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I passed my forepaws over my face briefly, trying to regain my wits, then settled them in my lap. The events of the past week, not to mention the past hour or so, were taking a toll. I couldn't blame it on lack of sleep; I'd been sleeping like a happy pup, cuddled up with a life-size plush who told me, with every word and gesture, that he wanted me to be there with him. Perhaps it was that which unsettled me most in my waking hours, but sleep, no, sleep was more peaceful than it had been in a very long time. I felt strangely guilty (although I wasn't sure what of) as I sat in the living room of the vicarage, feeling my heart, my conscience, and my own little-tended needs. Looking at my forepaws resting on my knees, it occurred to me again that a Dalmatian who takes the cloth is doomed to a lifetime of looking black and white, even when he deals with the myriad shades of gray in the real world.

It occurred to me that Fletcher was a beautiful ash-gray, with a heart that was anything but gray. Bruised and abused, it may have been, but it had been nothing but warm and needful toward me. And my own needs...

"Graham?"

Glancing up, I saw Wyatt looking at me with a mix of concern and mirth dancing in his dark eyes. I shook my head. "Talking was my idea, and then I clam up on you. Sorry."

"Ye looked t' be sortin' a few things. Care t' share wi' th' rest of th' class?"

"I was thinking about how tired I feel." I leaned back on the sofa, exhaling forcefully. "It's not for lack of sleep, which is also what I was thinking about. Fletcher still doesn't like sleeping alone. He hasn't said exactly why, but I wonder if he's afraid that his old Master might storm through the door and take him away from here."

The black Irish wolfhound looked at me, his brows down tight, ears splayed. "D'ye think that might have happened t' the pup?"

"Holy God, I hope not." I didn't cross myself, but as I always did when mentioning the Lord's name so casually, I kissed my knuckles and put my softly closed forepaw to my chest. It wasn't an expression of repentance for blasphemy, as I truly meant no sacrilege in such moments; it was simply my reminder that, if I'm asking for a little help or understanding, the request should be sincerely meant and properly acknowledged.

"Th' pup's in yer bed, t' feel safe. Does it sit well enou' wi' ye?"

I could only nod. "We're fully dressed, both of us; we just sleep. Nothing there to break my vows or worry my conscience."

"And yer heart?"

A little shiver ran through me. I caught my breath a little, and Wyatt didn't miss it. He put a forepaw to my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Yeah, that's getting a little ragged." I looked at him. "Thank you for stopping me from rushing in on Fletcher's comment about being loveable."

"Bit o' a minefield, enit? Language, I mean. You and I, we know what we mean t' say, but the yowen..." He paused. "Graham, I need ye t' hear what I'm sayin' here, 'cause it's gonna sound like a slap t' start, an' I don't mean it that. We dinna ken how old he is in body, but his mind has gone back a number o' years. From all ye've said, he's a dam' sight better now than afore, but he's still gonna take a lot o' things literal for a time yet. That's why ye want t' be talkin' t' me abou' love first. I think ye've a soft spot in tha' great canine heart o' yers, and I'd nae blame ye. Sometimes, 'need' is a bigger word than 'love'. So tell me now what yer feelin', an' don' hold back. Ye need this."

I nodded. Truth was that I needed to talk to Fletcher about it, but Wyatt was right: First, I needed to get sorted in my own head about what I was feeling and I really wanted. "How much did I tell you about Merrill?"

"Enou' fer me t' remember his name proper."

"Fair enough." I considered. "You're right that it's been a long time. I've been incumbent here for over three years, and seminary before that, and..." I swallowed. "It was six months after Merrill's death that I decided to take holy orders. So yes, a good number of years. Vows of celibacy can feel like a cruelty. I used to joke that the only way I could be celibate was if I could give it up for Lent."

The black Irish chuckled. "Ye still have things t' give up at Lent, but bein' C of E, ye needn't be chaste if'n yer married, have I got tha' right?"

"Faithful, but not necessarily chaste. And as I'm sure you know, there are plenty of clergy who have no issues with quiet little exceptions to the rule." I answered Wyatt's raised eyebrow with one of my own. "Do you want to know all my tawdry secrets?"

"Only if ye need t' see past 'em, Graham." He leaned back a little, as if to give me room. "We're talkin' abou' the yowen, an' we're talkin' abou' love, an' we're talkin' abou' yer own wants an' needs here. Ye have 'em, like th' rest o' us. Fergimmie if I'm steppin' outta line, but isna that what th' Savior came t' us fer? T' know wha' it's like..."

"...to be fallible, to be tempted, to be mortal." I nodded. "That's what we're told, and it makes some sort of sense, at least much of the time." I snorted a laugh. "From the church's view, God made us as we are: Imperfect, fallible, struggling to learn how to listen to those infamous 'better angels of our nature' that Lincoln told us about. And you know, I was reading an article from_The Guardian_ online about a book by that title, about how wars are supposedly becoming a thing of the past, and how that idea is so ridiculous that..."

A substantial clearing of the throat tore my attention away from the topic. Wyatt's eyebrow had arched well enough to become an architect's model for ornamentation on a new cathedral. I had the feeling that, were he a more cruel sort of Master, this would be his first indication of extreme displeasure with his slave.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"Ye must be scared summat fierce t' deflect that handily, lad."

I only nodded slowly.

"What're ye afraid of?"

"Wanting too much."

"What's 'too much' when it's at home?"

"Wyatt, it's been..." I turned there on the couch to face him, bringing one leg up. "I've broken my vow of celibacy once, and only once, since becoming ordained. It was with a comparative stranger, a college grad student who I met at an otherwise austere discussion of the finer points of the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas."

"Fergive me fer livin', but I've never read it."

"Don't hurt yourself by trying. The best stuff is quoted all over the Net, in easy, bite-sized bits. But there I sat, trying to stay awake as four eminently learned doctorates -- dust-covered and shrouded, I'd swear to it -- rattled in grim, fetid reverence about the scholarly equivalent of balletic angels and pin heads. The proud young elk sitting near me whispered that his antlers would fall off he had to sit through the whole scheduled day of these fusty talks. At the first break, he and I escaped first to a coffee bar, then to lunch, then to his rooms on campus. Our own conversation was lively and began with Aquinas specifically, then philosophy generally, then it changed gradually to other subjects less... abstract."

"That collar dinna put him off?"

"I was quite incognito that day." I felt myself blush from tip to toes. "It was a Thursday, and I more or less played hooky, since Mrs. Whitson wasn't in. I do have a few non-standard bits of clothing."

"Somethin' nae from th' company store, so t' say?" The black Irish chuckled softly. "No details wanted, Graham, save fer one: Was it what ye wanted?"

"In almost every way. His name was Philip, and he was intelligent, gentle, funny, affectionate... the whole checklist that we all pretend we don't have. I'll spare both of us the details, because neither of us needs such graphic imagery right now. The point is that we took the day together, and well into the evening. It wasn't some quickie in a tawdry back room somewhere. He was..." I groped for a word that wasn't a cliché, and I failed.

"An' ye didn't go back?"

"I was embarrassed. It's one thing for me, as a priest, to date someone without it becoming sexual. It's another to have spent so many hours with him, making such sweet love, and then telling him about my calling. To make it worse, he told me that was considering the seminary. He wanted to be an academic, at least in part; there are whole segments of the church dedicated to the intellectual studies, and he had researched it quite well. I was encouraging to him, supportive, never once telling him about myself." I looked down. "I lay with him, talking about the nobility of such a calling while still in the afterglow of an amazing afternoon of repeated lovemaking. And I felt like such a fraud. Everything about that day was magical, save for my being a hypocrite."

"D' ye want my two cents on't, or shall I keep me muzzle shut?"

"Raise the stakes and drop a dime on me." I smiled a little, trying to remember when a pay-phone call cost only a dime.

"Yer feelin's are yer own, but fer my money, ye were a dam' fool not t' keep seein' th' buck. E'en if ye had t' stop th' sexual part, he sounds like he was good f' yer. And ye coulda kept up th' naughty bits, since ye might as well be shot fer a sheep as a lamb." Wyatt's muzzle turned up in what I felt was a benevolent smirk. "Fergive a life o' livin' on th' edge o' whatever. I feel there's a diff'rence betwixt breakin' a vow and keepin' yerself whole. One's an act o' disobedience; t'other's an act o' survival."

"You're saying that it's okay to break the rules if I really feel like I need to?"

"Graham..." He sighed and reached out his forepaw to me. "Take it."

I did, and he folded both his forepaws around mine.

"D' ye feel that? Warm paws t' warm paws. And were we in a place 'n time where ye might know more, I'd nae have th' slightest desire t' stop us. It's what makes us alive, Graham. I'm nae tellin' ye t' be a wanton, but havin' none at all... tha's nea a bit natural."

I looked down as he released my paw. "It's a sacrifice we make, and it's a test of our resolve, not breaking a vow. We prove our strength by not simply giving in."

"An' where," the black Irish almost whispered, "does that leave yer heart?"

The sigh in my throat was cut off a bit by something like a sob. "It's a huge debate, over many centuries. The Anglican church wasn't founded only to let Henry VIII divorce Catherine of Aragon; there were a good many changes that took place over almost five centuries, most of them centered around making the church more accepting. I'm a gay priest, something that the church of Peter still doesn't speak of out loud. And yes, with gay marriage sanctioned in this church even before it became the law of the land, I could marry another male and live in connubial bliss till death us do part."

"So yer tellin' me there's hope fer a hungry heart?"

My eyes sought Wyatt's, as if trying to find an answer.

"Graham... dinna kid yersel'. Yer starvin'."

My voice came out a whisper. "Yes."

"Just how long ago was th' buck?"

"Little over a year. I didn't actually mark the date in my diary."

Wyatt was quiet for a bit. "Tha's a long time," he said at last. "An' here ye are."

"And here I am." I looked up at him. "Wyatt, I'm actually afraid. Not of Fletcher. He's... yes, he's gotten under my fur, and in record time. Maybe I just don't know exactly what I feel about him."

"Gimmie some words. Individual words. Tag a feelin' an' tell me th' word ye picked."

The instructions sounded weird to me, but something must have registered somewhere. "Protective" came out first. Then, "Warm." After a moment, "Needful. Hopeful." Several more seconds, and my brows crossed. "New."

The black Irish smiled enough to show a bit of teeth. "Nae a word I expected. Tellin' though, enit?"

"What does it mean?"

He leaned forward, still grinning. "Dare I hint a' th' term 'reborn', Father Graham?"

I considered for a long moment, wondering at the strange feeling that made itself known by that word. Considering my calling, the idea of rebirth was hardly new. In that strange part of my brain that runs with an idea until it's turned into a homily, I saw the idea of rebirth, of resurrection, as a metaphor for God's love. Renewal. Baptism being a birth of the spirit, reuniting with God. Choosing life. Choosing love.

Choose you.

The words echoed in my head, and I began to wonder if they held more meaning than I had first thought. I looked again to the wolfhound and realized that I was shedding a tear. "Wyatt... what do I do?"

"I canna tell ye that. It's yer own heart ye have t' listen to. What's it sayin'?"

"It's saying that I'm lonely. That I'm hungry for warmth I haven't known in over a year, and years before that, the warmth that was taken from me when Merrill died. It's saying that Fletcher is beautiful to me, and that he's loveable in every way, and that I want to love him, but more than anything else, I never want to hurt him. I never want any hurt to find him. He's had hurt enough for a lifetime. I want him to know the very best love that can find him, and I don't dare to think that I might be that love for him, and I don't know how to tell him all this. I don't know how..." I choked back my words, then finally finished in a rush. "I don't know how to reach him. How to love him the right way, a way we can both accept. How to just say how much I want him to feel safe and loved and needed and wanted and cared for and held and supported and everything good that sweet young pup deserves, everything good, everything..."

I bent over and all but fell into Wyatt's calming embrace, letting my eyes weep what words I couldn't say. It had been too long, far too long, and I had been so successful at holding it all back for so long. I'd never dared to admit to myself just how much that afternoon with Philip had meant to me, and how much I'd wished that I'd gone back to see him, and how I felt that I mustn't. Oh, the hours I spent in mental and spiritual self-flagellation, on my knees before the altar, trying to purge a guilt that I couldn't rid myself of, because the guilt wasn't in the acts of that most beautiful day but in my rejection of love. Yes, it was a single day, a single instance, but what we gave each other was so profound that I could very easily call it love... when I stopped being afraid of it.

Take this cup of suffering from me, Father, if it is your will, for your will be done, not mine. Suffering, yes, which is why it's called the passion of Jesus. Passion means suffering; it is the way by which one gets one's own soul through its suffering. It is why we speak of having a passion for something that we want and love so much that we put ourselves through whatever suffering we must endure to have it in our lives. The artist who starves in order to create his vision; the writer who turns down mere money so that his voice is always true; the intern who endures endless hours of work and learning to pursue becoming a healer; any one of us who wants to hold faith to his truest Self, of the Christ nature within each of us, of that bit of us that remembers how to be with God. How to be one with love. For that is the Will that is to be done.

I felt a forepaw touch the back of my head, and it took me a moment to realize that it wasn't Wyatt's. I sniffed hard, shifted, looked up. Cobalt blue eyes met mine, more calm than I'd ever seen them. Fletcher pet my headfur tenderly, smiled softly at me. "Choose you," he said.

No words came to me.

"Still learning," he all but whispered. "Leif told me things. Helped me remember things. Not all. A lot, though."

The pup knelt before me, not as a slave but simply to look at me from an easier level. His eyes never left mine, and I felt as if I could fall into them, willingly, and swim forever in the sweetness of his soul.

"Lot of talking to do. Leif told me. Feel he's right. Feel you're right too. Heard some of what you said. You want me to be safe. Feel safe with you. Want me to feel cared for." He reached his forepaw to touch my cheek so very gently. "Lot of words to get through. Not used to words. Not used to gentle." He paused again. "Leif said he and you and..." He looked tentatively to the black Irish, who nodded. "...and Wyatt. You'd teach me. Teach how to be me. You taught me first."

He leaned forward and took me into a gentle hug.

"Choose you."

I fell to my knees with him and hugged him to me as if never to let go.Your will, I prayed with all my heart and soul. Let this be Your loving will. Please, God, help me love this pup properly, whatever that may be. Don't let me hurt him. Don't let me hurt either of us.

To this very day, I will swear any oath you wish that I heard the most tender, most powerful, most love-filled voice I could ever have imagined, saying to me,Graham, my beloved child... shut up and hold him.

* * * * * * * * * *

Leif and Wyatt waited quietly until our embrace would finally allow others into our little world. The leopard, always one to care for whoever is in his realm, kindly reheated our mugs of chocolate, and we sat for a time to share them. Fletcher sat with me on the couch, close and warm, as Leif happily ensconced himself on his Master's lap. Conversation was sporadic -- we all knew just how much emotion had flowed through that room in the past hour or so -- but it was gentle, comfortable, and Fletcher even managed to contribute. I was ready to hang on his every word, which I tried to tell myself was because I was so glad to hear him speaking at all. Truth was that his voice, still a little rough, was music to my ears, and I welcomed every note.

When our guests took their leave, I hugged them both warmly, and I was particularly encouraged by Fletcher's doing the same, with only a little worry on his part. I was eager to learn what had transpired between him and Leif that brought about such a remarkable change, but it would have to wait a while longer. Mrs. Whitson had returned from her shopping, and Fletcher met her in the kitchen to help put things away. I usually assist, but this time, I stood to one side to see what the wolf pup might do. The red panda was pleased by the yowen's help, but she also was surprised to hear him ask softly, shyly, where something should go, to wonder what might be for supper. She cast a glance at me, smiling broadly, her eyebrows raised a little. I nodded, a promise that I'd explain when I could.

Mrs. Whitson's Wednesday night dinners were just shy of legendary. Only occasionally were they what one might call "fancy"; what they were always, however, was filling and plentiful. I sometimes think that she fears I'm too thin, or that I won't eat on Thursday, when she's not there to provide for me. There was always something left for the next day, to be warmed in a microwave or even reheated in the small but efficient European-style toaster oven that one of my parishioners had given to me (perhaps she, too, thinking I was in danger of wasting away to nothing). Trusting that I could make my own pasta on Thursday, she cooked up some of her magnificent home-grown spaghetti sauce, rife with mushrooms, four colors of bell peppers, Italian sausage, ground beef, and diced pepperoni. With Fletcher's diet getting better, Mrs. Whitson took the chance of preparing what is usually any yowen's favorite meal. She was pleased by the wolf pup's tail-wagging, and he tried to be calm during the meal, despite his obvious desire to dive muzzle-first into the steaming plate. He still was fearful about "doing things right," but no longer was it a fear of punishment as much as wanting to learn (or perhaps remember) how to behave well. He was a quick study, and it was easy for the red panda and me to praise his progress.

She didn't always take dinner with me, especially when I had some parish meeting to attend and would get back to my meal later than usual. Joking that she could never resist her own spaghetti sauce, she stayed; I think that she was just as excited by Fletcher's renewed vocabulary as I was, and the young wolf was happy to have her with us. I still wasn't sure what I would tell her about all that was spoken of today, but when she asked to say grace, then popped out with, "Fresh bread, good meat; sweet Lord, let's eat!" I figured things would work out all right. The wolf at our table barked a short laugh, saying, "Remember that! Heard as a pup. From friend, from sire's friend..." He stopped, his eyes closed in concentration. After a few moments, his shoulders slumped; he opened his eyes and looked tired. "Can't remember, can't..."

I put a gentle forepaw to his arm, smiled softly at him. "It's okay, Fletcher. I promise it's okay. I forget things all the time. Names can be really bad that way."

"I'm terrible with names," Mrs. Whitson allowed, twirling her spaghetti expertly on a spoon.

Fletcher nodded. I had the feeling that he wasn't entirely convinced, but he didn't want to say so. I wasn't at all sure if I could explain that neither the red panda nor I were outright lying to make him feel better. It was one of those complicated social things that we either learn growing up or fail to learn, and we have to deal with it as best we can. I didn't know how old Fletcher was chronologically, but Wyatt was right: In his own mind and experience, the little wolf was perhaps ten or twelve at this point. He was, however, starting to remember, and that gave me hope that everything else would follow.

After the meal, I insisted on doing the cleaning and tidying up, enlisting Fletcher's help. He looked steadily at Mrs. Whitset, saying, "My thank you," then nodding to the sink. "Like to help."

"You're a fine and wonderful pup, Fletcher," my housekeeper assured him with a smile. "I accept."

She left shortly after as the young wolf cleared the table carefully and set the dishes in the sink. He wasn't stupid, and running water and adding dish soap was both simple and something he'd see me and Mrs. Whitson do; it wasn't that he couldn't wash dishes on his own, but that he wanted to do it the right away... again, to please both me and Mrs. Whitson. At one level, I was concerned about this desire, as it could be a reflection of his subservience to his old Master. I took it on myself to show him that I saw his work as help and not as something expected. I stood next to him with a dish towel,one to wash and one to dry, and we were done in record time. He turned to hug me, grinning, as if we'd just played some game together and won it with ease. I hugged him back, realizing that it was the_together_part that was pleasing him so much. That, I felt, was as it should be.

It was still early in the evening, and after all that had happened today, I wasn't quite sure what to do. "Fletcher," I said, "I really do want to talk with you, and we can do that whenever you'd like. I did have an idea that might give us a little relaxation, though. I wanted to ask if you had any favorite shows or cartoons when you were little."

"Love cartoons!" he said enthusiastically. "Liked to watch with..."

His eyes clouded over, and he slumped a little as he stood. I put my arms around him and held him as he trembled, holding me close. I had a suspicion that I knew his next words would have been something like_my dam_ or even_my sibs,_ if he had any, or even my friends... if he had any. I felt a jab in my heart again, and I squeezed him as I spoke softly into his splayed ear. "Maybe we really should talk first. Where would you feel comfortable? Where shall we talk?"

"Just... with you."

I smiled softly. "I won't let go," I promised him. "I'll hold you."

Separating gently from him, I took his forepaw in mine and led him down the hall, intending to head toward the living room. Two things stopped me, the first being the thought that lights in the front room might be an invitation for someone to come visit, and the other being that I hadn't drawn the drapes. I'd no reason to be ashamed of being seen with Fletcher, but tongues like tails do wag.

"Let's stay back here," I said, taking him into my bedroom. "We won't be interrupted."

Fletcher smiled as he sat on the bed, and I sat down, putting my back to the wall, inviting him to come closer. He all but wrapped himself around my middle, and I pet his headfur tenderly. After a week of being with him in such close circumstances, it felt so warm and natural that I made myself take a step back, emotionally, just to be sure that I could speak clearly with him. In some ways, this was no less a counseling session than those I've had with near-strangers.

He rolled over a little, shifting so that he could look up into my face. The look in his eyes was alive, eager, happy, and his smile was so sweet that my heart almost burst with how good he looked. "Fletcher, I sure would like know what Leif said to you to make you look so happy. Can you tell me?"

"I'll try." He seemed almost to blush. "Still hard to talk."

"Is your throat sore? I have some lozenges..."

The pup laughed -- the first real laugh I'd ever heard from him, and how beautiful it sounded. "No, not sore. Just... haven't talked in so long. Kinda forgot how." He shook his head, still smiling. "Stupid."

"Not stupid," I said gently. "You're not stupid, and the idea isn't stupid either. You've had a long time without being allowed to use your mind, much less your voice."

His eyes clouded again, but he squeezed them shut for a moment, then opened them to me. Not as bright as before, but he didn't seem to slip away, as he'd done at other times. "Sorry. Memory from... maybe need word to call that time. Whatever it is, all past, can't hurt me now. That's part of what Leif told me. He said you not let me go back there, he and... Wyatt not let me get hurt again."

"We'll see to it, yowen." I smiled at him. "You had a puphood, and now you're going to become your own wolf, slowly but truly. So for that time, what if we just called it the Othertime. Would that work?"

The wolf considered carefully for several seconds before nodding. "Othertime. Yes. Okay, good. Othertime."

I pet his headfur again. "If I'd gone through something like that, Fletcher, I might not be ready to talk about it for a long time. I'm here to talk to, anytime you want, but I don't want to force anything, okay?"

He nodded. "Thank you. Leif said almost same. Said better talk than not talk. Take time. Said help, he'd help, and Wyatt too." He grinned a little nervously. "Call Master by name. Not my Master, but... take time."

"Yes, it will take some getting used to. And I don't know if I ever asked you to call me by my name, but I'd like for you to. You can call me Graham, if you like."

"Can't call you Master?"

I caught my breath as the little whelp looked at me and grinned. He'd made a joke! He'd joked about something that, a week ago, was his most hideous nightmare. I managed to grin back at him and hold up one finger before his eyes, slowly and very gently tapping his muzzle, the merest whisper. He continued smiling, so I added what I thought: "That will be the most painful and most cruel punishment I will ever inflict upon you, you silly pup!"

Uncertainty flashed across his features in a split second before his smile returned. "Joke?" he asked softly.

"Joke," I confirmed. "And Fletcher, if I ever say anything that hurts you or doesn't seem right, I want you to tell me, okay? I can promise that I don't mean to hurt you, but if I do something by accident, I won't know unless you tell me."

He nodded a little. "Talk. I'll try." He nodded with more certainty and emphasized the word. "I'll try."

"Wonderful." I smiled, hoped that I didn't sound over-enthusiastic. I had a lot to learn. "What else did Leif tell you?"

"Lots." He grinned again. "Want everything?"

"Anything you feel is important."

"All," he said softly. "All important. 'Cept you, no one told me so much. No one in Othertime talked to me." The wolf must have seen my expression fall; he reached up to touch my cheek. "It's okay. This is Nowtime." He smiled a little. "New word."

"I like it."

"Me too." He wriggled a little in my lap. "I didn't hurt, did I?"

My brows crossed.

"Joke. Call you Master."

I shook my head, smiling. "No. Didn't hurt."

"Do you think... you ever want...?"

The flash of panic that shot through me was met with the fastest, most desperate, most sincere begging for help that I ever sent to God. I reached down to the wolf's face and touched his cheek tenderly. "I will always tell you the truth, Fletcher, the very best truth that I know, always. The answer is yes, I would want you. I don't know if I could ever be a Master, but I would want to love you. And..." I swallowed, remembering the Wyatt using the saying about being shot for a sheep as a lamb. "I don't know how."

For a long moment, I looked into the pup's eyes, begging for understanding, from him or from myself, either way. He looked back at me steadily, as if weighing what I'd said. I wished him luck, as I'd more years than he, and I still didn't fully understand.

"Heard you," he said at last. "I heard you say you wanted me to feel loved and safe and lots more. Already feel that with you." He considered a little longer. "Leif said something, don't quite understand. Asked what I thought love was." The wolf looked down, then back up at me. "No such thing in Othertime. Remember feeling safe, cared for, as a pup. Maybe I'm still a pup. I don't understand a lot."

I managed a small smile. "Being grown up doesn't mean that you understand everything. There's a lot I still don't know."

"More than me." The smile reflected softly on his lips as he looked at me. "Leif said... I will need to relearn what love is. He said that love is a very big feeling, and it makes you feel bigger. Hold inside, he said, and then you can give it away and still have it." He paused. "Trying to understand."

"That might take a lifetime, Fletcher." I pet his headfur softly. "But it's a worthwhile lifetime."

He seemed satisfied with this answer. "Asked Leif about Wyatt, being good Master. Asked what they did together. I mean..." Another pause; he pulled himself together to explain himself. "He asked what my... what happened to me in Othertime. Was told never to talk about it. Leif said he wouldn't tell. Guess M..." He stopped himself, made another new word. "OtherMaster... won't find out. Don't even know where he... But I told Leif about what OtherMaster did, what his friends did." His ears splayed, his tail flicked in agitation. "Hurt. Lot of things hurt."

I felt myself on the verge of crying, imagining what the young innocent might have suffered, and I again found myself wishing the most unholy of tortures upon his torturers. I tried to stop such thoughts, such feelings, to let judgment be in the paws of Someone Greater, but I couldn't help myself. I must have sobbed, made some sound, because I felt Fletcher again grab me around my middle and squeeze me tightly.

"Othertime," he said, almost into my belly. "Over. Done. Can't hurt me anymore. Don't let hurt you..."

I pet him, whispered his name, did my best not to cry. So strong, so very strong, this sweet pup. Stronger than me, I thought, in that moment at least. "I'll try, pup. I'll try not to let it hurt me. It's in the past now. In Othertime. It can stay there."

Fletcher released me, rolled back to look at me again, those cobalt blue eyes never wavering. "Not everything hurt. Sometimes... not OtherMaster, but sometimes others..." He sought words. "Leif talked about things he and Wyatt did. Master-slave. Master-pet. They did things together. Things like others did, but wanted it. Even did to each other, but always wanted. He said you would explain. Or said, I would understand better if..."

I nodded a little. "Leif is right. You were forced to do things, and some things hurt, physically hurt, and more than that, they were against your will. The people you did those things with weren't..." I found myself talking in circles, not being clear. "Leif and Wyatt love each other, and they give themselves to each other. Neither of them takes from the other, against their will. They allow, and they give, and they share their love. It's the difference... well, to me, at least, it's the difference from mere sex and making love."

"Making...?"

Petting him softly, I let my lips sketch a smile. "It will take time to understand, sweet pup. But Leif is right. It's very different when that kind of touch is wanted."

"Do you... want?"

He looked at me, such innocence, such caring. It was, so far, a simple idea for him. No one could demand his touch anymore, nor force their touch upon him. This was a safe place for him, and the question on his mind was, how could touch be wanted? What it did it mean, what did it feel like to want to touch, to want to be touched? And the question on my mind was, what if this were another trap, taking advantage of his wanting to please me? I wasn't his Master, and I did love him, or I was well on the road to it. But how could I... this wasn't like Philip, although I don't know much Fletcher understood what it meant to have taken a vow of celibacy...

Help me, I prayed.

"Fletcher," I said softly, "I promised you the truth. Yes, I do want. Because I care about you, and because you are beautiful to me, and because I would love to share that kind of love with you. Right now, my lovely wolf, I'm worried that I might be taking advantage of you. Do you understand that phrase? For someone to take advantage?" He looked doubtful, and I continued. "It's when someone gets what they want by tricking you, or maybe by making you think something that isn't true. It's doing something that could hurt you. You're still discovering yourself, pup, and I'm afraid that you might not be ready to make this kind of choice."

"Choose you," he echoed, smiling softly. "And I want. But not... Is this like false choices?"

"More like choices that may be too soon. Choices we may not be ready for."

He considered again. "Love me the right way. Heard you say. Is there wrong way?"

"More like wrong reasons." I shifted just a little, and the wolf moved with me, sitting up next to me, leaning into my shoulder. "Fletcher, do you remember why I said that it was important to me that we wear clothes when we sleep together."

More nodding. "So Mrs. Whitson wouldn't think we were... doing something?"

"Yes. Those somethings that had hurt you in Othertime. I didn't want her to think that, because she knows how abused... how hurt you've been, and she might have worried that I had hurt you in the same way."

"Why would she think that? She likes you."

"She does, and she likes you, too. She brings us both tea now, and it's partly because she knows that I've been treating you properly. That I haven't hurt you. If she found us stripped to the fur, she might wonder, because she might think I was... well, loving you in a way that might be wrong for now. Maybe later, things could be different, but right now, it's important that I take very special care with you. To love you the right way for what you want and need right now. And there's another reason."

He looked up at me, and I risked cupping his cheek softly.

"I'm not sure if I could stop myself. Not from hurting you, but from wanting to... to touch you, with all the love in my heart, but it might not seem that way. If I tried to do things to you, with you, so soon after Othertime, it might not be right for you. You might still think that you had no choice, that you couldn't say no, if you wanted to. You might be afraid that, if you didn't want me back, I would throw you out."

"You wouldn't do that."

"No, Fletcher, I wouldn't. I would never do that. But OtherMaster did that, or something like that, and I didn't want to take even the chance that you might feel that way. I care about how you feel. Maybe that's one definition of what love is."

Those beautiful, cobalt blue eyes looked so deeply into me that I almost didn't feel his forepaw to my chest. "I care how you feel too. Are you hurt?"

"Not by you." I shook my head, smiling. "Nothing about you hurts me."

"Not even your want?"

"Not even my want."

He considered a little longer. "Maybe... maybe I want too...?"

"Maybe," I allowed. "How about this: When you feel more sure about what you want, you can tell me. I'll always be here for you, Fletcher, and there's always time to talk. I'll make time for you."

"Because you... love me."

"Yes."

"The right way."

"Yes."

Again, he considered. "Still learning," he said and smiled.

"Plenty of time for that," I nodded. "For both of us."

After another long pause, he asked, "Do you do all that stuff too?"

I wasn't sure I'd ever stop laughing.

...to be continued