? She?d finally settled on a glass of milk and stood at the counter pouring it from a glass bottle.

?Harper?? He took in a deep, slow breath. Best tread carefully here. ??please, please don?t take this the wrong way.? These were the times that he was sad he?d given up smoking. He?d kill for a cigarette right now. He fought back the urge to chew on his nails or his lip or her neck. ?I like you. I like you a lot. I?m not trying to insult your intelligence or anything. I just want to make sure you know that I'm not your...I don't know, your instant live-in boyfriend or anything. You know, just add water.?

She came around the corner of the kitchen island with her glass and cocked a hip against the counter. At his sad excuse for a joke she set the glass down and crooked a half-smile at him. ?And here I thought you weren?t trying to be insulting.?

?What.? He couldn?t find it in himself to make a question of it, he was too tired. If she knew the truth about him she?d run screaming. He was trying to do the right thing, and she had no freaking clue. ?This is happening really fast, okay??

?Look. I know. And this has been a really long day for me. But here's the deal, just to set your mind at ease,? she said. She sounded tired herself, her voice tight.

?I mean, two weeks ago I was just some guy you went out on a really s**tty first date with. Then??

?I'm aware of the timeline of events, John. I wrote your name in my diary with little hearts around it.? She drawled out the sarcasm and then sighed. ?Sorry. But?listen. I like you, too. A lot. And we had a really, really nice time. But I am not putting any pressure on, here. We don't know each other yet. Not really.

?I realized,? she and her milk went to sit on the table in front of the couch, ?before I came here... after everything...that I needed to change something up in my life. So here I am in the land of make-believe. But I like who I am here. And I realized the other night, that I liked that part of me, too. And I don't want to put that back on the shelf.?

Oh, Christ. He was going to have to sit through a monologue of Ten Reasons Why I?m Going to Screw Other Guys. He didn?t need to know. It was going to be hard enough to keep his own hands off her, without imagining other men stepping up to the plate. ?Okay,? he said, trying to cut her off. ?That?s all I wanted to know, thanks.?

?John, please...let me finish.?

Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. No. ?Sure.? He reached for the arm of his wheelchair and boosted himself back into it from his spot on the couch, then slid his legs into place.

?I didn't do this because I want to lure you back to my bed. If that happens, at some point,? she leaned forward a little to make the point, ?wonderful. But I'm not in any rush. And if it doesn't...well, that doesn't mean that I won't meet someone that I want to share that part of me with, sometime. You know? But I thought you should know that I'm not saying 'no' either. So if and when you are interested, someday, you let me know.

?Until then, let's just learn to be friends. Hm??

God, this was getting more horrible by the second. ?Okay.? He smiled at her, a fast show of teeth. ?I?m for bed, I think. You need anything before I go??

?No. I'm really beat. I think I'm just going to take my milk and go to sleep myself.?

?Okay. Sleep well,? he said before she made it to ?milk,? and fled.

(Adapted from live play with AL Harper, with thanks.)

December:

John seduced her, one breath at a time. It was intentional. He sent the fragrance wafting through the house to tease her sleeping self, sent it creeping into her bedroom, reminding her of everything that was ever good about Saturday mornings. Remember sitting in front of the TV, plate in lap, cartoons blaring? Remember the way that glass of orange juice tasted, alongside, and the feel of sock feet on shag carpet? The smell promised rich salty meaty satiety. It swore it would always love her. It went with anything, everything from chocolate to salad.

Yes, Harper. Yes. He was cooking bacon. He loaded up the skillet with a fresh slab of it and sang his freaking heart out to the music coming from the player on the counter. He had a decent tenor, and he and Josh Homme were getting along just fine. In the pause between songs he heard her door open, heard her venture out into the hallway. Bacon wrapped both arms around her, hugged her, and told her that everything was gonna be all right. From the living room, she could probably see just a slice of the edge of his chair. It was empty. The bacon in the pan sizzled, and the toaster went cha-shick! as he dropped two more slices into it.

He heard her in the living room, next, finding the barstools he?d bought that morning, rustling her way through the plastic two of them were still wrapped in. He was perched on the third one in front of the stove. He?d been watching a replay of one of the World Series games, and it was still going, sound off, on the vid screen. ?Looks like Christmas morning around here,? she commented.

He called back: ?Hungry?? and returned to singing. His Yanks cap was faced forward and he wasn?t getting enough light. He pulled it off his head, faced it backward, slapped it back on again.

?Sure.?

?Good. Because I don't think I can eat all this.? He was going to have half a pound of bacon cooked when he was done. The finished product was glistening on greasy sheets of paper towels. Three eggs were already waiting, and a big stack of toast was slathered with butter. The crumb-laden knife was jammed down into the pot of butter like a Scottish declaration of war.

?Need help with anything??

?Nope!? The guitar got funkier. He cracked in a few more eggs. ?How do you want your eggs??

?Um...over easy? Cooked on both sides but a runny yolk. Or scrambled?whatever's easier. Which game is it?? She finally came into the kitchen, poked her head in the fridge, came out with a bottle of water. She was still sporting the gray knit jogging shorts and red tank top she wore to bed last night after telling him that her taking contraceptives meant Sexy Party Hallelujah rather than Instant Boyfriend. She was barefoot and clean-skinned. He wanted to sink his teeth into her.

?Third.? He flipped the eggs in the pan, checked the bacon.

?Which series?? Bottle in hand, she went to the door nearest her and peered myopically at the screen. She wasn?t wearing her glasses.

He smiled over at her, because he could. ?The last one. I didn't get to see it when it happened. I'd just moved here.?

?But...that's New York and...Philly?? She squinted harder. ?That can't be right. The Yankees played Atlanta.?

?...what? No, no. Yanks and the Phillies.?

?No...? She leaned back in the doorway to look at him. ?They played Atlanta. Won it in the fourth. It was a shutout series.?

?Dude.? He stopped singing altogether. Leaning over, he made a long arm and cut off the music just as Josh declared that he could go with the flow. His hair curled, still damp, around his ear as he turned his profile to her, looked at her out of the corner of his eye. ?Yanks beat out the Phillies. It was an awesome freaking show, too, let me tell you.?

He watched confusion slide across her face. Her gray eyes clouded with it for a moment, and that v-shaped crease between her brows dug in deeper. ?Rivera was the MVP. Boone had seven homers for Atlanta, and Jeter only had six.?

?Okay.? He struggled to sound gentle. ?When that thing happened. With the guy. Did you have a neurologist check out your head? Because what you're describing sounds like the ninety-nine game.?

She stared at him for a minute like he'd gone nuts, then took a swig of water.

?This is December 2009, right?? He turned around, shut off the burner under the bacon and plated the rest of it up. The eggs were flipped out of the pan and onto a plate.

?Yeah. Seriously, it was Atlanta. They played the first two games in Turner Field, then finished out at Yankees Stadium. There was a parade the next day and everything. There's no way the Phillies made it to a series. Their record?? she stopped herself before she said it, but he could hear the words: is almost as bad as the Cubs?.

?Matsui was MVP.? He was really getting worried.

?Am I still asleep??

?They just built the new stadium. Do you remember that??

?No,? she contradicted him, ?they've been crying about wanting to build one, but haven't gotten permission.?

He twisted on the barstool and let himself down into his chair. ?Yeah. New stadium in the Bronx. It cost a bill and a half.? Passing her the plate of bacon, then the eggs, he said, ?I didn't know if you wanted coffee, juice or milk, so I bought all three.? He was still frowning at her as he dropped the toast into his own lap. Maybe this was a joke?

She took the plates, leaving her bottle of water on the counter. ?Juice sounds good. You went shopping? What time is it??

?I think it's eight?? He didn?t wear a watch, and didn?t have his phone handy. He looked around the kitchen. No clock. ?Something like that. Did you know there are furniture stores that are open 24/7? They cater to the, uh, ?sunlight-challenged? crowd, they said. That crazy Tara Rynieyn makes up half their business.?

?You know, when I wake up, I am going to be hungry.? She was trying for humor and almost making it.

?Yeah, I bet so.? He wheeled the toast over to the table, then started ferrying breakfast dishes over. ?If you could get the juice and a glass of milk for me...? The coffeepot burbled.

?Thanks,? she murmured, once everything was on the table, and their plates were filled. ?And?thanks for breakfast.? She looked at him for a couple of seconds longer, then dug in.

?You're welcome. I figured I owed you an apology, and I was hungry.? He hitched a shoulder in a shrug. The crucifix on its chain slipped along his neck.

She paused, mid-chew, to let that soak in. After she swallowed, he got a meek, ?I'm sorry, too,? followed up with a bite of egg.

?Yeah.? He swallowed down half the piece of toast he'd just bitten off and sat back in his chair to regard her solemnly for a moment. ?Hey, I wanted to say. If you ever need me to, you know, cut out or anything...just let me know, okay??

?Cut out?? She put her fork down and reached for her milk.

?Yeah. Find someplace else to bunk for the night.?

She stared at him, got that 'but it was Atlanta' look on her face again. It took her a minute. ?Oh.? She bent over her napkin, dabbed at her mouth. ?Oh.? Her tone was more level the second time. ?Um. No reason for that,? she added, and drank down juice. He watched her through all of it, unblinking. Behind his eyes he was trying and failing to imagine being in the apartment when she brought someone else home.

?I?? she looked like she was half an inch from squirming under the weight of it. ?I don?t?there?s not??

?Okay,? he said, and again, a little quieter, ?okay.? This was just cruel. He looked away. Yolk was dripping from his piece of toast. He ate it, licked the corner of his mouth clean. Then he dropped an elbow on the table, pointed his fork at her, and asked. ?No Phillies in the World Series. No new Yankees Stadium. Who's the President??

?Hillary Clinton.?

?What the f**k?? he yelped at that.

She frowned at him. ?A lot of people had that reaction.? Pause. ?Are you a Republican, John? Because, you know, I should probably charge you extra rent or something.?

?Hell, no. I voted for Obama, are you kidding me??

?Who?? Her frown dissolved into the same blank shock he was sure he was wearing on his own face. This had gone way beyond confusion over ballgames.

?Barack Obama. First African-American President. He and Clinton had a really harsh face-off for the Democratic nomination.?

?He's a Senator...? she breathed, and stared at him.

?Yeah, he was a senator in Illinois before he ran.?

?He didn't even run for President, John,? she protested.

?He's been President a year. And, man, you can already see it aging him. It's crazy,? he said, like that was going to convince her.

?Are you messing with me? Because this is getting a little not funny anymore.?

?I swear by f**king Jesus, Joseph and Mary that I am not messing with you.? It was all he could do not to get up out of his wheelchair, walk around the table, and hug her until she squeaked. She looked so lost. ?Maybe this is a Rhydin thing.? He pounced on that idea, then remembered that? ?But you said that your date is the same as my date.?

?Maybe it's not when.? She was frowning off past him, the tines of her fork hovering in mid-air. ?Maybe it's where.?

?Maybe so.? No idea what she meant. He looked down. Breakfast was over. Where did it go? He scowled at his plate, then pushed away from the table to go get coffee. One tall silver thermal mug?the only way to coffee and not burn himself on the trip back?and plenty of cream and sugar later, he returned to the table. He missed coffee mugs, sometimes, but life was about compromise.

She was playing with half a piece of toast between sips of juice when he slid back into place. ?Okay. Um.? Setting the brake, he twisted to face her and asked, ?Previous President??

?George Bush. W., not senior. Before that...Al Gore. He finished Bill Clinton's term after his impeachment.?

?Oh, wow.? He sank back in his chair, stared at her. ?Tossed him out? Really? I mean, they impeached him, but they didn't remove him from office. And Gore didn't get elected afterward? Was there a Supreme Court decision made over the vote between them?? This was?this was scarily fascinating. The political animal in him woke up.

?No, he ran,? she was saying, ?but?? she blinked, her mind going one way, then the other ??Supreme Court decision??

?George W. Bush and Al Gore. Disputed election results in Florida led to a challenge that went all the way to the Supreme Court. Sandra Day O'Connor swung Bush, she admitted later that she did it for personal political reasons. It was a f**king debacle.? He swallowed more coffee.

She closed her mouth and shook her head slowly side to side. ?No,? she said faintly. ?None of that. There was a reporter who found evidence that Gore was in on Clinton's deal with the Chinese and that killed his re-election.?

Clinton's deal?with the Chinese? He whimpered, ?Hold me, Harper. I'm so cold, and everything is getting dark...?

The flat look she gave him made it clear that she thought he was playing with her. And he was, but he still reached for her. She held a hand out to him, unable to resist the plain appeal in his eyes. The brake was set, he was braced, and unbeknownst to her, he could use his legs, too. Before she had a chance to put up a fight, he pulled her into his lap. Winding his arms around her, he muttered into the curve of her neck, ?You're like a teddy bear with really great legs.? God, she smelled good.

She sat frozen in his lap for a breath, then sighed out the stiffness and sighed into him. ?Wonderful?I?ll add it to my CV,? she murmured.

?Good idea. You want some coffee??

?No thanks. It'll just wake me up.?

?Okay. Hold, please.? He pulled his mug off the table and handed it to her.

?Alrighty.? Both her hands curled around the mug.

He scooted the two of them around the table for his hat, which he replaced brim-backward. Then they sailed into the living room together. The game was still going, and it wasn?t looking good for Philadelphia.

?Oh, John,? she sighed. ?Why do you want to hurt me so?? She leaned back, made a face at his hat.

?Because I have to convert you. It is my mission in life. Look?this is not going to be the year. And it sucks that I have to be the one to tell you this. But they?re not going to go all the way.?

?It's not about whether they win, Benandanti. Being a Cubs fan is about loyalty. Season after season, through good years and bad. You have their back. They have yours,? she retorted, her beautiful face set in stubborn lines.

He dragged a hand down his face, blew a sigh out. ?Every freaking year is a bad year for them. They can't win. It's a point of fact. They do not have your back. They don't even have their own back.?

They reached the couch. Hello, couch, he told it silently. Thanks for that good time the other night. ?And you know...? He turned the chair toward it so smoothly that it was easy to forget that he hadn?t simply turned to it, that there was a chair involved at all. ?...yeah, I've heard all the arguments that the Yanks buy talent. And you know what? It's true. You know what else is true? They win. And everybody else would do it, too, if they could.?

?I know.? She climbed out of his lap, offered his thermos back to him long enough to tug her tank down where it had ridden up, then took it back and set it on the side table. She didn?t seem perturbed.

He was pointing at her. After her ?I know,? there was a little silence. Then he said, still pointing at her, ?You practice that look in the mirror??

?What look?? She peered at him, wide-eyed, pale gold brows arched.

?The innocent look.?

?I don?t know what you?re talking about,? she said, and smiled.

He huffed and slithered onto the couch, fighting the urge to scratch at his shin. It had been almost two years since the accident. He?d gotten good at faking it, remembering all the little things that separated abled from disabled. It helped that he was disabled most of the time. After a moment?s visible indecision, she sank onto the couch beside him, staring at the silent picture show of the World Series That Never Was, for her.

?What else? Let's see.? He tried to think bigger. ?World wars. How many??

She flopped her head back against the couch. ?Two. You??

?Dos. Hmm. Korea? Vietnam??

?Korea...there was a war, there, yes. The French fought in Vietnam, but not us.?

He fought off a shiver. ?Huh. Okay, that was late sixties, early seventies, right??

?Sixties, yeah. I don't remember how long it lasted. Afghanistan?? she asked him.

?Okay. Hmm.? He had to think about that one. Hooking an arm over the back of the couch, he grabbed his coffee and gulped more of it down. ?Russia invaded it in seventy-two. The U.S. did some covert ops there, set up the mujahideen as guerrilla fighters. Osama bin Laden ended up being one of them. He went back to Saudi Arabia, got religion, and got pissed off when the U.S. built a base in Riyadh for staging purposes during the first Gulf War.? He frowned off at nothing.

?So he set up al-Qaida. Bombed the U.S.S Cole, then the embassy in Mogadishu in Somalia, then set up some guys to fly some planes into some buildings. They hit the Pentagon and both of the main towers of the World Trade Center. Al-Qaida was based in Afghanistan, so we invaded there in?late 2001, I think.?

She jerked in surprise, there in the crook of his arm, then counted off, unfolding a finger at a time for each site. ?Pentagon, yes. But not the WTC. White House...Sears Tower...Golden Gate bridge.?

?What?? He was out of coffee. He glared at the empty mug, then set it aside. ?The White House? They hit the f**king White House??

She nodded, looked up solemnly at him. ?The President and his family were in Kennebunkport, though.?

?Jesus Christ.? He slid that arm around her, dropped a careless comfort of a kiss into her hair. ?Yeah, see...planes hit the upper floors of the WTC towers and both of them collapsed. If my brother had been at work that day, he could have died. A lot of people did get out, but?almost three thousand died. There was another plane that went down in Pennsylvania. Nobody knows where it was supposed to go, but I think the White House was one of the possibilities.?

?They sealed off New York City that day, because they thought it was a likely target, with the UN building, but nothing happened there.?

?Jesus,? he said again. Under her shoulder, his heart was pounding with trying to imagine it. ?So they went after the Taliban in Afghanistan, where you're from?? Onscreen, Rivera was doing beautiful things. Different Earths, he was coming to believe. Different universes.

?And found them,? she agreed, and immediately diverged again. ?And shot them one by one on live TV.? She was finally starting to relax against him, though her voice had a grim note to it in the recounting. ?And then GW had the grand idea of invading Iraq, since we were already there.?

?Yeah.? Another wave of goosebumps rolled over his skin as their histories converged once more. ?Because Hussein set up an assassination plot against his dad and he took it personally, and he had all these former oil execs and neoconservatives in his cabinet with their hands up his a**.?

?The a** hands were never confirmed,? she reminded him. ?Oh! Look at that run!? She leaned forward in her seat a little, squinting at the television.

He ran his hand up and down her back, telling himself that he was soothing her, reminding himself that it didn?t matter that she was snuggled up to him in her pajamas with no bra. Again. It didn?t work. He sighed, glared at the view of the ball arcing through the sky.

?Man.? She sank back against him. ?That guy can hit a ball.? She caught his expression out of the corner of her eye, and her nascent smile faded again. ?What's wrong??

This whole thing was bulls**t, he decided, but he couldn?t be honest, and the idea of easing her back down on the couch and...yeah. She had to think he was nuts, acting like this. He shifted in his seat, shook out his shirt a little. ?Yeah. Pedro Martinez effed it up.?

She frowned back at him. ?Yeah.? After a beat she expelled another sigh and got up. ?I think I'm going to take a shower and get dressed. You need in the bathroom before I steam it up beyond redemption??

?No...no. I already took a shower. You go ahead.? He flapped a hand at the hallway and reached for the remote, determined not to look at her.

?'Kay. I'll do the dishes when I get out, since you cooked.?

?Okay. Thanks. I'll be out of here noonish.? He started flipping channels.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pause. ?Out of here??

He reached for the old familiar lie. ?Yeah, I go do some pretty intense PT once a month. For the pain, to work on mobility. I'll be back in two or three days, depending on my progress.?

?Oh.? She paused. ?Okay. Well...I'll be out of the shower before you leave, I hope. If I'm not, send a rescue team in.? And she started back down the hall, yanking the scrunchie out of her hair and shaking it out as she walked.

He grinned at her, and turned his attention back to the screen. And said to it once the door closed behind her, softly and with feeling, ?F**k me.?

(Adapted from live play with AL Harper, with thanks.)

January:

It was three am, and his key clicked in the lock. The door opened. He rolled in, his hat pulled down low over his eyes, glasses glinting beneath it. There was a duffel bag on his lap, sitting atop the plaid blanket wrapped around his legs.

He hadn?t expected to need the blanket once he got home, and the blustering cold hitting him after the warmth of the building?s lobby was a shock. The apartment was dark, but not silent, and certainly not warm. The sliding patio door to the four-by-eight balcony was wide open, and snow swirled through the middle of their living room. The vertical blinds on the door were rattling in the wind, making a clack-clack-clacking sound.

His first thought was that someone had broken in. He ripped the bag open. Out came one of his Smith and Wessons. He closed the front door behind himself as near to soundlessly as he could manage, head swinging back and forth, listening, looking, thinking furiously. The screen was still on the wall. Nothing was trashed. Everything looked as it should. The only sound in the place was the wind, the rattling of the blinds, and the sound of bare feet coming out of the kitchen from the side nearest the laundry room.

Feet? His head whipped around. He flicked off the safety with a thumb but kept the gun down, staring as Harper padded into the living room. She carried one of the barstools he?d bought before he left, and was dressed in a nightgown that was shiny enough to catch the fitful light coming in from the streetlamps. She toted the chair through the living room across a bamboo floor coated with enough melting snow that footprints marked her passage. Harper, the ever-clumsy, did not once slip.

He stared at her, at the scene, feeling the gun in his hands, overcome by the surreality of it all. ?Harper??

?I need to get the cat down,? she said, quiet, calm, a little vague. She stepped out onto the balcony with the barstool, set it down near the railing. As he went on staring at her, she started to climb it: one foot on the rung, the other knee going to the seat.

He got it. Sleepwalking. She was sleepwalking. ?Harper. Holy f**k, wait.? Her second knee settled on the seat, as she planted the other foot. In the next instant he was stalking after her, his wheelchair rolling gently backward to bump against the door. ?There?s no cat.? The gun was safetied and crammed into the pocket of his bomber jacket. ?The cat is okay. Everything is okay, just get down for a minute.? He heard himself babbling, felt his heart about to pound its way right out through his ribs like it was happening to someone else.

She had both feet on the seat, crouched with her hands balanced on the back of the chair. It swiveled a little, side to side, as she tried to stand. ?It's right there.?

?Harper, just?hang on just a second, okay??I'll help?? He was at the door. She was three long strides away.

She stood up, wobbly but upright, the wind whipping her hair and gown and the sting of snow making her pink. ?Can you reach it? I don't think I can.?

He lunged, spitting curses, and got a handful of nightgown. It was enough to tip her back a little, stop her as she reached with one foot for the railing. ?But we have to get it down,? she protested, still in that eerily calm voice. The pause was just enough to give him time to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her off the chair. Adrenalin burned with the cold at his skin. He gasped for air. ?Oh, look,? she murmured, turning her head to follow an unseen feline's progress back into the apartment. ?It came down by itself.?

?Yeah,? he panted, ?it did.? One arm around her, the other hand grabbing the back of the chair, he dragged both of them back inside, careful on the snow-slick floor. The wind gusted, chasing them inside with a rattle of blinds and an extra flurry of sleet and snow like an icy middle finger to them both. Her toes traced a skater's curlicued track across the wood floor, and she looped her arms loosely around his shoulders. By the time he had the sliding door shut, her breathing against his shoulder was slow and deep.

?Jesus Christ,? he told her, ?I didn't really need to know what an SCA feels like, Harper.? He dropped the chair onto its feet, turned, pulled the door shut behind them. His hand trembled just a little as he relocked the door. Once they were out of the path of the tracked-up snow, he bent and swung her up into his arms. She was cold, wet, and sound asleep. He fought to bring his breathing under control as he carried her down the hallway to her bedroom, taking deep slow breaths. At least he hadn?t lost the hat.

Her bedroom door was open. He maneuvered her through the doorway and carried her to the bed through the dim light cast by a tiny nightlight. His teeth kept trying to chatter. Cold and adrenalin overload, he told himself. Fight-or-flight. He probably could have picked up a car and thrown it when he saw her standing up like that.

He had it mostly under control by the time he laid her out on the bed and straightened?and got a good look at the little pink nightie. She gusted out a fretful sigh and turned onto her side away from him, her knees drawing up just enough to present him with her a** draped in satin. Fight and flight turned enthusiastically into something else.

?F**k me,? he muttered. She was soaking wet. He couldn?t leave her there. He?couldn?t leave, period. His coat, hat and gloves hit the bench at the foot of the bed. He pushed up the sleeves of the navy waffle-knit henley he was wearing, and went to get towels from the bathroom. As he passed it, the mirror gave him back a shadowed glimpse of exhaustion, secrets and fading panic. The wind rattled a comment at the windows, spitting snow and disapproval.

He returned a few minutes later, towels on the seat of the chair he was pushing into the room. It was all about plausible deniability, right? He could argue that he?d gotten the chair out onto the balcony if he needed to. He parked it next to the bed and sat down next to her. ?What am I going to do with you?? he sighed down at her.

She stirred at the sound of his voice, nearing wakefulness, not quite there yet. He grabbed one of the towels, leaned in, and started swiping the melted snow off her skin, out of her hair. After the second pass over her, her lips parted. She drank in a breath, the gold line of her lashes fluttering open, and blinked confusion at him. ?What are you doing?? she whispered.

?Don't ever do that to me again,? he told her in return, low and fierce, like she had any idea what he was talking about. He squeezed a handful of her hair in the towel, and another, and another. ?I will totally kick your a**. I don't even care.? His tone was harsh in direct contrast to the gentleness of his hands on her.

The silence hung between them, as he toweled her down. ?Okay,? she mumbled thickly, at last, and, ?What is it I'm not doing again??

?You were trying to climb the railing on the balcony.? He sucked in a breath, feeling that shot of panic all over again. ?F**k trying. You were climbing the railing on the balcony.?

?Nuh-uh...?

?I just f**king got home, Harper, and I sat there and watched you carry one of those chairs out and climb up on it. You had a foot on the rail when I got you down. Go look at the f**king snow all over the floor in the goddamned living room if you don't believe me. I think I had a heart attack.? He wasn?t yelling at her, but it was only a matter of volume.

She dropped her head back into the pillows and threw her right arm over her eyes as if that alone would be enough to negate all of it. ?I'm sorry.?

As soon as the words left her lips he hauled her right back out of the pillows and into his arms, squeezing her tight enough to cut off her air. When he dragged her up against his chest, it wrung a sound like a sob out of her. She threw her arms around his shoulders again and hid her face in his neck. ?How about let's not do that again, huh?? He said into her still-damp hair.

?Okay.? Her fingers knotted into the fabric of his shirt, her cold nose rooting for warmth.

?Get under the covers and I'll warm you up.?

She slid herself under the sheet and comforter, made room for him beside her, flipped her wet hair up to fan over the pillow and away from her skin.

He heeled-and-toed out of his Vans and slid in after her, watching her. How awake was she? How much attention was she paying? Did she notice that he twisted position on the bed, facing one way and the other without effort? Did she see the way that he led with his legs, sliding in under the blankets? Or was she too caught up in sleep and cold and embarrassment? Probably the latter. She wasn't watching him take off his shoes. She was messing with her hair and fighting the way her nightgown twisted when she slid over, binding itself around her.

He stretched away from her, dropped his glasses with a click on the table next to the bed. Then he slid one arm under her pillow, wound the other one around the satin-slick curve of her waist and exhaled into her neck, a long slow blow of warm air. His leg tangled with hers, his toes hooked under one of her ankles. Then he just?lay there, for a little while, feeling her warm up, listening to her breathe in the near-darkness. Shadows crawled along the ceiling, amorphous and threatening. More snow hissed at the windows. The central heat came on, and the vents whispered with it. His heart began to unknot.

He realized he was paying a little too much attention to her and not enough to what he was doing when she went absolutely still in his arms, almost stiff. Alarm stirred along his nerves. What had he?? Oh.

His first attempt was to distract her. ?What do we do,? he asked, as if her stillness hadn?t registered, ?to stop that from happening again? Do you remember what you were dreaming about??

?Your toes.? It wasn?t an answer. It was a declaration. An accusation. A question. She?d felt him moving.

F**k. Fall back on the old lie. ?Yeah.? He huffed a short, sharp sigh out through flared nostrils. ?I told you I was going for physical therapy. I'll be mobile for another two or three hours, then I'll lose it again until next time. So.? He did his damnedest not to sound bleak. ?If you're up for some really athletic sex, now's your chance.?

?Your...therapy...gives you movement back? And then it goes away?? Her eyes were almost black in the darkness as she focused on him. He could almost hear her trying to puzzle it out, behind those eyes.

?For a little while, yeah.? The words were familiar, the cadences easy. He?d told this one before. ?The tissue's all there. There's almost no scarring inside the lamina, despite the bone fragments they had to pull out. Most of the damage is outside the IVF. No brain damage. They've done half a dozen MRIs and my neurons are firing.? He was mixing in the truth, and heard the frustration build in his own voice. ?I just can't walk. Except for now, and this lasts for two or three days, maximum. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but this kind of sucks to talk about, you know??

She worked her way up onto an elbow as he explained, searching his expression. ?You don't have to be sorry. I...just wish I could help.?

Pow. He had her. ?Don't tell anybody. That's how you can help.? His arm tightened around her, fingers splaying over her hip.

She reached for him, hesitantly, to brush her fingers through his hair and push it away from his face in light, gentle swipes. ?I won't. I won't tell a soul if you don't want me to.?

?People develop this image of me, and they get comfortable with their pity and their sense of superiority?you know, they might not make as much money, or have the same education, but at least they can climb a flight of f**king stairs, right??and then they find out I can walk sometimes, and they get pissed off about having felt sorry for me to begin with, like I didn't deserve their pity. It doesn't f**king matter that I didn't want it to begin with. I'd rather not have to deal with it.? Anger and guilt warred in his gut.

Brow creased, she nodded her understanding, throat working. ?I won't tell anyone,? she promised again. ?Not a word.?

?Thanks.? He unwrapped one arm to drag his hand over his face, rub at his eyes. He needed to shave. He still needed a goddamned haircut. ?So. What do we do about you? If I hadn't been here you could have died, Harper.?

?I don't know. I don't remember what I was dreaming.? She settled herself back into the crook of his arm and strummed a hand across his chest absently. ?Put extra locks on the patio door? I've never done that before, that I know of, if that helps.?

?I don't think an extra lock on the door's gonna stop you. You knew exactly what you were doing. You had the door open, you went to get the barstool, you carried it through the door without hitting anything.?

?I just don't know.? She lapsed into a troubled silence for a few minutes. The frosted glass shade of the little nightlamp on the dresser cast mobile shadows over her pensive expression.

That sense of unreality washed over him again. Was he going to wake up? ?The only thing I can think of is a combination lock or something,? he said. ?I write the combination down and put it somewhere so that you can read it if you need it while you're awake, but you won't know it to put it in while you're asleep, maybe.?

She turned her head, hiding her eyes against the corner of the pillow angled over his shoulder. ?Maybe,? she agreed in a whisper.

?Scared the f**king bejesus out of me,? he whispered back, and nuzzled into that corner of the pillow until his mouth found hers. She hadn?t expected it?there was a tiny startled pause before she returned it?but it was sweet and thorough, nibbling, tentative when she did. He lost himself in it, gave up the sense of urgency, gave up the raw edge of it, gave up the panic and felt his pulse slow to match hers. The back of her neck was warm, and the sweet curve of her hip fit his hand perfectly.

When he came back to himself, it was to the realization that that hand was drifting up the slope of her ribs to her breast, and he?d rubbed himself rock-hard against her other hip. F**k. Time to go, before he gave in. He lifted his head, passed a hand over her cheek. ?You okay now??

?Yeah.? Her fingertips fretted through the fringe of his hair at the nape of his neck. ?You??

?Yeah.? He closed his eyes against the feel of her fingers rambling over him, and steeled himself to say the words. ?I'd better go.?

Those fingers withdrew. ?Ah.?

He touched another kiss to her, this time against her forehead, and slid out of bed. Looking down at her from his full height filled him with a third wave of unreality. She watched him stand up, tugging the sheets up to her chin self-consciously.

?Goodnight,? he said, his voice rough. ?Don't go wandering off again.? He scooped up jacket and glasses and towels and hat. The glasses went onto his face. The rest of it he dumped onto the seat of his chair.

?I'll try not to.? She peered up at him, her expression unreadable. ?Goodnight, John. Thanks.?

?Yeah.? Out he went, to go to bed, to do pathetically masturbatory things until he was tired enough for the exhaustion to take over. Some million years later, he woke and discovered that no, it hadn't stayed any longer this time than it had any other time. He took a shower. He dressed. He went downstairs to the gym.

(Adapted from live play with AL Harper, with thanks.)

January:

?I know you're not much into watching basketball, but do you like to play?? Harper pulled both knees up to her chest and hugged them. She was on the floor stretching after a run around the basement gym track.

?I used to.? He was finishing off a last set of weights, feeling the comfortable ache that came from a good workout, the endorphin euphoria that took the edge off it.

?We could do a little one-on-one sometime, if you want.?

His chair was made for heavy-duty use, not for basketball. He looked over at the court and thought about it. ?I can do that?what do you call it, Horse??with you if you want. Loser buys lunch,? he said.

?Right.? She shifted the band of her ponytail, then rolled onto her feet. ?Horse it is. You're on.?

?Okay.? He let the iron clink back into place in the rack. ?I'll hit the rest of the weights later.? He rolled his shoulders, then hopped onto the chair. That was the easy part. Disentangling his legs was more difficult.

?I'll go grab us a ball.? She pushed herself to her feet, reached back to brush off her a** as she trotted over to the equipment locker on the far end of the court.

He frowned at his knees for a minute. Tell her? Don?t tell her? Seeing her sleepwalk like she did the night before, he felt like he owed her something. Deciding, he trailed after her to the first position by the hoop. ?Okay. So.?

?So.? She came to meet him, the ping-ping-ping of the ball bouncing alongside her in a loose-armed dribble.

?Little over two years ago. I was eyeballs-deep in a case at the OCME.? There were times when being the focus of her attention felt like having a physical weight dropped on him: something he could feel pressing down, stripping away the broken parts and the lies to who he was underneath. When she listened, it was with a capital L.

He went on, ?This woman was burned alive in a rent-controlled building down on the Lower East Side. Not too far from where my parents live, but a much, much worse neighborhood.? She bounced the ball once more and tossed it to him. He caught it, leaned out, dribbled it once, then tossed it back. ?You first. I need to see what I'm up against. Plan my strategery.?

She rolled her eyes at that and forced a grin like she thought he couldn?t see the sharp, brief stab of horror at the opening of the story, then stepped into place and gave the ball a one-two bounce from hand to hand.

?The cops had a couple different theories. The building was a loss, and the landlord had the chance to rebuild a non-rent-controlled complex in its place. So there was the insurance and profit angle.? He watched her, waiting for the show to start.

It was a show, too. He saw the moment she got ready, watched her muscles loosen, her back arch. She bounced the ball, and swung it up, flipped her wrist and tossed it. The ball rolled around the rim, dropped in. She trotted over to retrieve it afterward and offered it to him in silence.

This time he balanced it on his swiveled palm, eyeing the hoop, weighing the ball, checking his aim before he shot...and missed, the ball ricocheting off the backboard. He grimaced, and continued his story. ?There was a possibility of suicide. The building burned because a gas oven had been left on. She might have been trying to off herself.?

?Did she show any signs of despondency prior to the fire?? Doctor Harper asked, jogging over to scoop up the ball and dribbling it to the next position.

?Well, hard to say, because her off-again, on-again boyfriend was also her pusher. So there was the abuse angle, or maybe he killed her to cover his own tracks. Smack. She might have been trying to cook some on the oven. So maybe an accident. I was managing the case on our side.?

A one-handed sideways arc toward the basket had the ball bouncing off the backboard and veering straight at him. ?Heads up!?

He picked it out of the air and shot again without dribbling or aiming. Nothing but net. Wheeling after her, he continued, ?We had to do a tox screen, see how much methane she had in her bloodstream at time of death, see whether she had any smack in her. She was too badly burned to check some of her organs, so we worked with the liver and what blood we could get.?

She retrieved the ball, tucking it up under her arm and trotting back. This time, she bent at the waist, gave it three regulation bounces, and aimed. She shot. She hit the backboard, and it dropped in like buttah as the big echoes ricocheted off the walls. While he recounted organ screenings for chemicals, she went after the ball for him.

?The thing I was checking for specifically was head trauma. If it was hard enough, the angle was right...I wanted to rule out accidental so the police could drill down on it, you know? So we were x-raying her head, trying to figure out what was fire damage and what wasn?t, and I went to lunch while I was waiting on the results back from that.? He rolled to the next position.

?Okay.? She followed after him.

?I think I was pushed.? He twisted in the chair, looking at her, hands out for the ball.

She stopped midstride, the ball half extended to him, and stared back as his meaning sank in. ?Oh my God,? said the self-proclaimed agnostic.

The only way to tell it was to tell it. So he did. ?It was a busy street, and everyone was focused on their own s**t. Nobody saw anything. But something hit me from behind, I remember that. Then the car hit me and I blacked out. I don't remember the next month.?

She breathed in?a little hitch like she?d just remembered how?and held the ball out to him as she walked closer, all long lean legs. The harsh overhead lighting painted her shock starkly on her face.

?They said I went down at an angle, so the car hit my hip. Compound fracture of my pelvis. Fractured the L4 and L5 vertebrae. The three ribs and my shoulder went when I hit the pavement after flipping over the car. F**king killer road rash. Fractured skull. They kept me in a coma for a week to stabilize everything and make sure my brain wasn't going to go all subdural hematoma on them. So there was the coma, then they kept me so drugged that I don't remember anything. The guy's insurance company argued that I tripped, it was an accident, they weren't responsible.?

Her eyes were glittering, and she made a small noise of disbelief.

He breathed in, breathed out, went on. Surprising how hard it was to talk about, given how much he remembered. Then again, he hadn?t really talked about the details with anyone outside his family. ?I was dating that girl at the OCME at the time. She came to see me twice in the hospital and then she was done. I don't blame her. I looked like s**t, I couldn't interact with her in any meaningful way, and we weren't that serious. It was too much to deal with, I think.?

He took the ball, reared back, and slung it up. It went right in, bounced off the floor and onto the track, then rolled along it and away. She made no move to reclaim it. She was still staring at him.

He kept going. ?So my insurance covered half of it, and the guy's insurance finally caved when Simon sicced his lawyer on them. They paid about a quarter. My parents took up an offering at their church that met about a hundred thou, and about the same at my church. The full bill came to about?five million, maybe? I still have another hundred thou of it to pay off.

?They told me I wouldn't ever walk again. They treated the first erection I got like the second coming of Christ.? His mouth twisted. He?d been trying to tell it all to her in a level, neutral tone, but he felt both his voice and his expression get away from him for a second. ?The guy who drove the car actually came to see me a couple of times after I got out of the hospital. He was really sorry. Pretty good guy, we went out for beers a few times before I decided to move.

?They did about?eight surgeries on my back? Ten? There was a lot of metal installed. Some of it's still in there.?

She glanced down at his shoulder like she could see over it to the scarring beyond, and nodded. He?d been amazed when he?d pulled his shirt off and she hadn?t really reacted. He?d expected?what? Pity, maybe, or revulsion. He?d seen pictures, looked at himself in the mirror.

?And when they were done, they said I was as good as anyone could reasonably hope to be. They thought that scar tissue would keep me from improving. Then, when I didn't scar up internally, they started thinking that maybe I'd get some feeling back. And I did, I started out numb from the waist down. I can feel it down to...? He dragged his thumb down his thigh, prodding at half-inch intervals until he reached a spot a few inches up from his knee, ?...right about there. But I don't have good muscle control past my torso, so braces are out.?

?If you got some feeling back, then maybe the nerve damage will continue to heal. Maybe it will just take some time.? The ball stopped rolling. She didn?t go after it.

?Maybe.? He knew better. This was as good as it was going to get. ?It's been two years, though. It's hard to be patient.?

?I'm so glad you survived.? Despite the uneasiness between them, she sounded so sincere that it made him smile. She hadn?t once looked away.

?Me too,? he said simply. Something hung in the air between them.

Then the HVAC kicked on, she attempted a smile of her own, and broke eye contact. ?Did...what about the dead woman?? She glanced down at her feet and back to him.

?Boyfriend killed her, I think.? He frowned off at nothing, tried to remember, failed and shrugged. ?I don't know. They had to assign someone else to the case.?

She reined in God knew how many questions, pausing several times before she finally said, ?Thank you. For trusting me enough to tell me.?

?You're welcome. I meant to tell you the night we?the night I moved in?but we fell asleep before I could. Sorry about that.? The urge to move, to do something instead of just sitting there spilling out his crap story, got the better of him at last. He went after the ball, leaving her standing behind him scratching at the back of her neck.

Might as well broach the other subject. The big thing that hung between them. He?d had the idea last night while he was trying to sleep, and it made sense. It was reasonable. He could do it. Surely she could, too. He sucked in the recycled air and said, ?Okay. Here's the thing. I realized something last night.?

?Oh?? She glanced at him, eyebrows aslant, then walked back to the free-throw line.

?Yeah. I'm kind of unilaterally judging the situation and making decisions and s**t, and I don't think it's fair to you to do that.?

?What do you mean?? she asked, clearing out of his way so he could shoot.

He leaned back in the chair and casually tossed the ball in. Funny how the body remembered things. ?Okay. This is a weird situation. And both of us are people trying to be normal in very not-normal lives. I've been feeling like...I mean...? she was looking at him again, and he abruptly lost the thread of what he was saying. Oh, s**t, was this the wrong thing to do? He thought about his verbiage and soldiered on. ?You're coming across as kind of this mix of innocence and worldliness. I mean, the service is tough, but at the same time it's really sheltered. And you haven't been?physical?with a lot of people. On your end, for you...I don't want to f**k that up. I don't want to be the bad guy.?

?The bad guy,? she said, looking wary.

?Someone who encourages you to go places you don't want to go, breaks your heart, whatever.? He scratched at a prickle of dried sweat on his forehead. At least she was still listening. ?On my end, I didn't want to get involved with you and then find out that I can't handle working with you and living with you. Or hurting your feelings when I really, really don't want to do that. So I more or less decided not to?go there any more. Get physical. But...it's been a couple of weeks now, and it's getting really hard for me to keep my hands off you, and it's not really fair to you to assume that you're not?? Christ, this was ridiculous, ??emotionally mature enough to handle it.?

?That's what you think?? Uh-oh. That looked a lot like anger on her face, the way her mouth was curling down, the way her eyebrows were bunching together.

He felt his own frustration rise. ?No, see, I didn't think. That's my problem, a lot of the time, I don't think about this kind of stuff, I just do. I don't even know if you're interested. You were talking the other night about other guys.? He braced the heels of his hands on his thighs and looked at her.

Her jaw sagged. ?After you basically told me you didn't want anything to do with me that way. And suggested I might be unstable,? she retorted.

?What?? He felt his expression mirror hers.

?Just add water??

Was she serious? ?Jesus, Harper, I was trying to let you know that I didn't want to hurt you!?

She opened and closed her mouth half a dozen times, shook her head. ?You came across like you were upset about the prescription, and didn't want to go there again. I thought you thought I was pushing for more than you wanted.?

?Look, I was trying to explain, and you cut me off,? he snarled. She subsided. He went on, full tilt, the words tumbling out of his mouth. ?I didn't f**king know, okay? I moved in with you and slept with you, and I just wanted to make sure that I wasn't just moving right into your bedroom. I wasn't talking about you being unstable or any kind of s**t like that. I just didn't f**king know what was going on. I mean, look at it from my perspective. I knew next to nothing about you, I made out with you. Then you're inviting me to move in with you, and we have this f**king mindblowing sex, and then you're getting a prescription for contraceptives and talking about how happy you are. Do you really think it was unreasonable of me to ask, to make sure? I mean, assumptions are what got me here f**king arguing with you about it right now.?

Yeah, what was I thinking being happy, said her expression. She opened her mouth to answer, shook her head, and shut it again.

?So I asked, and you got all pissy with me and then spent ten minutes talking about how you were glad we had sex and now you wanted to have sex with whoever.?

?That is not what I said,? she snapped at him.

?Then tell me what you said,? he snapped back.

?I don't remember the exact words, anymore, John.? She blew out a sigh like an expletive. ?I went and got the prescription because I thought maybe we might want to have mindblowing sex again. Maybe lots of agains.? She made a visible effort to rein in her anger. Her tone softened. ?I like you. I liked you practically from the moment you saved my a** from meeting the floor at that party. But you were so freaked out about it, I thought maybe I did something wrong. So I tried to put on a good face about it so you wouldn't think I was trying to force myself on you.?

That?was it? Really? He?d been stupid and hung up for two weeks about nothing? ?Well, f**k me for being careful,? he said, throwing his hands up, then turned and rolled for the exit. ?You win. I?ll take you to lunch.? Under the frustration he was trying not to laugh at himself. Christ, he was a dumba**.

She muttered something under her breath and followed him toward the door, with a stop to pick up her sweatshirt from the bench along the wall.

?If you put that back on I will cry, Harper, so don't even think about it,? he said, pointing at her, then jabbing that finger at the elevator button.

She flipped it over a shoulder. ?Don't be such a baby, John.? She sounded confused, distracted. After a beat she said, ?Okay, no. Wait. I have some questions.?

?Okay.? He was starting to grin again. He couldn?t help it. ?No problem. We go upstairs and I'll answer your questions while I'm feeling you up.?

She rolled her eyes, threw up her own hands. ?Fine. But you're still taking me to lunch.?

?Okay.? The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. He wheeled in, the terrazzo floor easier to maneuver on than the rubber he?d just left. ?What questions??

She pushed the button for the fourth floor and leaned against the rail, looking down at him. ?I just want to make sure I understand...you aren't sorry we had sex??

?My God, are you kidding me? No.?

?And you don't want me to back off??

?I was just worried that maybe I was taking advantage of the situation or something, you know??

?God, we were both stupid.? Her eyes slid closed.

?It's just that...great sex does not a relationship make. I don't think we should be...if you want to see other guys or whatever, it's okay. I?m sorry I was weird about it.?

Her eyes popped open again. She blinked down at him. ?I don't want to see other guys. There are no other guys. You don't think we should be what??

She didn?t want to?wait, what? He had a sudden sinking feeling, and it wasn?t the elevator. ?Exclusive,? he said finally.

Oh, said her face, comprehension dawning before it was smoothed out. She looked at him, level, expressionless. ?I agree with you. Sex isn't all there is to a relationship.? Her eyes cut briefly to the moving arrow above the elevator door, then back to him. ?But that's not okay with me. I respect your desire to see other women. And sleep with them, if you want. But I can't do that. And I don't know if I want to be one of multiple partners.? The bell dinged. The doors opened.

He waited for her to go first. ?Okay. That's understandable.? F**k. F**k.

Her expression shifted from completely controlled to pensive as she headed for their door, the key to their apartment extracted from her pocket. After unlocking the door, she stepped inside and left it open for him. ?I'm going to take a shower,? she said mildly, heading for her bedroom.

?Okay. Let me know when you're out,? he called back. F**k!

(Adapted from live play with AL Harper, with thanks.)

February:

Dear Annie.

I wish I could have explained to you why Simon?s so protective.

I told you a little bit about what happened to me, but I kind of downplayed it. I told you that my pelvis, the ribs, my shoulder and my back were broken. I kind of threw out that I had some road rash. But they really thought I was going to die. My pelvis was crushed. My liver was ruptured. Two of my ribs punctured my lung, so a pneumothorax collapsed it. My kidneys were touch and go for a couple of weeks. I had a skull fracture, hence the medical coma they kept me in. And I lost a lot, a lot of blood. I think they said they had to replace my total blood volume twice during the initial surgery because I was leaking so much.

The church can?t allow the position to go unfilled. Even though Pop is in New York, there has to be a backup. Someone had to be ready to take my place, to be the next Benandanti. And Simon was the second oldest son, so he was it.

So they anointed him. Pop said that he couldn?t wrap his head around it at first. I totally understand that. Neither could I, when he came to me. It wasn?t until I was in front of the priest and they were painting my face with the chrism, when I felt the change come over me, that I first believed. Even then, it took a year before it really sank in. I?m still not reconciled to it. But you?ve probably already figured that out.

They dragged him in front of the priest, with him convinced that everyone had completely lost their f**king minds, right? And then he turns into a wolf. They do this in a private room, obviously, down under the church. It?s soundproofed, and the walls and door are reinforced. Like they did with me, they left him down there for two hours so he could figure out how to change back on his own. So he?d get used to the idea that everything he thought he understood about the world and religion and himself was wrong.

It?s hard. Believe me, I know.

But then I pulled through. Once I got well enough we figured out that I could still walk during the time that God called me to service. Simon got back-burnered, and he was completely, utterly, absolutely okay with that. Since God and the church told me to come to Rhydin he?s had to take over for me in New York, but his tenure?s going to be a lot shorter. Maybe he?ll have the guts to explain it to his wife someday. She doesn?t know, and she?s eventually going to get tired of his constant ?business trips? and think he?s having an affair on her. But he?s afraid of what?ll happen if he?s honest.

I get that, too.

I?ll tell you someday, in these letters. It?s easier to write it and think about your serious gray eyes than it is to even imagine saying the words. I wish I could. God, I wish I could. But the day I?m honest with you is the day I lose you.

I love you so much. Dancing with you at Ridge was so good. Watching you look around so excited at Nobu was just?and that dress. Jesus, I should build a shrine to that dress. I never slept as good as I did when I was in your arms.

Totus tuus,
John

February:

My Annie,

It?s funny. I tried tonight, I really did. I tried to say to you, ?let?s just try to be friends.? And I couldn?t do it. I ended up picking a stupid, pointless fight with you instead. I don?t want to just be your friend. I don?t want to settle. So I?m hurting you, because I?m trying not to hurt you.

I read this book in college. Catch-22. I was a couple of years past my anointing, then, and I f**king HATED that book. Hated it. I was so caught up in the idea of fairness, and the burdens God lays on us, and why I had to carry this terrible secret around with me while everybody else got to live a normal life. Then I read this book. And I got to the part where Yossarian realizes that Catch-22 doesn?t exist, but that there?s no way to get around it, and I threw the f**king book across the room. Got my a** in trouble with the librarians.

I feel like I?m screwed no matter what I do. You?re so quiet in your room. I thought?it sounded like you were crying, earlier, but I don?t know for sure. And what right do I have to go charging in there trying to fix it when I was the one that made it happen? God, it kills me to hear you cry. I thought I was going to cry myself at my parents? house when you were in the bathroom. It hurt me so much to hear you hurting.

But what do I do? Admit how I feel about you and then look forward to spending the rest of my life lying to you, like Simon?s doing with his wife? I can?t. I can?t do that to you. I can?t be honest with you. I?m not doing to you what I did to Phoebe. I have so much guilt and regret over that, and I didn?t feel a tenth for her what I feel for you. I never thought I?d be reduced to living the life of a character in a book, much less a book I couldn?t stand.

You?re so sure I?m trying to get with this Morana woman. I tried to think of a way to explain to you what it was like when she walked in, and the best thing I could come up with is this: she?s evil. It comes out of her like rain or sunlight, and I felt it before I even knew she was there. All the hair stood up on the back of my neck, and I felt the wolf in me ready to go to work even without God?s voice. I want to kill her. I want to see her lying red and broken on the floor and hear His wordless ?well done? in my head. I don?t think I?d be sick afterward, either. Not after her.

And you think I?m in it for the potential lay. This is how schizophrenic my life has become since I met you.

I love you.
John

January:

So he looked at Bill. And he thought about it, as Bill looked back at him. If Julia hadn't been the one to mention the dinner, if it hadn't been planned before their absence, he would have wondered whether they weren't playing some kind of sick game with their daughter and their daughter's new little friend. But it couldn't have been preplanned, and they must not have realized that Big Jim was a crass horndog. Just overreacting, he told himself. It doesn't mean anything. And he was pissed at himself for the reaction, and he wasn?t going to think about what his having the reaction meant. He turned his head, giving the two men a last lingering glance as he did, and murmured in her ear. ?You're welcome. You okay??

It trapped her face briefly between his cheek and his shoulder, teased her with a hint of citrus, a stroke of spice. It also gave him a close encounter with her perfume tonight?orange blossom and bergamot, green notes and maybe a hint of lily?riding lightly over the fragrance of soap and the subtle scent of her skin. She'd dabbed a little behind her ears, and he wasn?t going to think about that reaction either. She breathed him in, her lips teasing over the shaved expanse of his cheek as she answered in a hush of breath. ?Yeah. I just want to stay here, though.?

?Okay.? He turned them at an angle to the bar, so that they were no longer directly facing the pair. A couple drifted off the dance floor, and two more joined them. The wheels wanted, just a little, to stick to the waxed parquet, so the hush-hush sound he was used to was replaced with a faint frictional rip under the music. ?Talk to me.? With both hands on the wheels he threw down a subtle ballet, his arm moving and flexing behind her.

?I remember him, a little, I think.? She kept her voice low and intimate, her hand slung around his back retrenching to curl along the side of his neck at his collar. ?Jim. Not well. His wife threw me; I don't remember her. I don't think he was married to the same woman back then.?

?He's a slug. Doesn't surprise me.? He was still questioning the fierceness of what he was feeling, underneath the casual statement. The shirt he wore had almost as high a thread count as his sheets at home, the weave thick and fine. Above it was the first prickle of hair growing back at the nape of his neck after his last haircut. ?What do you remember??

?Not much. He had a couple of kids, maybe. It was a long time ago, and he was just one of the officers, you know?? He heard it in her voice, the sense that there was something more, a reluctance that ruffled the edges of her words. ?I didn't like him, I remember that.? The whispered confession came tumbling out after a turn of the chair, as the people around them went spinning past: Bill and Jim, her mother watching them from her place near a trio of other women, the faces of strangers. She turned her head into his neck again like she was hiding from it all.

He chewed on his lower lip, debated it for a minute as they wheeled through slow gyres of the room. ?Okay.? Don?t press, he decided. Not right now. ?Okay. You ever read The Gift of Fear? Gavin de Becker??

?No.? She lifted her head to look at him. ?What's it about??

?Dealing with stalkers.? She had no idea how much experience he had in that department. He looked back at her out of the corner of his eye, because looking straight on would put their noses dueling, and now was not the time. ?How to listen to your fear. It's a good book. I highly recommend it. The point I was going to make was...and I get that you're a psychologist, you know all this s**t already...? though she didn't, he was beginning to think, really know how to apply it to herself, ?...don't appease him. If he pushes you for a dance, or gets touchy or something, don't be all feminine nice-nice doing what he wants just because it might get him to leave you alone. If he does something that makes you uncomfortable and your parents come down on his side, same thing. Don't worry about ruining their night or whatever just because some a**hole won't leave you alone.?

?You didn't see me shaking his hand, did you?? Her whisper was almost playful when she said it, but she slid back into a serious note. ?But you're absolutely right. I won't. Promise.?

?I'm just saying.? He drew a breath. ?I realize this is probably ridiculously overthinking this, but how much do you want me to intervene??

That stopped her for a moment. She blinked at him, then leaned back so they could meet gazes. ?I trust you. If it looks like it's getting out of hand, use your judgment.?

?Okay.? He let that breath out. ?You know your dad's already back to giving me looks.? The lowlights flickered across his vision, skittered along the surface of his glasses as he matched stares with her. They spun as he turned them away from the bar. Across the room, a wall of windows showed the slow relinquishment of the day into snowy night's grasp along the slope of the severely manicured lawn. It was a fantastic view. He didn?t see any of it.

?Looks?? she breathed out at him. The glow of candles on a hundred tables, white twinkle lights on grapevine twists and lattices hung from the ceiling, pale and golden and reflected in the windows?it all shone on her skin. She was at her best in candlelight, absolutely breathtaking, and so warm curled up against him?

He shoved that thought away, mocked it. ?Yeah. The ?I wonder if they?re hitting it? looks. Doing the horizontal mambo. Giving the hot beef injection. Batter dipping the corn dog.? He started to grin.

?Uh!? She blushed furiously, the color standing out on her pale face. Mouth open in denial, she nudged his shoulder with hers as he started to laugh, stole a peek around him at her father. ?You are so bad!? Hunkering down a little, she laughed herself, soft, quiet. The blush flared brighter.

?I could keep going, you know. Polishing the porpoise? Taking ol' one-eye to the optometrist?? She was laughing. Score. It worked.

?I haven't heard most of those before. God. You're awful.? She looked scandalized, but didn?t sound it. Her fingers teased along the fringe of his hair.

Into the gap between songs he started singing the lyrics to Tone Loc's ?Wild Thing.? Probably the first time those posh and hallowed halls had ever heard anything even remotely resembling rap. He was trying not to crack up at that thought when she kissed him, muffling the words against his lips. No time to react?his eyes widened, but she was already drawing back.

?Sorry,? she whispered, and didn?t look sorry at all.

The first thing out of his mouth in response was, ?I had no clue you liked Tone Loc so much. What about Mix-a-Lot?? He caught a glimpse across the room of Jim looking both calculating and poisonous before the man turned away.

?I don't know either one of them,? she confessed.

It was his turn to be scandalized. ?You're f**king kidding me. That is just wrong. Who was in charge of your education? They need an a**-kicking.?

The piped-in music was well into 'Ain't That a Kick in the Head,' and that had her giggling. ?Cross my heart.? Her fingers stroked a cross over the black fabric. Her parents busted a move past them. She looked utterly innocent for the minute it took her dad to twirl her mother on by, then she was laughing again.

?If it?s not on my player,? he told her, ?I've got some at home. We need to get on this, stat.?How much time left before dinner? She's getting heavy.? He leaned back, twisting his head to ask her parents that, grinning to show he was joking. His hand curled around the back of her neck, though. Keeping her there just in case, giving her a little squeeze.

She swatted at his shoulder, then gasped in excitement as the music changed and a new song came up. Bill, who?d had his mouth open to answer, paused, looking between his wife and his daughter. Then he addressed John. ?Would you permit me to switch partners with you for this dance?? His mouth quirked. ??Fly Me to the Moon,?? he explained. ?It?s our song.?

Eek. He blinked once and smiled. ?Sure thing. Miz Julia?? He set the brake, and Harper slid off his lap. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, then her dad whisked her away.

?I?d be delighted.? She was good at the Southern charm?Bill didn?t call her ?Magnolia? for nothing?but she obviously had no idea what to do. Bemused, she asked him, ?What should I do??

?Just have a seat, put your hand on my shoulder or arm around it like we're dancing.? He grinned outright at her bemusement and patted his leg.

She perched herself daintily on his knees, like Harper had the first time. ?It was very sweet of you. He used to sing that to her in the cradle.?

?Hey, no problem.? He cranked it down to a stage whisper. ?We're alone at last. Now we can really talk.? He reached out, tugged her in a little closer so she didn?t slide off him at the first turn, popped the brake and spun them in place.

His sense of humor worked on her mother, too, or maybe they just really wanted to like him. Julia laughed. ?All part of my evil plan, John. What would you like to know??

Of course, she might take offense at what he was about to say. He had no idea. ?I, uh,? he gambled, leaned in a little and dropped his voice, ?I know they're your friends and all. And I'm not trying to be rude or anything. I'm really sorry if this comes across wrong. But Jim there is giving me kind of a bad vibe.? What? Angels feared to tread there? Sure, he'd get right on it. And he?d noticed the way she immediately absented herself from Jim and Ellen?s vicinity when they met up. It wasn?t that much of a gamble, he thought. Sitting back, he considered her with a razor-sharp focus.

And funny, she was giving him the same look, sizing him up, making decisions. ?Just between you and me, I'm not sure we'd call them ?friends.? And you, too? Independently, or is it something Annie said??

Nice, he thought. Direct. Right on. ?Little from Column A, little from Column B. She says she doesn't really remember him, but she remembers not liking him much.? They just happened to be circling away from Bill and Annie. ?When we walked up he was looking at her like he was starving and she was a buffet table, you know??

She looked around like she was gauging how much to say and who might overhear them. ?Bill and I,? she said finally, ?had one unbreakable rule where Annie was concerned, as she was growing up. We never forced her to spend time with people she shied away from. And her dislike of him was instantaneous.? Her gaze turned inward as she explained. ?I've never seen her so vehement about anyone. He had two girls of his own, at the time, and we thought it would be nice if she had some friends on base. They were about the same age.?

He sighed, touched the small of her back as they turned, in the same spot where he'd rubbed Harper's. It was courteous rather than suggestive. F**k. This was starting to look really ugly.

Julia went on. ?She would never go to their house, didn't want anything to do with them if Jim was around. And there were rumors, later, when his wife left him and took the children away with her back to the States. So. She knows nothing about that. She was very young. But I like to think she has good instincts and we try to honor that.?

The instincts again. Jesus. ?Okay. I was going to let her sit with me for dinner. You mind boxing me in so he can't sit next to us??

She gave the back of his head a motherly stroke of her hand and pecked a kiss to his cheek. ?I like you, John. I'm glad Annie brought you with her. We'll put Bill next to you and I'll sit beside her.?

?Well, I like you too, so everybody wins.?

(Adapted from live play with AL Harper, with thanks.)

January:

So, okay, there was this bar. And they had a karaoke machine. Place called Louie's Pub in Wicker Park, in an alt-Chicago, on an alt-Earth. A big front room with wooden floors and walls, old photographs hung up, the kind of warm mellow lighting that made the place look and feel like a cave.

This girl, Harper, took her guy friend there because he said he wanted karaoke. She was nervous, sure. He could see it in her eyes. There were going to be shenanigans. She could probably read it in the slant of his grin. When he said he wanted karaoke, she had fear. But she also knew the place to take him. Good thing for the guy, they didn't have a stage for him to get up onto. Just a spot kinda out of the way for him to park his chair and take up the mic.

It was a decent crowd, and he had to wait his turn. And you could see in their eyes, that crowd, when they saw him rolling up. I mean, come on. Guy in a wheelchair. In a suit. Thought he could sing? F**k that, go get another beer. But then he picked his song, and launched into the discussion between two valley girls at the beginning of ?Baby Got Back.? And, get this, he f**king nailed it, right? People started to watch, and a few of 'em were chuckling. Then the music kicked in, and he started slinging it like he thought he was Mix-a-Lot himself, right down to the moves of the video.

The girl was sitting with their coats, in her little black dress with the little notch in it, looking at him like he?d sprouted another head. Except, hey, second head was kinda hot. And funny. And she was embarrassed at first, looking at him between her splayed fingers. Then she was laughing. And then she was grinning and clapping along with everyone else. She watched his fan club growing in the corner?a herd of twenty-something hotties with ironed hair and about three beers too many apiece. The waitress came by, and she ordered them both bottles of Sam Adams.

It was fun. It was fun, and he wasn?t thinking, wasn?t worrying about s**t. He was just enjoying himself. He polished off the song. From there, for something completely different, he dove into Nine Inch Nails' ?Closer.? Turned out she knew that one! So did everyone else. Half the crowd was listening, the other half was singing along. The fan club shouted encouragement between verses. And he was working the mic for it, leaning into it like he thought he was Trent Reznor, like he was just barely keeping himself from licking it as he slanted black-edged glances across the room.

The girl joined in on the second verse, tearing her eyes away from him to follow along on the lyric displays. Shoulders swaying, she chair danced to the beat on the instrumentals, her eyes darting around the room and back to the front.

He laughed at the end of that one. One more song, and he had to pass the mic along. He said something to the DJ, a guy in a turtleneck and jeans, who dialed it up. Then he threw his head back and belted out "Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine...? The rest of Three Dog Night's ?Joy to the World? followed, with him waving his free hand back and forth and encouraging the crowd to sing along. She was laughing again, too, but she belted this one out with him. The beer was there. She sang into the mouth of hers before taking a big swallow.

He cracked up in the middle of announcing that he was a straight-shootin' son of a gun, totally blowing the line. It took him a few seconds to go back to singing. And everyone was sort of milling close and dancing in front of the ?stage.? She joined them, singing back at him into her beer bottle mic.

And at the end of that one, he handed the mic off to the DJ, laughingly denying attempts to wave him back in. He shimmied the chair over to her, and there was color in his face and a sheen on his skin. He felt good. He wanted a drink. Hell, he wanted her.

?You are great!? she leaned in to tell him, loud to ride above the base line of the next song?some country number he didn?t know. ?I got you a beer!? She pointed to the table where she left their coats and his bottle, which was sweating almost as much as he was.

?Good way to blow off steam,? he shouted back, a little hoarse, and plowed through the crowd to the table.

She flagged down the waitress for a refill and tagged along after him. ?I came here a couple of times, with some friends, but I've never tried singing.?

?You should try!? He parked it and flopped back in the seat, then straightened up long enough to pull his suit jacket off.

Harper followed the waitress back to the bar. One of his fan club members swooped in, breathless and excited. ?You are so hot,? she told him at top volume. ?I?m Kimmie! What's your name??

?My name? It's ?With Her.?? He dropped the jacket onto his lap, twisted his thumb at Harper by the bar, then offered his hand. ?How ya doin', Kimmie??

Kimmie's disappointment was obvious?she looked at Harper for a second the way Jim's wife had. ?I'm great. If you ever decide to change your name, you should definitely look me up.?

?Will do.? He toasted her. She smiled down at him, then sauntered her a** back over to the corner, presumably to b***h about him with her friends.

In Harper's world, they still let people smoke in bars. There was this haze from the smoke. With the spotlight in the corner it wreathed the shadowy tables in mystery. And carcinogens, reminded his clinical self. And it was making him a little crazy, because with the day he'd had, he'd kill for a cigarette. He twisted in the chair, swiping a hand over his face, looking for her. She was over in the crowd of people around the stage area, working her way toward the sign-in board for the karaoke. He could just see her head bopping back and forth as she danced in place.

Uh-oh. He sank back into the chair, sipping beer and smiling, exchanging the occasional comment with the couple at the next table over while he waited for her. She scrawled 'Harper? on the board?there were three people ahead of her?and danced her way back to him to the tune of a couple of guys singing 'Something Out of Nothing? to their girlfriends. ?...because it's MAGIC...sumfin outta nuffin...? they bellowed into the mics, pimping it up.

?What're you gonna sing, chicky?? he asked her when she made it to the table.

?I have no idea!? She looked terrified and thrilled at the same time.

?Hit some Frankie.?

?You haven't had your fill already tonight??

?What? No! You can never have too much Frank Sinatra.?

She grinned at him, with a look that said she'd just added another piece to the John Puzzle. He grinned right back and caught her hand to bring it to his lips. She hadn't expected that, from the look on her face, and she didn?t seem to mind. ?You aren't trying to get me to sing ?New York, New York,? are you?? she asked him with a naughty little glance.

He put on the best innocent melty brown puppy dog pair of eyes he could swing. ?I have no idea what you?re talking about, Harper.?

She leaned in real close, almost near enough for a kiss?the beer was getting to her on top of the wine at dinner, or maybe it was just relief from not having to deal with that Jim guy?and said, ?Only for you, and only because it's not baseball season and all's fair before spring training.?

He busted out another grin for her. She did kiss him, then, brushing it across his lower lip. Then she sat back and waited for the fan girl pack to finish a turn before hers. The Cyndi Lauper wannabe belted out a ?Girls Just Wanna Have Fun? that was so high-pitched his head went off onto a tangent about bats and echolocation and that animal biology class he?d taken for kicks in undergrad, wandering away from the brief fantasy the kiss had inspired.

Then she was finishing off the last of her second beer, getting up and heading for the machine. Turtleneck the DJ helped her figure out the machine. She punched two numbers in. The waitress circled back around and beered him again. He turned back with it, swallowing the first tangy sip, to watch.

?This is my first time...? she was telling her audience. He draped an elbow over the back of the chair and sipped again, as Turtleneck paused the music to let her finish. ?...and the first song I chose is for someone really special...? there was coughing and talking, but some clapping and encouragement, too. ?...and even though he's a Yankees fan?? shock and groans, ??he's a good guy. So if you would all help me sing this for him, and make him feel at home on his first visit to Chicago...? Somebody cheered. ?I'd really, really appreciate it.?

And she blinded them with a full-force Annie-Love smile, fueled by the alcohol she?d had. He covered his eyes with a hand at the Yankees comment, then went back to watching her, smiling and helpless. The music kicked in. She started spreadin? the news.

Wouldn?t you know it, she had a decent voice. She wouldn?t ever make it to Broadway, but she hit the notes. And she was strutting it, making the wide gestures with her arms, leaning in with the mic, pacing through the crowd toward their table and singing it right to him. And the whole joint was laughing and singing it with her. Everyone in Louie's was gonna make a brand new start of it. He tipped his head back to watch her as she reached the table, and when she hit the last verse he was singing right along with the rest of the crowd, eyes sparkling.

She walked it around the table, sliding her hand along his shoulders and through his hair, while the other held the mic up like she was a cabaret singer, and belted it out all the way back to the front. Everyone was still singing. A love song to New York in a bar in Chicago. Wonders never ceased. ?...Because of you, New York...New York!? That last little instrumental riff, and she was done. Somewhere, the Cubs wept. He applauded, framed his mouth with a thumb and forefinger and gave her a shrill taxi whistle as she beamed, embarrassed and glowing.

Then the next number came up. Another Sinatra. Not Frank. The orchestra swelled as she pulled up a stool and perched a hip on it. ?You know that it would be untrue, you know that I would be a liar, if I was to say to you, boy we couldn?t get much higher...? It wasn?t cheesy. She turned it into a torch song. The smoky haze, the little black dress, the seamed stockings, the way she held the mic to her lips and leaned forward as she sang. It wasn't her. But it was her. He was glad he?d talked her into it. She needed the catharsis.

And it would be, he thought as he watched her sing her heart out to a crowd of strangers, it would be so easy. Just give in. Just say yes. You said yes to Phoebe, a little voice told him. Look how that turned out.

When the last note faded away, she seemed to recall who and where she was, blinking and looking around herself like she?d woken up. She handed the microphone off to the next in line, a wanna-be cowboy crooner who launched into ?You Were Always on my Mind,? and came back, through the crowd, grinning and looking like her cheeks were going to spontaneously combust.

?Howdy, pardner,? he said when she made it back to the table. That little voice had him itching to be gone. His returning grin was for her, rather than the itch in the memory of his working legs.

?Howdy,? she drawled back, and reached for her beer. Which was empty. Rats, said her face.

?That was awesome,? he told her. ?Just so you know. You want another, or you ready to turn in? It?s?? he checked his watch, ?almost eleven.?

?Maybe some water...I want another beer, but I have to drive us back to the house and it's snowing again.? Another couple had just come in with clumps of it melting in their hair. ?If you're up for it, we can watch a movie and have one there. But I don't have to go fly whatever wherever at the crack of dawn tomorrow.?

?It?s a kidney,? he told her, like that explained everything. ?What movie??

And from the clearing of her expression, it did indeed explain everything. ?Not Dad?s usual biz then. He does that Wings of Mercy thing when they call him. Must be something for that. And...I don?t know. They have a lot of movies.?

?Why am I going with him??

?I don't know. Maybe he wanted to show off his plane and thought you might like it? You don't have to go, if you don't want?? She gave him a doubtful look.

?Mm. Maybe. No, I don't have any problem going with him. I just didn't know if this is something he does on a regular basis or whatever. Invites your friends out for open-air grilling, so to speak.? The cowboy was done singing. Someone was doing a punk version of Girl from Ipanema that might have been inspired by her earlier forays into Sinatraland. She looked so good. He told the little voice to shut the hell up.

?I don't think so, John. Did he grill you? You were alone with him for hours watching ball games this afternoon.? And sweating bullets over whether Colonel Harper was going to ask him questions about alternate-universe games he didn?t recognize, or launch some kind of formal inquiry as to his intentions toward Harper the Younger. But she didn?t need to know that, and as he confirmed that earlier decision she was leaning in for what she probably meant to be a playful sniff. His skin caught fire. ?But you don't smell like marinade.?

?Nah. Just a bad pun.? He turned his head, stroked his cheek against hers, murmured the words. ?Let's head back.?

?Okay.?

(Adapted from live play with AL Harper, with thanks. Information on the real-world Louie?s Pub is here.)