Not mine unless I come up with a whole lot of cash - which is hard since I'm not making any money for doing this.

My thanks to debraC and Keerah for looking over the story. Lilguppee, did you help out this time? I swear I'm going to start writing down the names of people who beta for me so I don't forget.
This series started out as a way to get birthday snippets written. I must thank everyone who has taken the time to write and tell me that they are enjoying the series. Your encouragement has meant a lot!

The angst continues.

This story is a sequel to: Resurrection: Counterpoint

The euphoria of having the dream which kept me sane during my years of darkness come true begins to fade the closer we get to Jim's loft.

What am I thinking?

To be Blair again is to be weak and defenseless; it is to be at the mercy of higher powers who care only for their own personal glory and wealth. Marcus Mallory is too ingrained into my psyche now, too much of who I am, and Marcus is too much of a survivor to allow Blair free rein.

"Stop thinking," Jim says from beside me.

I blink once as his voice cuts through my thoughts and turn my head slightly to let him know he has my attention.

"We aren't making any decisions tonight," he says firmly. His blessed protector tone warms a part of my soul, even while it angers me -- as if he could actually stop me if I made the decision to leave.

"We aren't," he says again, although this time there is a tinge of desperation in his voice.

For some reason, his fear comforts me. "Sure."

His hand tentatively reaches for me, but then moves back to the steering wheel, gripping it so tight I can see his knuckles shake a bit.

It's odd to see him so hesitant, to know that I'm what's making him uncertain. Once, a millennia ago, he shouted at me that he knew who he was. I wonder if he can still muster up that same righteous indignation. Have I done this to him?

His turning off the ignition draws me out of my thoughts and I kick myself for my inattention. This sort of laziness is just the thing that got Hankins killed. I release a slow breath, focusing once again on the here and now.

Jim doesn't wait, he practically bursts out of the truck, yanking my duffel bag out of the back seat as he does, as if by holding onto it I have no choice but to follow him.

I follow at a slower pace, taking in my surroundings. The neighborhood hasn't changed much. I shut the door to the vehicle and look back at Jim, who is standing at the rear of the SUV, staring at me as if he still doesn't believe his eyes.

"You're going to make me self-conscious," I tell him, resisting the urge to laugh when he shakes himself out of his mini-zone.

"I just can't...that is...want to go upstairs?"

I've never seen Jim this flustered before. Shocked. Disappointed. Happy. Speechless. But never flustered.

"Sure, since I'm here and everything."

He nods once and moves quickly toward the door leading to the mini-lobby of the building. I follow at a much slower pace. If there's a God in heaven, the elevator will be broken, thus giving me enough time to get used to the idea of going home.

But, of course, it's not. I chuckle silently to myself as I enter the tiny lift, knowing that God had long since turned his back on me. Why did I expect him to suddenly start listening now?

Jim remains silent as the elevator begins its ascent, his eyes never leave my face. I keep my expression as neutral as I can, desperately struggling to control my heartbeat and breathing, even though my soul is singing so loud I suspect Jim can hear it.

He darts off the elevator as soon as the doors open and moves straight for the loft door, fumbling slightly with his keys. I take a step off the lift, but stand rooted in place, debating the pros and cons of going back down. As soon as Jim opens the door, he turns and looks back, expectantly, almost challengingly. Never taking his eyes off me, he deliberately throws my duffel bag into the loft.

"You can do this," he whispers.

It seems like such a simple thing, to walk down the short hallway and into the loft. I've literally walked this exact path a thousand times before. So why should this morning be any different?

Because I want it so badly.

Because everything I've ever wanted in the past five years has either been taken away from me or denied me.

Can it be as easy as walking down the hall and turning left into the apartment?

"Do you want a beer?" Jim asks, quietly, trying for casual but failing miserably.

I shake my head. Alcohol dulls the senses, slows reaction times, makes one an easier target.

"Tea, then? I think I have some green tea."

I shrug my shoulders. "Sure."

I watch him swallow hard, debating whether or not to come back for me. He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. "Okay." He nods, then moves into the loft.

It's killing him to give me this time to adjust. But despite his fear that I'll simply vanish into the night, he's giving me some space, letting me know he trusts me.

I silently move down the hall, stop in the doorway, and look inside the apartment that has haunted my dreams for years.

Jesus. It's exactly as I remember it; literally, nothing has changed.

I blink. God, could this be another dream?

"Honey?"

I turn and stare incredulously at Jim.

"For the tea," he clarifies, although he has a huge smirk on his face.

"Sure."

Jim's grin gets goofier and he snickers under his breath as he turns back to the stove. There's something about seeing him laugh that draws me into the loft. I shut the door and he spins toward me. A look of panic crosses his face, but it quickly morphs into satisfaction when he sees that I'm inside the loft as opposed to making my escape.

"It'll..." He points nervously back toward the stove. "It'll just take a moment or two longer."

I nod, keeping my hands flat against the door behind me. He turns back toward the kettle and I take a moment to inhale deeply.

Home.

My throat tightens and I try unsuccessfully to swallow.

It's not real. This can't be real.

"Yes, it is," Jim says quietly, appearing like a hallucination before me, making me wonder if I spoke aloud.

His hands move toward me, hesitate, then drop to his sides. "Want to come in and take a load off?" I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to the punch. "Sure."

I feel a smile blossom across my face. "Already, I'm predictable?"

He returns my smile. "Hardly."

He moves back a bit, stepping out of my personal space. Although it's my intention to go into the living room, my feet take a step toward him. He smiles reassuringly at me and takes another step back. I follow him until I reach the kitchen island. My hands grasp the edge of the counter, then splay lightly over the wooden top. Jim acts casual, as if he's not watching my every movement like a hawk, which I appreciate. I know I'm acting like a freak, but don't need to be visually reminded of my neurosis.

My gaze drifts toward my old room.

"Go ahead," he whispers encouragingly.

I look up at him, and he nods me toward the closed French doors.

I shake my head, not ready to take that step yet.

Jim ignores my refusal and moves around the opposite end of the island, opens the glass doors, and flicks on the light switch.

As if by their own volition, my feet move to stand in yet another doorway. My eyes are immediately drawn to my masks and artifacts. My chair and bookcases are different, but virtually everything else is the same.

"I...how...why..." I close my eyes, flustered.

"Naomi likes sleeping in here when she comes to visit," he explains.

My eyes fly open.

"She stayed with me after...you know. She and Simon were my strength."

I blinked at him. My mother? Jim and my mother?

"We didn't..." he starts, then blushes to his roots. "We couldn't," he hastens to explain in the wake of my silence.

"Chair's different," I say, letting him off the hook.

For some reason, he blushes again. "Yes." But he doesn't give an explanation.

I step into the room and open a desk drawer, only to find it exactly as I had left it, filled with notes, journals and photographs. I look back at Jim and he smiles gently at me. "I've read everything, three or four times. It helps when things get bad."

"You kept everything," I say softly, stating the obvious, but I'm shocked to realize he had.

"Naomi has your graduation certificates and your baby album; but yes, essentially everything else is here. I, uh, I have most of your university stuff in the basement."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you keep everything?"

"How could I not?"

I know I'm looking at him incredulously again, but I can't help myself.

"I couldn't let you go." He closes the distance between us, forcing me to roll my head back on my shoulders to look up into his face. "I tried. God, I tried, but I couldn't." His hands ghost over my face, but never quite touch it. He leans forward, but the tea kettle starts screaming in the kitchen. Our eyes lock, then he sighs and steps back to remove the pot from the stove.

I close my eyes, my chest heaving in short pants. I know Jim can hear me, but I can't help myself.

He hadn't forgotten me.

I raise a hand and gently lay it on my bottom lip to stop its trembling. The last thing I need is an emotional scene.

But my heart is singing.

He hadn't forgotten me.

I did matter.

I take a deep breath, release it slowly, and turn back toward the kitchen. Jim is pouring the boiling water into two mugs.

I slide into one of the kitchen chairs. Jim sets one of the steaming mugs in front of me and sits across the table. For lack of anything better to do, I pick up the string dangling over the lip of the cup and dunk the bag several times.

"Is anyone looking for you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

I shake my head. "No one of power."

"Anyone without power?"

I look up and smile at him. My Jim, always the detective.

"Possibly a few students." I raise a hand and cut off his next question. "They won't be a danger. If they get this far, they'll simply be looking for direction."

"Which you'll provide them?"

I drop my hand and cup it around the mug, reveling in the warmth. "I don't know," I say honestly.

I take a small sip of tea, keeping my eyes on Jim.

"Who do you want to tell first?" he asks softly.

"About?"

"About your being back."

I blink several times, trying to set my mug down without sloshing its hot contents over my hands. "No one." I don't like the alarm in my voice, but I can't believe he would ask such a question.

"They have a right to know."

"A right?" I challenge.

"Everyone thinks you're dead. They need to know you're alive."

"Why?"

"What? What do you mean why?"

"I'm not who I used to be."

"So?"

"Don't be dense, Ellison," I say reprovingly. "Blair Sandburg is dead. He's been buried and mourned. Don't tease people into thinking he's alive, then give them me."

"Blair--"

I raise my hand, cutting him off.

"But Naomi --"

"NO!" I shout, pushing away from the table in horror.

Jim raises both of his hands, trying to show he means me no harm. "Okay," he says softly, "Okay, we won't say anything to Naomi."

"She won't...can't...accept...," I stutter, touching the scars on my face and neck. "It'll be too much." I know my mother. She'll blame herself. The pain will overwhelm her if she were to see me now. Her free-spirited heart wouldn't be able to accept what I've been through, what's been done to me.

"She'll understand," he counters.

I spin and head unerringly toward my duffel bag. This was a mistake. I knew from the start it was. I should never have come back to Cascade.

I hear Jim move behind me and I sidestep, at the last moment, out of his path. However, he moves with an agility that surprises me, sweeping a leg out and knocking me off my feet. I go down hard, but never stop moving, making Jim miss when he drops, trying to pin me. I scramble to my knees, but he finds purchase on my ankle and yanks hard, causing me to slam onto the floor. I roll immediately, raising my knee as he tries to get a better grip. He grunts in pain, but uses his forward momentum to pin me momentarily.

"ENOUGH!" he shouts, even as he straddles my body and pushes my hands to the floor.

However, he's too far forward and I'm able to use my legs to dislodge him. Both of us roll to a crouch, our fingertips on the floor balancing our weight, our chests heaving with exertion.

"Bl-" he starts, but stops when I snarl at him. "Mallory. I just meant if you gave her a chance. I'm not going to force anything. I swear." He takes a deep shaky breath and stands upright, purposefully making himself vulnerable. "On my heart. Which is beating in your chest, by the way." Again, he raises his hands in supplication.

I slowly, slowly stand. My gaze never leaving his face.

"You have no real reason to believe me, but I wish you would," he says quietly.

I run a trembling hand over my buzz cut. "Sure," I say after a moment's silence.

He smiles brilliantly at me, then chuckles hoarsely, which makes me grin for some odd reason. Seeing my reaction only makes him laugh, then guffaw. Before I realize it, we are both howling with laughter, each using the other as support so we don't collapse onto the floor.

But somewhere in the middle, my laughter turns to tearless sobs.

I don't think I can do this.

"Yes, you can," Jim whispers in my ear as he wraps his strong arms around me and hugs me tightly to his chest. "You're not alone anymore, Mallory. And together, we can accomplish anything...including working on our communication skills."

My body attempts a laugh, but it ends up a hiccup which makes us both snort in amusement. I try not to notice that my hands are clenched in the back of Jim's shirt or that I'm holding him as hard as he's holding me.

I can't move, afraid that this will all disappear if I let him go. Jim seems content just to hold me. Every time I shake my head, he makes shushing noises and pets my hair. The combination of his body's heat and the comfort he is giving makes me sleepy. I'm vaguely aware of grunting, of my feet not being on the floor any longer, but I can't find the energy to care. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. If I have to wake up by myself tomorrow, I need the memory of these arms holding me as if I am the most precious thing in the world.

End Resurrection III: Adjustments by Dolimir: Dolimir@aol.com

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