Not mine until I win the lottery, until then I do this for love instead of money.

First off, I'd like to thank debraC, Lilguppee and Jazzbird for their betas. They make me look good! But as you can imagine, I couldn't stop tweaking this story, didn't stop tweaking it until two minutes ago - have basically discovered that the only way to stop tweaking is to post the damn thing. So any mistakes are strictly my own because Lord knows these women did a heroic job with the first draft!

It's an emotionally rough series, people. Consider this particular story the emotional climax. 'Nuff said. (By the way, there will be two quieter stories in this series posted later in January)

This story is a sequel to: Resurrection IV: Beginnings

"You don't have to go."

I turn and look at Jim's pale face. "I'm just going to get some supplies." I close the distance between us, clench the front of his shirt in my hand and pull until the straining fabric causes his neck to bend toward me. I brush a light kiss over his lips. "I'll be back. I promise. I just need to not be here when he comes by again."

Jim sighs and opens his mouth to object, but I stop his protestations with a deeper kiss. He moans softly into my mouth and grasps the back of my shirt. When we finally break apart, he whispers, "Okay, we'll do it your way."

I can practically hear him say "for now" but choose to ignore his stubbornness. I know Jim has this fantasy where I'm welcomed back with open arms by the old gang, but it's not going to happen - no matter how much he wants it.

"Two hours...tops," I promise.

Jim flattens his body against mine, presses me back against the door and devours my mouth. I know he's trying to stall me, trying to keep me here so I'm forced to deal with Simon again, and in a moment of weakness, I consider letting him have his way, but sanity prevails. I chuckle as I slowly push him back, letting him know I'm on to his game.

He looks slightly abashed, but not terribly repentant.

"Two hours?" he asks softly, his index finger deliberately trailing down my chest toward my groin.

"Tops," I tell him again.

He doesn't step back and I realize he's not going to either. Grinning at him, I slide past the knob, open the door, wink at him, then move into the corridor. I raise a hand to my mouth, my facial muscles aching slightly, not used to the smile residing there. I snort with amusement then jog down the stairs.

Once I reach the sidewalk, I look up at the balcony knowing before I see him that he's there, watching me.

It's killing him to let me go, but he's doing it for me...to prove that he trusts me.

"Two hours, tops," I tell him conversationally.

Even from here, I can see him swallow, but he nods, letting me know he's heard me.

I waggle my eyebrows at him and he laughs.

I turn and walk down Prospect. There's a little drug store a couple of blocks down the way, and if I remember correctly, there's a used book store two blocks past that. I think I'll kill some time looking at books, then on the way home I'll buy a few things I think we'll need if this relationship continues to go in the direction I think it's going.

I snort with amusement as I realize I'm practically giddy. I wonder what Shafer would think of Mallory being whimsical? No doubt he'd send me to the medic.

I halt in my tracks as I start to pass the bookstore. Good Lord, where is my mind?

"Mr. Mallory?"

A cold fist clenches around my stomach.

Shit.

I close my eyes briefly, then square my shoulders and turn to face the pleasant tenor voice.

It's a cop.

"Marcus Mallory?"

"Is there a problem, Officer?"

For a moment, I'm lost in memory.

I don't see the freckled face redhead in front of me, but the face of an older officer, who seemed to practically step out of the bushes as I was jogging down the steps of Rainier.

"What's wrong? Where's Jim?"

"Can you come with me, Mr. Sandburg?"

Of course, I'd gone with him. I didn't know if Jim had been hurt or if he'd zoned and Simon needed me. I should have demanded to see his identification. I should have looked at his face closer and realized it wasn't one of the officers I knew. I should have...

"Mr. Mallory?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. You were saying?" Fuck, I'm going to get myself killed this time.

"Would you mind coming down to the station with us?"

Us?

I look over my shoulder and see an older cop. Robertson. I remember him from my time with the department. We never really worked any cases together, but he always seemed like a good man. Robertson is looking nervous. His hand is resting casually on the grip of his service revolver.

"Am I under arrest?"

The youth shakes his head. "No, sir. You're just wanted for questioning?"

"In regards to what?"

"I don't know, sir. We were just asked to bring you downtown."

"May I see your identification, son?"

The boy, who can't be any older than twenty-four, blinks at me, then looks at his partner for guidance. I can see Robertson's reflection nod in the glass in front of me. The officer pulls out his wallet and shows it to me. Thomas Hennessey. Good Irish name. I turn to face his older partner, who already has his identification out for my inspection.

Everything seems legit. That and the fact I remember Robertson calms my nerves slightly.

"All right," I finally concede. "Do you mind if I make a phone call?"

"Can you make it from downtown?" Thomas asks me.

I can see Robertson shake his head slightly. The boy is sounding far too apologetic for his liking.

"I suppose."

"Are you carrying a weapon, Mr. Mallory?" Robertson asks, taking charge of the situation with quiet authority.

"Yes, I am."

"Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon, sir?"

"As an agent of the United States, I am fully authorized to carry a concealed weapon. Would you care to see my permit?" I ask them, just in case they think they're dealing with some street perp.

"Yes, sir, I would."

Moving very slowly, so as not to make anyone overly nervous, I pull my wallet from my back pocket and show them my identification. I flip a leather flap and show Robertson my permit.

"I assume that since I'm not under arrest and am cooperating that I'll be allowed to retain my piece in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation?"

Hennessey looks nervously at Robertson for direction. The older cop nods, then directs me to the back of their squad car. I wait for him to open the door, then slide into the car.

As the officers get into the squad, I can taste the copper seeping down my throat from where I'm biting the inside of my cheek. Hennessey is driving with Robertson riding shotgun, but sitting at an angle so that he has me in full view. I don't even attempt conversation. I'm too lost in my memories...memories of that May afternoon as the patrol car screamed through town. When we pulled up to the warehouse, I never hesitated, I simply ran after the officer, knowing that each second that passed could mean the difference between life and death to Jim. If I knew then what I know now I would have jumped from the third story window as soon as I realized I was in trouble.

There's no sense of relief when the patrol car dips down into the familiar subbasement of the PD.

I have a bad feeling about this. Simon isn't on his way to talk to Jim. He's come up with some convenient excuse about why he can't show up; the call, no doubt, timed to ring just seconds before my escort brought themselves to my attention. A conveniently timed distraction to make Jim lose track of me.

When the car stops, Hennessey opens the back door. I take a moment and sink further down into Mallory.

If a confrontation is what Banks wants, then by God, he's going to get it.

The ride to the seventh floor is uneventful. I'm allowed to keep my weapon because they have no valid reason to take it from me, although I can tell my escort isn't too happy about that fact. Both men paled visibly when Agent Marcus Mallory got out of the back seat of their patrol.

I'm led to an interrogation room. Once again they ask for my identification. I flip the wallet to Robertson, then take a seat.

They can tear the wallet apart for all I care. They won't discover anything. Everything in it will tell them who I am, or, more accurately, who I've become. There isn't one scrap of information in it that links me to Blair Sandburg - not even a picture of Jim. I hadn't been allowed to keep any. They'd all been taken away from me as punishment for my stubbornness.

I place my elbows on the table, entwine my fingers together and rest my chin on them, knowing Banks is observing me from behind the wall of mirrors.

No doubt inquiries are being sent at this very moment to my former employers. While I would have preferred my supervisors not know I was back in Cascade, it won't really come as any big surprise to them that this is where I headed once I was granted my freedom. However, knowing and knowing are two different things and I resent having to show my hand.

I know I'm safe though. The information I have guarantees not only my freedom, but Jim's safety as well. If they thought Lee Brackett could play games, they know how ruthless Marcus Mallory is. They should. They created him.

I regulate my breathing even though I know there are no sentinels monitoring me. It never hurts to stay in practice.

Banks is, no doubt, pacing now, trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together. How does Jim know an operative? Does he know me from his black ops days? Am I trying to recruit Jim back into the show?

The door opens and Rafe walks in and sets my wallet on the table. I blink once in shock, but make no other movements. I watch as he takes me in. He's curious. It's apparent Banks hasn't informed him as to why I'm here. He smiles at me. "Here's your wallet, Mr. Mallory. It shouldn't be too much longer."

"I have an appointment in an hour and a half," I say casually, letting Banks know that I'm not going to let him yank me around all evening. "If I'm going to be here any longer than that, I'll need to make a phone call."

"It shouldn't be too much longer," he says apologetically. He seems to be expecting me to ask more questions. When I don't, he shrugs slightly and moves back out of the room.

I don't reach for the wallet until the door has closed. I slip the billfold into my back pocket and resume my position...giving Banks nothing.

Five more minutes pass and still nothing. I don't let any irritation show on my face for that will give Banks power over me. I wait as if I have all the time in the world.

The thought is no sooner out, and Henry comes sauntering into the room. "Would you like something to drink, Mr. Mallory?"

"No." I say simply, then add as an afterthought, "Thank you."

"Cool." He turns and leaves.

What is Banks up to? I know he's studying me. I can practically feel him vibrate with frustrated curiosity behind the one-way glass. But why has he sent in Brown and Rafe? It doesn't make any sense.

When the door opens again, I semi-expect Rhonda to come in, but it's not. Captain Simon Banks cuts an impressive figure, filling the doorway as he does.

I look at him casually.

I'm not impressed.

Banks may be a big fish in this pond, but if my time with the Agency has taught me anything it's that no matter how dangerous Cascade seems, it's really only a little pond in the grand scheme of things.

He moves with great deliberation toward the closest chair, pulling it out and sitting in it, positioning his hands exactly like mine before he comes to a full rest.

We sit like this for several minutes. I'm very amused. If he thinks he can out-wait me, he has another think coming. I have to admit though I can see where a tactic like this would work against a street thug. Banks exudes an aura of power that's rather impressive. However, I've out-stared Shafer, who regularly has men like Banks for breakfast.

As earlier predicted, Rhonda comes in and sets a small stack of papers in front of the captain. Her eyes nervously flicker toward me before she moves toward the door.

Simon lets out a slow breath, then makes a show of looking at the papers. I know what's on them. Hell, I wrote most of it myself.

He's struggling for an opening. He knows he has no cause to hold me and he knows that I know that little tidbit as well. I'm here out of professional courtesy and because if I don't nip this in the bud now, Banks will become a thorn in my side in the future.

"I wish to apologize for this morning," he says, finally.

I blink once. I wasn't expecting this tactic. But no matter. I shrug, my mask of indifference firmly in place.

"Jim is a trusted colleague and friend."

He looks at me as if he's waiting for me to say something. I raise an eyebrow, letting him know that I'm bored now.

I can practically see the steam escape from his ears. My apathy is frustrating him, but yet again, he hasn't really said anything to which I need to respond.

"Well, I won't keep you much longer, Mr. Mallory. I was just hoping you could clarify a few things for me."

I nod my head, expectantly.

"Have you ever seen this man before?" He takes a 3x5 picture from the inside pocket of his expensive Brooks Brothers suit jacket and tosses it on the table in front of me.

It's a picture of Blair Sandburg; glasses perched on the end of his nose and a slightly surprised look on his face, the beginnings of a smile forming as he looks into the camera. I have no memory of this particular picture being taken.

"Yes."

Banks is startled. It wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. "When?" he gasps.

"This morning, at Jim's place. He has pictures of this man all around the loft."

Simon slouches against the back of his chair. I've effectively derailed his line of questioning and he's having a hard time regrouping.

He tries to rally. "Have you ever seen him before today?"

I look down at the photo again. "Not that I recall." Looking Banks straight in the face, I ask, "Why?"

"He died a little over five years ago."

"I see. I'm sorry." I watch the captain's gaze drop to the picture. "So were he and Ellison lovers?" I ask for spite.

Banks' gaze pops up to my face. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug. "Pictures of the boy are all over Jim's home. You're doing a fairly good rendition of the 'you hurt him, you'll answer to me' song and dance. I just figured..." I deliberately let my sentence trail off.

Simon snorts once in amusement, but it fades quickly. "I suppose I am." He pulls the picture back across the table. "James Ellison is the best detective, hell, the best cop it has ever been my privilege to know. Since Sandburg's death...that's the name of the boy. Blair Sandburg. Since Blair's death, Jim has been a machine. Not in terms of his emotions, but in the way he approaches his job. He always gets his man."

I raise an eyebrow to indicate that he can continue if he wants.

"In the last five years...no, that's not quite correct. He was a mess for about three months, but since Blair's death, after he pulled his life back together, Jim has never taken a personal day, never voluntarily taken a holiday, although I have been successful from time to time in forcing him to take some leave."

Banks' gaze holds mine. "So you can imagine my curiosity when he calls in and asks for a personal day, with absolutely no warning."

I shrug, telling him it's an interesting tidbit, but I'm not sure how it affects me.

"Especially after he'd spent most of the previous day tailing a complete stranger."

Oh shit.

"So when I heard that said stranger pulled a gun on him, I wasn't too astonished. I wasn't happy, but not terribly surprised. What piqued my interest was hearing that Jim all but sexually assaulted this same stranger on the hood of the stranger's car in the middle of a deserted parking lot."

I blink. What the hell? There's no possible way he could know that and there's no way Jim told him. And if he knew this information this morning, he'd never have left the loft.

I blink again.

Megan.

Fuck.

I raise an eyebrow at the captain, but say nothing.

"What I'm curious about," Banks says with forced casualty as he leans forward and picks the picture off the table and taps it against his other hand, "and once you answer this one little question, I'll have the patrol officers take you back to the bookstore where they picked you up, is why you went to visit a fountain at Rainier University at two o'clock in the morning?"

Fuck. Me. Hard.

My throat is instantly dry, but I refuse to swallow, not wanting to give him any indication that he's got me.

He leans back in his chair, wordlessly gloating. I can all but see the canary feathers drifting from his mouth. "I have a theory," he says after several moments of silence.

I can't speak. Even if I wanted to, which I don't, I am incapable of speech.

"Want to hear it?" He makes a big show of looking at his watch. "I mean, after all, I have fifty more minutes until you're officially late for your appointment."

I breathe in through my nose, trying to keep from giving myself away, physically.

He takes my silence for acquiescence.

"I don't think Blair Sandburg is dead at all."

I return his stare with a nonchalance I don't feel.

"I can only imagine why Sandburg was taken or what he went through. What I want to know is how you got away?"

I jump to my feet. The chair skitters into the wall with a crash. Had Simon betrayed me? Were all my years of hell because he no longer had an abiding tolerance for a hyperactive, know-it-all, police observer?

"What?" I demand, my voice becoming as raw as it had been when Shafer destroyed my last picture of Jim.

Banks stands, but pales when I pull my automatic from the back of my pants and aim it at the center of his forehead.

"The price of betrayal is death," I hiss.

He freezes, trying to stand perfectly still, although his trembling body makes that impossible.

"Betrayal?" he finally asks in a strangled whisper.

"What did the Agency pay you to hand Sandburg over to them?"

"What," he shouts, but then drops his voice down to a whisper, "are you talking about?"

I catalogue his senses, his body's reactions -- a nifty trick that Jason taught me. He's terrified, that's a given. I look for signs of a lie, but find none. He simply asked the wrong question...or the right one depending on your point of view.

"Think, man," he pleads. "You're in the middle of a police station. You'll never get out of here in one piece."

A feral grin blossoms over my face. "You think not?"

Sweat beads on his forehead.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to regain some control over my emotions.

I walk around him, never lowering my weapon as I head toward the door. "This interview is over."

I holster the automatic and step into the hallway. I can hear Banks collapsing into his chair. I move resolutely toward the stairwell.

"Blair? Blair Sandburg?"

I stumble to a stop when I realize the hallway is blocked.

Joel Taggert stands looking at me as if he's seen a ghost, which I suppose he has.

I spin around, intent on heading for the other stairwell, but Megan is standing several feet behind me.

"Sandy? Sandy, it's you, isn't it?"

Simon braces himself in the doorway of the interrogation room, looking shaky, but recovering quickly.

This. Is. Not. Good.

I twist back toward Joel. The only way I'm getting out of here is to shove my way past everyone. Given my choices, I decide that Joel is the weakest link. But as I push past him, he reaches out and touches my shoulder.

I feel like I've been burned. I skitter to the opposite side of the hallway and bounce slightly off the wall. Before I can blink, I'm engulfed in a bear hug.

Joel sobs against my neck and shoulder. "Iknewyouweren'tdead. Iknewyouweren'tdead. Iknewyouweren'tdead."

The only way to free myself is to break his grip, but yet I can't find it within myself to harm this gentle man whose kindness to me often surpassed Jim's.

His entire frame is shaking with grief, with joy, and with about a hundred other emotions I can no longer name or recognize.

I feel the damn within me quiver and I force myself to shore it up quickly for if it breaks I will be destroyed. Practically against my will, my arms come up and gently hold the crying man. "Don't cry, Joel. Please don't cry."

But he weeps all the harder. "What did those bastards do to you? What did they do, Blair? I swear to God I'll hunt every last one of them down and kill them. I swear it on my soul."

I shush him softly. "There's no need, my friend. No need. They've already been dealt with."

Joel pulls back slightly, looks me in the face, then tenderly kisses my forehead. I hear Megan crying softly in the background. When I look up, I see Simon's tear streaked face as well.

"My son. My dear, sweet, precious son," Joel whispers hoarsely, his voice clogging with emotion as he hugs me tight again.

And in the face of his love, I am helpless. I can feel the tears burning down my cheeks.

Damn, that's twice in less than twenty-four hours.

"Move along. There's nothing to see here." I hear Simon's shaky voice shooing people away, trying to give us a few more moments of privacy.

I sigh quietly, knowing that we're making a spectacle of ourselves. Joel pulls back, but never releases my right hand. With the back of my left hand and wrist, I wipe my eyes. I see Brian and Henry standing behind Megan, looking confused.

Man, I'm glad Shafer isn't alive to see me like this.

I release a shaky breath. It's time to get out of here.

I open my mouth to speak just as Jim walks around the corner. He stops cold in his tracks, looking confused as he takes in the scene before him. It's his confusion that saves him. If I thought for a moment he was a part of this...

"What's...what's going on here?" he asks quietly, his eyes bouncing from Joel and me to Simon and Megan.

"When did you know?" Megan demands, angrily wiping the tears from her face.

I clear my throat. "She followed you yesterday," I tell Jim.

Jim's eyes widen. "Shit." They get bigger as the impact of that simple statement sinks into his thought process. He turns to face his boss and his partner and swallows hard. "For sure? Not until he stopped at the fountain last night."

Both Simon and Megan nod, apparently accepting his explanation.

"Jim," I rasp, my voice bordering on desperate. "I need to go home."

Jim immediately nods, which makes the others in the hallway frown.

I gently pat Joel's hand as I pull mine loose. I take a step back toward the stairwell.

"Blair?" Joel calls after me as I make my escape.

"Mallory," Simon says in a louder voice as I reach the stairs.

I stop my retreat and look back at him. "We're here, twenty-four/seven/three sixty-five. You're not alone anymore."

I can feel myself nodding, although it's the last thing I want to do. I don't want them thinking I'm coming back. I don't want them seeing this acquiescence for a weakness in my resolve. But right now, all I can think about is retreat. I slip into the stairwell and jog down the steps.

I don't know how long I've been running. I know the sun is cresting over the mountains, so it's been a while. Every time I think about stopping, the pain in my chest becomes overwhelming. Losing myself in the rhythm of my breathing, in the stretching of my muscles is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment.

Collin and I ran like this once, after a successful mission where the higher ups thought it wasn't worth the risk to pick us up. Like Greek messengers we ran, ran until all we knew was running, ran until someone caught us and told us it was okay to stop.

I shouldn't have gone back to Cascade. Should have left as soon as I realized that Jim thought I was dead. And yet, I continued to linger.

Why?

Because Blair wanted to be found. That's the only thing that makes sense. Even though he knew the consequences would be profound, I think Blair needed to see if he could go back to his old life if the opportunity presented itself.

Apparently, he can.

So why are we running?

Because if Blair goes back, where does that leave me?

If I had any breath, I'd laugh.

Who would have thought it? Marcus Mallory, wunderkind, super spy, master guide, is schizophrenic.

As much as Blair wants his old life back, he can't have it. He's only currently free because of my strength, my cunning. If the powers-that-be don't take him seriously, they'll come and take back what they believe they've created. He can't survive without Mallory. Shouldn't want to. There is no happily ever after in this life. Or at least, in mine.

//My son. My dear, sweet, precious son.//

Those words keep resounding in my head, burning my brain. Kind words such as these will never be spoken to Mallory. No one appreciates what I've done to protect Blair. No one understands. All they see are my scars, my hardness.

Who can love a cold-hearted bastard?

A dark shape appears in my line of vision. I blink hard, trying to clear my sight. I shake my head slightly. It looks like Jim.

As I draw closer I realize it is Jim.

He turns away from me and starts jogging in the direction I'm headed. When I reach him, he steps into my path, trying to squeeze me off the road. I try to speed up, but I have no reserves left. He bumps into me again, sending me careening off the road into a copse of trees.

I grab a nearby elm and try to maintain my balance.

The pain within my chest rises up to choke me.

Jim is once again in my line of sight. "Let it go, Mallory."

I shake my head. I can't let it go. Doesn't he understand that?

"I'll catch you."

"No," I rasp. "You'll catch Blair."

He blinks in confusion and I gasp, desperate for air. Now that I've stopped running, I can't seem to catch my breath.

Something passes over his face, although what I can only speculate.

"I love you."

I want to scream in rage. "No, you don't." My chest heaves frantically. "You don't even know who I am."

He takes a step closer to me. "Yes, I do."

I use both arms to shove him back when he steps too close.

"You're Marcus Mallory," he says with sudden assuredness. "You're Blair's protector. You're his strength and his cunning. Without you, he would have died."

"He did die," I spit out venomously.

"No, he didn't. You would never have allowed that, Marcus. His innocence, his purity means too much to you. You sacrificed too much to let him die."

"He can't have his life back, don't you understand?" I scream at him.

Jim nods. "Blair was never weak," he says reasonably.

My laughter borders on hysterical.

Jim steps closer again. "I love you, Marcus."

"You son of a bitch!" I swing at him, but he easily dodges my punch.

He uses my momentum to spin me into a tree, wrenching one of my arms behind my back.

"Be that as it may, I still love you."

I try to slam my head back into his face, but miss. "You love Blair."

"Yes, I do," he whispers into my ear. "But what I didn't realize before is that you're as much Blair as Blair is Marcus. I was wrong in trying to separate you."

I scream and try to push back, but he holds me in place.

"Let it go, Marcus. Let it all go. I'll catch you. I swear, I will."

"No," I sob. "I can't."

"You can."

"You don't understand. There won't be anything left if I let it go."

"You're wrong," he whispers. "You'll still be here when the storm dies. I promise you that, Marcus. And I'll be here as well. I swear to you, I'll be here."

Using the last of my strength, I break away from him and swing, aiming for his jaw, but he backs out of my reach.

"That's right, Marcus, show me what you're made of. Show me your strength," he taunts, dancing just outside my swings.

I try to knock the smug look off his face, but can't seem to connect. I try again and again, but never seem to get close enough.

Finally, I'm unable to lift my arms anymore. The first sob drops me to my knees, and I realize I'm not going to survive this devastation.

"Yes, you will," Jim reassures me, appearing as if by magic at my side.

Another sob has me curling forward, trying to protect my chest, my forehead all but pressing against the ground.

"You're stronger than you think you are, Marcus Mallory Sandburg."

Marcus Mallory Sandburg. Is that who I am now? Or who I'll be if I survive?

"Let go, Marcus. Let go."

The wail builds strong from within me, building to a crescendo until I can no longer keep it inside. I release it, flinging my head back as I scream to the heavens. My only consolation is that I can feel Jim's arms wrapped tightly around me. Having no other option, I let go of my rage and pray that Jim is strong enough to hold on to me.

"Easy. Just a sip. That's right."

"Wake up, Mallory. Come on. Open your eyes."

"I'm still here, Mallory. I'm not leaving you. I'll wait forever, if need be."

My mouth feels dry; that thought comes to me just a split second before the rest of my body reports in.

Damn, I feel like I've been worked over.

Where the fuck am I?

I open my eyes and focus on the gaudy picture in front of me.

A hotel. And a cheap one at that.

Okay, think, you idiot. Where are you?

I gasp as my memories return, threatening to choke me.

"Hey, there," a gentle voice says, drawing my attention outward again.

Jim.

I blink at him, unable to speak, although my mouth does open, trying.

Jim reaches for something outside of my sight, then shows me a glass of ice water. He places a straw to my lips. "Easy sips," he instructs.

I comply, my eyes never leaving his face as I suck in the much-needed moisture. He watches me, then carefully pulls the straw from my lips. I try to raise my hand to stop him, but nothing happens.

"You can have some more in a few minutes. I just don't want to shock your system too much."

I nod, letting him know I understand.

He's silent for several moments, just watching my face. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

I blink again, trying to process his apology.

"I wanted Blair back so bad that I failed to see that he had evolved."

I close my eyes, but open them when Jim tenderly caresses my cheek.

"You saw my need and tried to give him to me. God, what that must have cost you." He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "While Blair was strong, there's no way he could have survived the world of espionage with his soul intact. He had to change in order to endure. But what you failed to realize is that Marcus is not a separate entity from Blair; it's who you became."

Jim takes my right hand in his and places it over his heart. "And what I've discovered is that I love who you became just as much as I loved who you were. I love your strength, your courage, and the fact that your spirit still exists despite the hell you've been through. I'll admit that I don't know Marcus as well as I'd like, but I hope you'll allow me to get to know him...you better."

I gasp, a shaky breath escaping me.

"I love you, Marcus Sandburg."

Can Marcus and Blair survive as one? I shake my head. How can Jim possibly love who I've become?

He leans forward and brushes his lips over mine. "How can I not?"

And like a baby seeking nourishment, I seek his lips, desperate for what he's offering me. He deepens the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance to my mouth. I open, surrendering to him. And while Marcus Mallory submits to no man, Marcus Sandburg can yield his heart; can realize that by giving his love he is not a weaker man.

"Jim," I whisper, terrified of this new bend in the road.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers against my neck. "We can do this - together."

"Promise?" I ask, remembering his extracting the same vow from me what seems like a lifetime ago.

He smiles sweetly, obviously remembering the same conversation. "It's not going to be easy."

"Easy is for wimps," I throw back at him.

He chuckles, then bends down and kisses me with everything he has. I'm finally able to raise my arms and I clench the back of his shirt in my fists, holding him tightly against me.

When we break apart, both panting for air, I ask, "So, now what?"

He kisses my forehead and each of my eyebrows, before he answers. "So, now we go home."

Home.

I feel my bottom lip tremble. Home. Not just for Blair, but for Marcus as well. For the phoenix who rose out of the ashes of his world - reborn.

End Resurrection V: Confrontations by Dolimir: Dolimir@aol.com

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