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If you ask the average fur on the street (or library, or wherever), few would say that their favorite morning of the week is Thursday. Personally, I love it; it's my day of the week to sleep in, and I usually avoid making appointments on Thursdays. As Mrs. Whitson's day off, Thursday allows me to be a little lazy (usually, at least), for she, bearing hot tea to start my day, is my best alarm clock. I've avoided the raucous jangle or harsh buzzing of the usual bedside alarm clock, preferring to let a little morning light, peeking around the window curtains, to rouse me slowly and peacefully. This particular Thursday morning was an odd mixture. Fletcher was curled up close against me, which is one of the most beautiful feelings I have ever had the privilege to know. The positive emotion was marred by a touch of fear, as I realized that we were for the first time stripped to the fur together, and because I felt him trembling with what felt like sobbing.

"Fletcher?" I whispered softly. He tried to move away from me, and I pulled him back to me, worried that he might be having some sort of nightmare. I shushed quietly, gently. "I've got you, Fletcher. It's okay; you're safe."

He bent his chin down to his chest, and I could hear his sobbing increase. Clearly, he was awake. I thought to wait a moment, simply holding him, reaching with my other forepaw to pet his headfur tenderly.

"It's okay, whatever it is. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." I remembered something he'd told me only the week before. "Do you want to look at me?"

He shook his head frantically.

I squeezed him close again. "It's okay. I'm here. We can talk when you're ready. Just let it out. I've got you."

This wasn't the first time that he had cried in my presence, but it was unquestionably the most fearful, meaning fear-filled. Without his words, my mind was left to its own terrible imaginings -- possibly memories of pains or tortures suffered in Othertime, as we'd grown to call it. I would be more than willing to bet that all of us have experienced the awful sensation of wanting to comfort someone who is crying or in pain, yet we're unable to provide any substantial comfort because the person can't communicate with us. It is a particularly helpless feeling, more so when it's someone we love.

I cast a quick prayer upward and held the young wolf close to me, murmuring what comfort I could, waiting for him to give me some indication of what had made him cry so terribly. It took what felt like several minutes before I finally heard the word_hurt._

"What hurts, Fletcher?"

Another pause. "Hurt you," he hiccoughed. "Don't want to hurt you."

Responses tumbled over each other in my brain, some denying his emotions (poor choice), some denying his fear (perhaps worse). "I know," I finally managed. "And I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose. Can you tell me what you are afraid might hurt me? Maybe we can talk about it..."

"I can't... I know we can't... not right, don't want to hurt..."

Placing one forepaw flat to the pup's chest, above his heart, I whispered softly, "Talk with me, Fletcher, please. I love you, and I want to help. Let me help you."

His breath ragged beneath my palm, he reached up to cover my forepaw with his own and pressed it against him. I nuzzled the thick fur around his neck, hoping to reassure him. Slowly then, he began to move my paw further down his chest, onto his flat belly. I caught my breath, trapped between several thoughts and emotions, none of them offering a good choice. Before I could think clearly, he had moved my paw down to feel the hardness that protruded from his sheath, and I heard the whimpering moan that wove its way into his sob.

"Sorry," he panted, "sorry, sorry, sorry..."

* * * * * * * * * *

"What in th' name o' God did ye do?"

"Apart from mentally invoking the name of God, to beg for help?"

Wyatt leaned forward in his chair as I sat on the couch, desperately trying to reconcile my own emotions about all that had happened. Fletcher had gone with Leif back to his room, and the two of them were talking, or at least I hoped that they were. I paused long enough to take a deep breath, casting yet another prayer of thanks for Wyatt and Leif being such good friends as to come to our mutual rescue. The leopard had come home from an all-night shift at the hospital, and the black Irish wolfhound scrounged up some sort of help from somewhere to cover at least part of his own shift at the library. They had insisted that they come to the vicarage immediately upon receiving my call and hearing at least part of what had happened.

I shook my head as Wyatt let me gather myself. "It was my own fault," I said. "I should have insisted that we put on our shorts and shirts before sleep, but we'd spent so much time before, so innocently, so close, that it just didn't occur to me..."

"Graham, yer losin' the thread here." The wolfhound's voice held the softest of edges. "Ye need t' tell me what happened. That's what ye called us fer, eh?"

Nodding quickly, I plunged back into the tale. "I had almost no time to think about it. All I knew was that I had to stay calm and not overreact; the poor pup's already been through enough torture over his body and his sexuality." I took a slight detour to mention the talk that Fletcher and I had last night, and Wyatt nodded.

"I hate t' fall back on, 'I've a book for ye,' but truth an' all, it's probably th' best. Proper pictures, writing made fer the adolescent fur who's wonderin' what's happenin' to 'im."

"I'll take you up on that." I took another slow breath, let myself remember. "We made something of a start this morning, I suppose. Truth is, I felt as if I were trying to navigate a mine field..."

* * * * * * * * * *

Fletcher made no other move beyond holding my forepaw in place. His entire body trembled, though from fear or desire, I couldn't say. I was in no better condition, emotionally; it had been a little over a year since my tryst with Philip, longer still since Merrill had been taken from me, and there was no question that I was in love with this young wolf.Too young. In all likelihood, much too young, and I was putting us both in danger. Yet I felt that I would put him in greater danger if I reacted badly; I could destroy our trust, hurt the progress he'd made, make him doubt that I loved him.

"Fletcher," I said as softly as I could. "Can you tell me why you say you're sorry?"

"Not supposed to, you told me, I know, not supposed to..." His words stopped with a sob.

"Not supposed to do what, Fletcher?"

"Not... touch." I felt him shake once through. "Not like that."

I swallowed, hoping he didn't hear me do so. "You have strong feelings," I tried. "And those feelings make it difficult to know what's best to do. Can you tell me what you're feeling, Fletcher?"

"Scared." He hiccoughed again, tried to regain himself. "Want... touch. Not supposed to touch."

Neither of us had moved, and I was very much aware that his condition had, for lack of a word, worsened. "Do you think you can talk about it?" I made no move to take away my forepaw or in any way indicate that I was trying to pull away from him. He would have to make the decision, and I would have to hope that I could guide that decision properly.

Fletcher struggled for some seconds with the idea. "Afraid to move."

"Can you tell me why?"

"Feels... not supposed to feel good. Bad, this is bad..."

"No, Fletcher. Not bad. It's not bad, and it's not wrong. This is Nowtime. You're safe. You're feeling something new here. Remember that we talked about feelings? And we can talk more. Tell me what you're feeling."

The little wolf (although I began to question my use of the word, an observation made from something between fascination and hysteria) took a deep breath, which was encouraging -- he was remembering what Leif had told him, and his mind was returning to him. "I'm... not sure of words. Maybe... I should let you go."

I didn't move. "How does that idea feel?"

"Hurts."

"Then let's stay where we are."

"Hurts you."

"Not like you think, Fletcher. I'm concerned for you, and I want to make sure you're all right. I promise you, I'll be okay. Let's talk about you. What are you feeling?"

Quiet from the wolf for a time; I could sense him fighting for words. "Like we talked about last night. 'Male stuff.' Thinking about Othertime, and how..." He swallowed. "Sometimes, I'd be touched... like this... and it felt good. Something would happen, and it felt good. But I wasn't supposed to let myself... not touch myself..."

"I think I understand. Do you feel that you must not touch yourself?"

A quick nod. "Would wake up with... or would become... when someone else touched me, and my... my penis would..." He managed to glance back over his shoulder at me. "Graham. What is this? Why do I feel like this? It's not Othertime. Why here? Why now?"

"It's okay," I shushed gently. "I know you're feeling scared, but this isn't about Othertime. It's completely normal, Fletcher. Do you remember talking to Leif, about what he and Wyatt do together? It's because it gives them pleasure. They make each other happy. They're happy in other ways, too, just as he told you. This way, this way that you're feeling right now... this is about how our bodies react. It's how adult bodies react. Do you remember this happening in puphood?"

He seemed to struggle with the idea. "Don't remember much yet, but... no, not like this."

"These feelings start when we begin to grow into adults. It happens to all males, and when it starts to happen, it helps to have someone to talk to about it, to explain. I'll do that, Fletcher. I'll tell you all about it, later. Explanations later. For now, just know that it's normal to respond to touching yourself... touching your penis like this. It's private," I added gently, "but it's not shameful, and it's not wrong."

The wolf tried to nod a little. "I like having your paw there," he almost whispered. "But we're not supposed to. You and me. Not supposed to."

"That's what we're told."

"Because I'm too young."

"According to the laws. The rules."

He considered, linking thoughts and ideas; I could almost hear them clicking into place. "That's what you were trying to describe that first night. You said... 'underage', that was the word. I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but it seemed important to you at the time, so I kept my muzzle shut." He squirmed, and our paws shifted dangerously. He puffed out something like a moan, then quieted again. "OtherMaster wasn't supposed to... he broke the rules."

"Yes."

"Because I was too young?"

"Yes. And also because you didn't want it. He forced you to do things, to have things done to you. No one is allowed to force you into these things. That's wrong, whatever your age."

He paused again. "I'm still too young?"

I swallowed hard. "We don't know how old you are, do we?"

"No," he agreed without enthusiasm. After a long moment, he asked softly, "Does it make a difference if I say that I want this? That I want you?"

"It does to me, but... not according to the rules."

He considered again. "And if we break the rules, I might not be able to stay with you."

"That's possible," I admitted. My heart was pounding. Surely, he heard it...

"Graham, do you want me? I mean... do you want this?"

"No secrets from you," I whimpered softly. "Yes. Yes, I do want you, Fletcher." I closed my eyes and begged forgiveness for a sin only partly committed, for a lust all too passionately felt, for breaking the forgive-me-Lord goddamned mortal-made rules that seemed to want to destroy what little love there might be in our own world.

"Don't want to hurt you." I could hear the tears in Fletcher's voice as he moved my forepaw back up to his chest and held it there. "Hurt you worse if we couldn't be together." He bent his head down and nuzzled at my paw. "Still hurts, but don't want to hurt worse."

I pressed myself against him, my face nuzzling down into the ruff of his neck, and I let the tears fall. He gripped my arm, whining softly, matching my sounds with his own.

* * * * * * * * * *

My face was buried in my forepaws, and I barely noticed that Wyatt had gotten up to sit beside me, holding me in a side-to-side hug. I leaned against him, grateful for the support. He rested his cheek against my head and whispered, "I canna guess how difficult that must ha' been for ye. Yer a far better dog than I, Graham."

"Really? How much better, when I wanted to take that pup as my lover this morning?"

"And ye didn't, did ye?"

"But I wanted to. Intentions. We shall be judged by our intentions more than our actions."

I felt him shake me, hard. "Crap!" he said, sharply. "If tha's true, then why give alms to th' poor, food to th' hungry, aid to th' injured? It should be eno' tha ye_wanted_ to, innit tha' yer sayin'? 'Oh, but Lord, I intended t' help 'em; I just dinna do't.' Is tha' wha' yer callin' is abou'? If'n ye think that, I'll quit ye here an' now!"

Stunned, I turned to face him, still more stunned by the look in his flaming eyes.

"Just you listen t' me, Reverend Graham Darden." He spoke every word firmly, his brogue nearly vanishing in the cadence of a male brooking no argument. "Ye've a pup in that other room whose life_you_ saved, and whose mind, body, and soul_you_ are guardin' against every earthly evil that ye c'n face down._You_fought against yer own needs, sacrificin' _your_heart no less than that bloke on the cross, an' don't think I'm blasphemin', because there's all kinda sufferin' in this best o' all possible worlds, an' I'd challenge the Great Sire in th' Sky t' prove otherwise. Ye want God's Truth, Graham? If He's half th' feller He's braggin' about bein', that truth is Love, an' nothin' less. And what_you did_this morning was an act o' love, an _act_more powerful than a lesser dog coulda done, an' that might even include me, an' ye know what a fine opinion I have of meself!"

I was still too shocked to be able to laugh, from relief or hysteria, take your choice, but I could feel the shift trying to happen. "Is this what a life of unrepentant sin has done for you?" I asked, the trace of a smile working its way onto my lips. "Preaching to your ordained betters?"

"Nah," he dismissed easily. "I'm Irish; got me practice in lecturin' t' me own priests 'til they gave up tryin' t' boot th' Catholic up m' bum."

"You did not just go there!" I grinned.

"Got yer smile back, din' I?" The wolfhound cupped my face in both forepaws and kissed my forehead with a loud smack. "Graham, bless yer spotted hide..._when_will ye be givin' yerself a break?"

"Depends on where -- arms, legs, or neck." I held up a forestalling paw before he could offer me another extremely mild example of his Irish temper. "Wyatt, just what kind of break are you suggesting? I don't see a lot of options here. I love Fletcher, and I never want to hurt him. Even if I broke my vows again, perhaps even with Philip if he'd have me back after how I'd treated him, I worry about how Fletcher would feel about it. Perhaps someday, if he still wanted me, he and I might decide to marry, and that would prevent the issues regarding my vows; however, it would require that he reach the age of majority, not merely consent, because he'll be my ward until at least that time. If we were to do anything before that, I could lose my collar, my freedom, and worst of all, Fletcher. I'd be just as guilty as OtherMaster."

Wyatt's muzzle screwed up, appearing to be ready to explode with some particularly juicy epithet, and I could sense him resisting the temptation to strike something, anything, even if mildly. He was not a dangerously violent dog; even at his worst, he kept punches to inanimate objects like footballs or gym bags, although he could blister the air with scorching language that would shame certain loose-lipped comedians and challenge dragons to a fire-breathing contest. He gathered himself as best he could, eventually uttering a single, softly-spoken word: "Applesauce."

"What does--"

"Keep yer muzzle shut a minute afore I break out th' full glory of me vocabulary!" He tried to keep his tone light, but I could see in his eyes that he was still furious. "Graham, I love ye, but if ye ever say agin that yer anythin' like as bad as that double-cursed waste of fur that hurt Fletcher so--"

"I didn't say that. I said I'd be just as guilty. Not as bad. As guilty."

The black Irish stared for a moment, blinked, then fell back against the back of the sofa putting a forepaw to his head. "What th' bloody hell sort o' world have we done t' oursel's?"

It wasn't a question for answering, and even if it were, the answer certainly didn't present itself to me. It was quite the pretty conundrum: He who had hurt Fletcher so terribly was likely never to be found and punished, and I who loved him could be tried and convicted for loving him "the wrong way". Robert Frost had said that "Earth's the right place for love", but all too often, I found myself wondering if it were true.

Wyatt heaved a great sigh and leaned forward again. "Ri' then. Graham, ask yersel' how ye feel abou' all these restrictions on ye. Yer vows are one set; th' question o' Fletcher's age, another; an' th' question o' how yer guardianship enters into this, tha' makes three. All o' that feels t' be in conflict wi' yer love fer the pup. Tha's nay summat yer gonna have a quick answer fer, but I think tha's what's wantin' lookin' at. I'll help all I can, if ye want tuppence from a dedicated auld sinner like meself."

"Looking for loopholes?"

"Summat like, aye." The wolfhound grinned, his ears twitching mischievously. "From what yer tellin' me, I think th' pup's love dinna be confined t' just a yowen's role."

"But he is a yowen, Wyatt."

"Nay entirely, Graham, and tha's wha' yer feelin' fer 'im. Or mebbe I should say, feelin'from him." He leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. "He's lost his puphood, though some may come back to 'im in time. He dinna get t' travel th' best path; he's spent what's likely t' be years in Hell, an it's nae his doin', but t'is what he's been given. An' he's tryin' t' make some sense o' wha' he's escaped from, an' wha' he's escaped to. That, me sainted reverend, is where lies th' conundrum. His body's been violated, forced into its adulthood in terrible ways, while his mind stayed as much th' pup as he could hang on to; that was how he stayed alive. Now, both mind an' body are safe, an' they're tryin' t' catch up t' each other. Yer the guardian o' his heart, along wi' all else. Tha's what ye proved this mornin', an' tha's wha' hurts." He sighed softly. "Helluva world, when doin't th' right thing hurts."

"I'm supposed to have some kind of pithy, ready-made comment or mini-homily on the tip of my tongue for occasions like this. Holy people are thought of as happiness dispensers, or forgiveness machines. Step right up, folks -- dispensations printed while you wait." I shook my head. "That was how things were, way back when, and it still holds today. You'd be amazed how many people think they can buy their way out of Hell by paying money to the church, mostly likely with ill-gotten gains. The robber barons broke backs, families, and dreams, all for their own profit, then helped build churches for the poor to gather for funerals and Sunday prayers, begging for mercy on bended knees and crushed spirits."

I felt Wyatt's forepaw on my shoulder again. "That wasn't you," he said softly. "Not e'en in past lives, if ye credit such things."

"Think I've got enough trouble with the present one, thanks all the same." I kissed the knuckles of my softly-closed forepaw and placed it to my chest, casting up a brief evocation that I remember to be grateful, either because of or in spite of my righteous indignation. It would not serve me, nor Fletcher, to bury myself in anger. The most difficult time to "think positive" is when we most need to do it. "About the most positive thing I can think to say, at the moment, is something that our lawyer friend said: No good deed goes unpunished." I shook my head again, hoping I was clearing the way for better thoughts than the ones I was currently playing host to. I chuckled a little. "I call it the 'rulebook', because so many think that all the answers are in there. Even the Talmud doesn't have all the answers, although a good rabbinical scholar can probably find something that might fit."

"Are ye sayin' we need t' call in a rabbi?"

"You really think I'd want the poor wolf to face up to a bris at this point?"

The wolfhound grimaced and put a forepaw to his crotch, crossing his legs. "I'll pass on th' honor, thank ye kindly."

I managed a chuckle, then noticed Wyatt's expression change slightly. A look in his eye told me that something had occurred to him, but I'd no idea what it could be. "Graham," he said softly, "c'n ye tell me how ye learned abou' -- as me charmin' pet put it -- 'male stuff'?"

The question actually took me by surprise. I blinked, trying to remember. "A little in what they called Health Class, but not much about specifics. My parents were, to use a term, 'shy' about such things. Of course, there was always that one male who somehow knew everything, while the rest of us were trying to figure it out." I frowned. "Hated gym class."

"Ye knew that far back, did ye?" The wolfhound chuckled. "Took me a bit longer, but that' dinna mean I liked gym class any better. I started out like a lot of us, hearin' things, wonderin' abou' things, wakin' up with th' Beatles..."

I blinked, uncomprehending.

"Norwegian Wood."

"Should have guessed."

"I had an older brother t' fall back on, an' a younger t' look after, then came our sister, poor wee lass, who beat us all senseless at hoops. Jump shot like a flippin' kangaroo."

"I was an only child. Had a friend I could talk to, and we..." I broke off, partly because the memory was embarrassing, and partly because I was starting to understand at least part of what he was trying to tell me. Just before I could ask the question, he raised a finger and got out his cell phone. A speed-dialed number, a brief conversation, and he smiled at me.

"When we're done here, I'll go fetch it for ye. What happens after tha' is betwixt you and th' pup."

I swallowed, remembering the observation -- false, in this case -- that those who can't do, teach.

Leif and Fletcher looked in on us about that time. It was clear that the leopard needed his rest, but he looked happy for all that. The young wolf came over to me, sat next to me on the sofa, and offered me a gentle yet powerful hug, which I returned gratefully. When the yowen pulled back, he looked into my eyes with a confidence he hadn't had before. "Leif needs to go home and sleep," he said. "Wyatt probably needs to go back to work, too."

"And you and I haven't had much to eat today, so I think maybe an early lunch?" There was more certainty in my voice than I felt, but as Kurt Vonnegut told us, we are what we pretend to be.

"And we can talk." Fletcher looked from me to Wyatt, to Leif. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," Leif said. "Both of you. And if I know my Master as I do, there's a book in your future."

"Ye know me all too well, little 'un," the wolfhound grinned, rising. "I think we've got our schedules cut out fer us."

Our guests hugged us both in parting, Wyatt promising to be back within the hour. When they left, I got a proper hug from Fletcher, and we stayed together for some little time. As I held him, I again cast my thoughts upward, asking help from Anyone Who Could Hear Me, wanting to know how to stop hurting us both. This time, unfortunately, I didn't hear any Voice From On High telling me what to do next, so I had to improvise. I took the choice of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup with the good croutons. Fletcher was quite enthusiastic about the idea, so I chalked up having done at least one thing right today.

At the kitchen table, we told each other a lot about our separate talks, and I mentioned that Wyatt would be bringing a book by soon. I didn't know the title of it, so instead, I told him what it was about. The wolf blushed a little, saying that Leif had talked him through a lot of things.

"I didn't know that it can just happen," Fletcher said softly. "I didn't know... I mean, I feel kinda stupid about -- no, wait." He held up a forepaw. "Know what you're gonna say. Leif said it too. Had no one to teach me, so I didn't know what to do, what was happening. Learning now."

"Always good to learn." I sat back in my chair for a moment. "That's a strange thing, isn't it? How we're so quick to call ourselves 'stupid' when we just haven't learned something yet."

"Learning." The young wolf seemed to taste the word for a moment. "Sometimes, we read; sometimes, someone teaches; sometimes, things happen." He closed his eyes and breathed the way Leif had taught him. "Had a lot happen."

"Yes." I reached for his forepaw. "And nothing to compare it with. To learn, we have to take what we know and add to it. All that happened..." Squeezing his paw gently, I said, "Forgive me if I'm bringing up too much bad memory."

He opened his eyes, and those beautiful cobalt blue orbs gazed softly at me, his lips smiling. "Got to remember sometime. You help. You keep me safe."

"Always, lovely wolf. Always."

A few minutes later, Wyatt delivered the book that he'd mentioned to me earlier, then left us to go back to his work. I showed the cover to Fletcher, who nodded. "Leif told me about this. We talked a lot about what's in it."

I smiled at him. "It's not The Phantom Tollbooth, but maybe you could read to me instead."

With something between a laugh and a giggle, the wolf took me by the forepaw and led us back to my room. We took up our positions on the bed, sitting side by side, and this time, it was Fletcher who had the book in his lap, ready to read. Class was now in session, and happily, between Leif's earlier discussion and the book's well-designed presentation, I felt no embarrassment in helping the young wolf understand the mechanics of what his body was going through. The drawings were anatomically correct, with representative pictures of a good number of species, and they weren't shy about the physiology. The only discomfort I felt was the sensation of Fletcher's occasional squirms. After the first few, I asked him about it.

"I've seen some of this," he said. His voice betrayed little emotion, which surprised me. He pointed to the drawing of a feline penis and said simply, "OtherMaster." The lupine, vulpine, and canine were similar enough that he could recognize them from himself, but the comments he made led me to think that he had seen examples for himself. We had discovered, by accident, that the feline he called "OtherMaster" had invited others to indulge themselves with Fletcher on occasion, apparently for cash. I hugged him gently to my side, and we closed the book for a while.

"How are you feeling now?"

"I'm..." He squirmed again. He looked down, embarrassed. "Not sure what words..."

"What words do you want to use?"

After a long pause, he said, "I'm hard."

I nodded, careful not to smile too much for fear he'd think I was laughing at him. It was a common enough term, after all, especially for an adolescent. "Leif talked to you about that. I'll talk about it too, if you want."

"You... I mean, I know you do too... you're male, adult, so your body does it to, Leif said, but..." He looked at me wrestling with an idea. "You have to... do it for yourself... Leif tried to explain that, because you're not supposed to have anyone else... because of being a priest."

I nodded. "It means different things to different people." I smiled a little more. "You'd think there would be one definition, wouldn't you? But yes, Fletcher, I do sometimes 'paw off'."

Clearly, he recognized the phrase. "And it feels good."

"Yes."

A pause. "Graham, I want to..."

I gave his shoulders a squeeze. "I can leave you alone--"

"No, please, I..." He looked up at me. "Should I be scared? I feel scared. When it happened Othertime, had strange... weird things happening sometimes, because I was... or someone else was..." He turned toward me, wrapped his arms around me, his head to my chest. "Don't want to hurt you, I'm just..."

Understanding dawned as I pet his head tenderly, holding him close to me. Somewhere in my fevered brain, some frenzied Dalmatian accountant desperately tried to add up how I could figure out just how to help the young wolf without bending, if not outright breaking, every rule, vow, law, and trust that I had taken on. There were subtleties of language that Fletcher might not understand, at least not yet, so words weren't something I could rely upon. I wasn't even sure that I could rely upon them myself; the old adage that the Devil can quote scripture to his advantage was the basis for a lot of folk not trusting debate, since words can be twisted any way we want. What could I trust?

That was, I thought, a strange thing for a priest to feel.

My forepaw still touching his long, soft, ash-gray headfur, I knew what I had to do, what I wanted to do, and I knew that there would have to be words at some point, but not now. Right now, just as Wyatt had said to me, I had a heart, a spirit, to save.

It was my habit to lock up the vicarage whether I'm in it or not, and I'd been even more careful with Fletcher in the house, for his safety as well as my own reputation. I squeezed him tightly to me and whispered into his ear, "Do you still want to, Fletcher?"

He nodded against me.

"And you don't want to be alone."

Cringing a little, he shook his head ever so slightly.

"Will you trust me?"

"Mustn't hurt you..."

Tenderly, I shushed him. "You won't hurt me. And you're allowed to touch your own penis. It's private, but not wrong, not bad. Some of the rules say I'm not supposed to touch you there, but I'm not going to do that."

After a long moment, he moved away from me enough to look into my eyes. Without a word, he begged me for help, for instruction. In that moment, my only regret was that I had not yet discovered if he had ever experienced a loving kiss. Had I been able to provide one, perhaps it might have taken the fear and worry from his face.

"Fletcher," I whispered, "let's go back to how we were this morning." His eyes registered fear, and I gripped his shoulders gently. "Trust me. Please. Trust me."

I separated from him slowly, gently, and stood next to the bed. It wasn't until I had removed the shirt and collar that he began removing his own clothing. He turned away from me when he took off his pants and let them fall next to the bed. I wanted to make sure that it was merely shyness and not some command from OtherMaster. "Fletcher, would you say my name, please?"

"Graham." He still faced away from me.

"And who are you?"

Three seconds of hesitation, and I saw the muscles in his back begin to relax. "I'm Fletcher.I'm Fletcher."

I slid onto the bed behind him and took him into my arms. I lay back, not entirely on my side, pressing him against me, his nervous tail shifting against my legs. My forepaws pressed flat against his chest, and I could feel his breath catch. I nuzzled his ear a little, kept my eyes on his head. "I'm here with you, Fletcher. Are you still hard?"

"Yes," he breathed out heavily. "What do I... how... do I just..."

His arm shifted, and I could sense him reaching for himself. A grunt told me all I needed to know. I continued just to hold him, to be with him in this moment of exploration. I had worried what I might think, might feel, how my body would react. What I felt was love, protectiveness. Although it would be a short step toward arousal myself, something in me knew that this wasn't about me, and I let my thoughts be only about loving Fletcher as best I could.

The wolf trembled against me, and I could feel the muscles in his arm guiding his forepaw to help him take what nature offered him. I whispered a soft_Yes_into his ear as his breathing quickened into little gasps. His legs shifted, straining, one hindpaw digging at the sheets, the other leg kicking up over mine. Little whines of desperate need escaped his tightly-closed maw; fear and doubt, perhaps even unpleasant memories, were being pushed aside as he reached for the sensations he somehow knew were just ahead. Again, I whispered_Yes,_ and then Yes, Fletcher, and the whining grew more desperate. His free forepaw reached up to grip my arm tightly, his other moving more franticly, and I pressed him against me as he barked out one sharp note before the long, ecstatic whine could be heard and felt all through his twitching body.

I held him, tethered his body so that his mind and spirit could return at their leisure. I rested my muzzle in the crook of his neck, feeling and hearing his rapid breathing, my nose recognizing and celebrating the scent of young wolf that hung in the air. I closed my eyes, feeling the electrical ecstasy around me, through me, the yowen's body feeling so warm, still trembling, reassembling his mind from the myriad pieces into which the moment had shattered it. Without physical sight, I saw light, I_felt_ light, felt spirit, heard the beating of Fletcher's heart, of my heart, of brilliant white wings...

No words. No thought. The wolf beginning to calm again. The release of consciousness for us both. No words. No...

One word.

The Word.

Love.