Disclaimer: The words are mine, mostly. The characters and concepts belong to PetFly. Do not try dropping this story from the top of a skyscraper, I won't be responsible for the consequences.

Related Episode: Dead Drop

References to: Switchman, Debt, Love and Guns, The Rig.

Also includes a reference to my previous story, Peru.

A line is quoted from Robert Frost, "Fire and Ice"

A freely falling object accelerates at the rate of 9.8 meters per second squared.

Gravity. Nobody has explained it, it just is.

It's one of the basic forces of this universe, one of the constant unfailing laws of nature.

An object dropped from a point above the ground will accelerate at the rate of 9.8 meters per second squared. Unless something stops it, intervenes to break its fall.

Damn it, Chief, you would just have to be on that elevator, wouldn't you.

Each second, each additional moment, you accelerate. Exponentially.

Five seconds, and you drop more than 120 meters, your speed nearly 50 meters per second.

More than that...

Five seconds.

God.

You sit there, crouched on the floor of the closed elevator. Your expression is grim, but you are calm and composed. Your eyes flicker up to the security camera, your eyes search for mine across the space, across the gap, knowing that I am here, that I am seeing your eyes, watching you, as you reach unseeing, unfeeling, into the artificial eyes of the camera. You see me in your mind's eye. You know I will do everything possible to get you out of there safe. Trust. Confidence. Determination. Your glance conveys it all.

Before you started tagging around with me, the worst that could happen to you at the university was a paper cut. Now you are no stranger to danger, more seasoned than many veteran cops. You turn away and start talking to the other hostages in the elevator. Your voice is even, the underlining tension kept tightly reigned in. You exude calmness and confidence. You are clearly in command, in control of the situation, even though you have no overt authority.

Is it me or is Cascade the most dangerous city in America?

You have been through how many tight spots now, with me, because of me, despite me?

One of these days, I'm going to lose you, aren't I?

One of these days, my best won't be enough.

Just not today. Oh no. Not today.

Your eyes are closed. Your lips clenched in concentration. You move against me, soft and gentle, each thrust a tender caress. I draw my legs around you, pulling you closer to me, pulling you tight against me. I fold my arms around you, letting my hand slip into your hair, tuck your head against my neck, bury my face in the mass of your curls. I feel your pulse through every single inch of skin where our bodies touch, feel the course of every single drop of sweat that pours off your body. I am surrounded by you, buried in you, held by you in this moment.

You sigh softly, nuzzling my throat. You nip delicately at my ear, then push yourself up slightly and gaze down into my eyes. You smile, shyly and gently. Your hand cups my face reverently, suffused with secret wonder, with quiet delight.

And I am falling, falling, falling into you, falling endlessly, falling free, pulled into you, drawn into you, into the siren call of your soul, inevitable and inexplicable as gravity.

The phone rings.

I listen numbly as Simon tries to convince Galileo to give us more time. My stomach sinks as I realize he's been watching us, monitoring our every move, every word. My mind works automatically, figuring out ways to cut him off, cataloguing his abilities, his skills, his knowledge, shifting for clues to his location, identity, purpose, motive, trying to predict his next likely move. I don't like what I come up with. I look on with a growing sense of foreboding as Simon and Wilkenson argue about whether to give in to Galileo's demands.

When the phone rings for the second time, I know, with a sickening certainty, what's going to happen.

Ice flows through my clenched fingers. Bitter-green bile courses through my stomach and erupts in the back of my throat.

Even as I hear the grind of the brakes releasing, the elevator is moving, shifting, speeding downward, 9.8 meters per second per second.

My heart stops.

Your body flies up, losing touch with the floor dropping beneath you. For an indefinable moment, both forever and a blink of an eye, you float, suspended, free from the grasp of gravity, and then the brakes slam back on with a sickening screech, the car screams to a halt, and gravity slams back in, slamming you back onto the floor in a tangle of too many limbs and heads and bodies, jerking from the shock of contact, of being brought so quickly and violently back to the realm of gravity, and then everything is still. Too still.

"Blair!" I shout into the mike, "You all right?"

You don't move.

Damn.

"Sandburg!" I try again, "Can you hear me?"

Finally, the masses of limbs and bodies start moving, disentangling from each other with groans and moans of varying degree of distress and complaint.

"Yeah, I'm all right, I'm all right," you mutter, as you gingerly push yourself off the floor, rubbing a sore spot on your head, where it hit the floor. You barely give yourself time to get your bearings before crawling toward the moaning woman, reaching her side just as the maintenance guy announces that her ankle is broken. You work quickly and efficiently to make her comfortable, the guy helping her to sit up against a corner while you prop up her leg and cover her with a jacket.

Confident. Calm. Caring without condescension.

There is no partner more dependable than you in times of crisis, no companion more passionate and compassionate, no counsellor more wise in the nuances of the human heart, no advocate more unswervingly emphatic.

You turn to the camera, your eyes steel, your voice indignant, your body burning with fury.

You ream out Wilkenson, chiding his lack of humanity, demanding that he act to resolve the situation.

It's not that simple, and you know it. Giving in to the demands doesn't guarantee that you will get out of there, and you know it. But it's the not trying, not even trying, that galls you, that has your fire going.

Surveillance equipment all around the building is being shut off even now, leaving only the single set of mike and camera operational in the hijacked elevator, leaving us blind and deaf, even us we take away the eyes and ears from this nutjob. Who calls yet again to boast that he is Galileo. He wrote the book on falling bodies.

Falling bodies. Well, what if there were no bodies to fall?

With one last word to Wilkenson to find the money or else, I leave. I hear him ask Simon what the hell's the matter with me, and hear Simon growl back, "That's his partner in there."

That's our Simon.

And I'm not going to lose you, not today. My best will be good enough, for today.

This guy has his bases covered, I give him that. His methods may be insane, but there's order behind his madness. As I expected, there is no easy way to get the hostages out of the elevator without alerting the guy. Or to disable the remote he's using to control the car. But the guy can't drop something that can't fall, can he?

Fortunately the SWAT team has welding equipment. I get onto the elevator in the next shaft with the SWAT team welder, and we climb up onto the elevator roof. As our elevator nears yours, I reach out with my hearing, trying to gauge what's going on inside.

I miss your steady warmth next to me, your centering hand on my back, or my arm. Without you I feel empty, the space next to me unnaturally cold and vacant. Even when you are still and quiet, I'm keenly aware of you, your heartbeat and your breath, the heat of your skin, the earthy scent of your body, the rustle of your clothes, the shift of air accompanying the slightest of your movements. It's a comfort, a luxury, an untoward bit of self-indulgence, to have you besides me. It's not like I need you with me on a regular basis. You are like the emergency cash I know you carry around in your wallet. It makes me feel safe and secure having you with me, even if in actuality I need you rarely. I'm so used to it now, having the space next to me filled by you. Your place is here, with me, not trapped in that damn box, where I can't see or feel or smell or taste you.

Voices waft down toward me. As I begin shifting the sounds, trying to make out what is being said, a word jumps out at me. Pregnant. Who's pregnant?

"Hello? Mr. Wilkenson? Did you hear that?" Your voice rings out. "She's pregnant."

The daughter. She's pregnant. Great.

I don't need to check with Simon to know that this bit of news isn't likely to change Wilkenson's mind. He's a tough nut, that one. I almost admire him for sticking to his principles. Well, sticking up to your principles is well and fine, as long as you do it with your own life. He's got nerve playing around with other people's lives. With your life. And now another one. Just great.

Our elevator is now in position. I signal the SWAT guy to start welding. As the welder springs to life, I flinch at the noise it makes. Shit, that will be heard inside the elevator. Is the security mike sensitive enough to pick up the sound?

I slush the SWAT guy and call you on the cell phone. Your voice is steady, but the strain is telling on you. You are holding it together, mostly for the sake of the other hostages, for me, and for yourself. You know too well by now that letting yourself fall apart in a situation like this doesn't help anybody.

Briefly, I tell you what we are trying to do, and to try not to let Galileo onto what we are doing. You agree, and the SWAT guy continues welding. But you can't effectively communicate to the other hostages to not pay attention to the noises outside. They start getting antsy, so I slush the SWAT guy again.

"Blair," I say when I have you on the phone again, "make some noise. Just for a few minutes."

"What -- how -- Jim!" you protest, but my attention is on the welder, trying to figure out how we could possibly manipulate it to make less noise. Inside the elevator, I hear you rummaging around in your backpack. Then pen scratching on paper. Silence, as I picture you holding up your notepad to the others. Then your voice starts singing, "Stuck in an elevator, this really sucks, Hey macarena!" Your voice is off-key, betraying the strain you're under, but as the other hostages join in, and start dancing, the commotion is enough to cover the welding.

We're almost done welding the elevator onto one shaft, when Simon calls. Shit. The guy is onto us. Simon tells me he says to check the top of the elevator. I look up with dread, knowing, with a sickening certainty what I am likely to find there.

Inside the elevator, the dancing has stopped, and the hostages are now arguing, berating the poor Wilkenson daughter to call her father. I wince in sympathy. Having an old man like that just sucks.

I stare grimly at the packet of C-4 on the roof of your elevator, contemplating that you and I keep having close encounters with these darn things too often, too many times. One of these days, one of these packets is going to blow up in our face. If this blows up now, it will take us both. The thought makes me strangely calm. I hunch down next to the bomb, eyes automatically scanning the wires, half-listening to Simon telling you to open the briefcase in the elevator. If that's another bomb... Well, the word "overkill" comes to mind. Part of my mind starts figuring which personnel are absolutely essential to keep inside the building, and how to get the other people out of the range of this bomb with a minimum of hassle. When you reach for the briefcase and drags it toward you, complaining about its weight, I hold my breath, and listen. What if it's not another bomb? What if it's something else... Something that could kill you, while I sit, a few feet above you, helpless to do anything, except to listen to you die? The click of the briefcase latches feels like knives lancing through my nerves. I hear the snap of the lid being opened, and...

I expel my breath, recognizing the steady ticking of a timer. It is another bomb. Inside the elevator, the hostages groan in dismay. I hear you curse under your breath. But at least we are still here. At least we still have a fighting chance to beat this thing.

The car shudders as the brakes are released with a resounding click. It clings to the one shaft that it's been welded to, shaking violently. Swearing, I grab onto the fastenings on the roof of the car, just as the welding gives. And then the whole car lurches, and I hold on for dear life, as the world drops out from under me. I'm thrown into the void, rushing through space, falling, violently and uncontrollably, the screams of the hostages piercing my body, and you, you are falling, falling, falling, your agonized yell resounding through my soul, and I'm right with you, desperately clinging, reaching, searching for you, and you are there, and not there; here, and not here; with me, and not.

And I'm slammed back into myself, suddenly and violently alone in my body, the car screeching to a stop as violently as it began falling, the wind knocked out of my lungs, my guts twisted into a thousand knots, every inch of my body battered against the elevator roof, and I can feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing, smell and taste only my fear.

Slowly I uncurl myself and force myself to take a deep breath.

And your voice floats out from inside the car.

"Are you okay?"

Okay. I'm okay. You're okay. I can hear the bodies shifting beneath me, the muffled moans and rustling of clothes, various body parts brushing one another as the hostages struggle to pull themselves up. The woman with the broken ankle is whimpering in pain.

Simon's voice booms into my ear, startling me. I tell him I'm all right, and listen in as he barks orders at the other men. So Galileo was in the utility room. Must know this building inside out, like the palm of his own hand, to evade the sweep searches. If it wasn't certain before, it's certain now that it's an inside job.

The other elevator descends slowly to my level, as Simon tells me he'll meet me down here. Inside the elevator, you and the maintenance guy are doing your best to make the hurt woman comfortable. Your voice is soft and soothing as you murmur reassurances to the woman. Your hand rubs gentle, calming caresses over the fabric of her clothes. She moans softly, shifting uneasily. Her hair slides along the elevator wall. I swallow hard, jaws clenching. My hand balls into a tight fist.

You gasp as I enter you, your body trembles in shock. You would fall if I did not tighten my arms around you and hold you close, lift you up and hold you to me. You whimper from the pain and shock, but I need you, I need this. You are hot and tight around me, the inner walls of your rectum twitching as they try to expand, try to relax, try to accommodate the foreign intrusion. And I can't find a voice to soothe you, or will my hands to rub calming caresses over your heated skin. I can only hold you tight against my body, lost in you, lost without you, my world is spinning out of control and coming to a standstill, here, inside you, here, you in my arms, and you take a deep gasping breath as your body finally relaxes, and I have to move -- have to move, have to make you mine and me yours and I am in you and you are whimpering and you aren't hard and I fucking don't care and I am close and I am almost there and almost there and almost and almost and and and we are falling both falling you pulling me me pulling you us pulling us and

The other elevator comes to a halt next to yours. I step over, climb through the hatch, and walk out through the opening doors.

It's a relief to hear that Wilkenson's finally come around, and is getting the money wired. We are discussing the pros and cons of shutting off the power when I hear it. Power drill. From somewhere above us. I don't even try to focus on it to pinpoint the location, I know I can't do it without you. A power drill -- this guy's trying to get into something. But what? What's in a building like this that you need a power drill to open, some kind of safe?

I gesture to Simon to move away from the others. We walk into the stairwell. I tell him about what I'm hearing, and he insists that all the floors has been searched. Yeah. So was the utility room. I tell him I'll call him when I get there and start climbing the stairs.

I grasp the railing, using it to propel myself upwards. The metal, cool and smooth, glides against my hand. Grab, up, up up, grab, and turn. Grab, up, up up, grab, and turn. The power goes out. The ambivalent buzzing of the myriad of equipments in the building dies down, and silence wells up in its absence. Grab, up, up up, grab, and turn. Up, up, up, up, and turn. Up, up and turn. Up and turn. Up and turn. Up, up, up, up, up.

You smile. Your face tilts toward me, eyes shining bright with merriment. I take in the plates of food laid out before me, my lips twitching into a sarcastic smile. Your face breaks into a delighted grin as you speed right past my shallowly raised shield, your laughter rolling right over my lackluster defense. I make a big show of grumbling as I sit down, unaccountably pleased by how it amuses you.

Your heart is pumping, your breath coming in a hard fast rhythm, your feet thumping on the stairs as you hurtle up, and you are turning the corner, and running down the hall, and I open the door and step out into the hallway and you run right into my arms, and we are both laughing, and you are just happy to see me and happy to be home and happy to be in my arms and just happy, and that power drill is getting closer and suddenly I think that your elevator hasn't dropped, a quick glance at my watch confirms it, and I don't like this, I don't like this, what is this guy doing with that power drill? What if he wanted us to cut power?

I hail Simon and tell him as much. In any case there's nothing to be done until I find this guy. I keep pounding up the stairs, listening to the buzz of the drill getting closer, wondering how much time is left on that timer on that bomb sitting next to you inside that elevator, but it's no use to wonder so I just keep going and going and going.

You got to get out of there now, there's a bomb. It's going off in three minutes. Please, Chief, get off that rig, now. But you ask me where the bomb is, and you rush out, and it's too far, I can't hear you. I imagine you running through the narrow corridors, rushing down the stairs, down down down down away from me, away, away, away. I stare at the rig as time runs out, frozen, my body, my whole self, my very being turned into ice, counting down to the moment my world shatters, blowing up all over the ocean in a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar of sound.

* Some say the world will end in fire; Some say in ice. *

Your body writhes against me. I hold you down, pressing you into the sheets. I spread out over you, melding every possible inch of my body to yours. I tuck my face into the hollow between your neck and shoulder, heady from the combined smell of our bodies, luxuriating in the soft gentle tickle of the curls of your hair, needing nothing more, wanting nothing more, than for this moment to stretch on forever.

The power drill's closer now. I hear snatches of voices, indistinct, too far to make out, but unmistakably two voices, raised, are they arguing? The drilling stops. They are arguing.

The crackle of gunshot resonates down the stairway, echoing off the walls, ringing through the strangely silent hollow of the darkened building.

Shit. I speed up, even as I call Simon to let him know. He tells me that the perp is Frank Rachins, the slime who married Wilkenson's daughter. Some kind of wire-head, knows computers and mutinitions. Oh, wait, was the daughter in on this? If so, how was he getting her off that thing, and when? But I have no time to spare further thoughts on this, I have to get to Rachins. Simon offers backup. I refuse. A single man has a better chance of surprising this guy, and in any case there's no time to wait for the backup, no time, time's running out, running out, running.

Blair. You stand before me, in that ridiculous doctor's coat, holding out a card to me. You walked into that room, looking for your sentinel. What did you find? I walked into that dingy excuse for an office, looking for an answer to my out-of-whack senses. What did I find? What did we find?

Your face, flush with excitement. You bounce, your arms swinging wildly, words spilling rapidly over each other out of your mouth. Minute tremors course through your body, but you are oblivious, caught in the grip of the adrenaline rush. I smile indulgently, breath a silent prayer of relief that no bullet found you, and take the car keys out of your hand. You follow me to the car, still bouncing, whooping like a maniac.

When we got home, you puked your guts out.

God, why couldn't this have been in a shorter building?

And Simon is on the mike, telling me the perp is on the 37th floor, bullion exchange. And even as I dash up the last few flights to that level, I know it's you. You've done it again, you've come through, you got the daughter to talk.

The power drill is buzzing again. On the 37th floor, just like Simon said. I push against the door from the stairwell, but it doesn't budge. Shit, it's bolted shut.

The roof. That's my only chance.

O, lord, don't take you away from me, don't take you away from me, not today. Just not today.

Not today.

I burst onto the roof, my heart pounding, my breath wheezing through my mouth. I look around wildly, madly, for something, anything, to get me down, down to the 37th floor, down to you, to that lunatic holding you, holding your life in his hands. What did he know of what he so wantonly destroyed?

I spot the cable, run over, grab it, and pull it with me to the edge of the roof. I can't stop to wonder how much time you have, we have, while I quickly rig a harness. I lower myself over the edge, rappelling down along the outer walls of the building. I get to the 37th floor, take out my gun, shoot out the window, and swing in. I just have time to get the harness off me, and notice the explosives attached to the bars of the exchange vault, when I feel a gun next to my head.

So this must be Rachins, the great Galileo.

I toss my gun, distract him with small talk, and kick his gun away.

The ferocity of his attack surprises me. He's slight, but his moves are fast and accurate. I find myself backed up against the broken window, straining to hold him off as he tries his best to push me all the way out. Must every single criminal who turns up in Cascade be as good or better than a fully trained military officer at hand-to-hand combat? I draw my strength together, concentrating, focusing inward like you taught me to, and shove him off me.

We scramble toward the gun. I get there first. Even as I train it on him, Rachins holds up a small flat black object in his hand. I don't need the guy on the floor to tell me what it is.

Your life. He holds it. In his hand.

Slowly I put the gun down.

Then I ask him about his wife. His face contorts into an ugly leer as he contemptuously boasts that there is more than one way to get a divorce.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guy on the floor reach for a gun that has somehow ended up by him. For one second, I'm not sure who he's going to use it on, then he squeezes the trigger, and Rachins' body jerks as the bullet finds his leg. Before I can grab him, he recovers his grip on the detonator.

I extend my hand, reaching for it, reaching for you. His finger moves to cover the button. I reach for you, but you are too far, you are moving away from me, the finger twitches, the button moves, down down down down click, and then there is silence, the moment stretches, forever and a second, and then the heat and the roar tremble through the steel and concrete of the building, washing over me, overtaking me, ripping through the core of my soul, goring out a deep hollow vacuum where I used to be, and I'm holding something in my hand, gripping it too tight, but I don't know what it is. Everything is white, and you are here and you are not here and there is light and it is dark and my ears are ringing and I'm not hearing anything.

You. You. You. There's only you, there's only you, you are laughing and reaching out for me, you smile shyly as I ruffle your hair, you stare me down with those big blue eyes, your face crunches in concentration as you try to make out the scrawls in a final, you pull me down and cradle me against your chest, your hands caressing me with infinite tenderness. "I love you," you say.

I never told you enough that I love you. Oh, Chief. Never never enough. You love to hear me say it, and I never could say it enough. You look at me so pleased and so delighted when I say it, and it's not enough, not enough, not enough to say what I mean, what I feel, what I am.

Blair. Blair blair blairblairblair. Chief. Don't do this to me, don't take you away from me, give you back to me, oh, Blair, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseple

Somebody moans.

I blink. Rachins is limp, his face pale, his breath almost nonexistent. I frown at my hands wrapped around his throat. I don't know how they got there, what they are doing there. The moaning continues, off to the side. I turn toward the sound, and there's that guy on the floor, I can see the blood on the floor. Rachins. Shot. This. Guy. My brain tells me. He shot Rachins, I remember.

It takes me a while to recall how to detach my hands from Rachins' throat. I drag myself over to the other guy's side, watch my hands deftly examine the guy's injury, rip up the guy's shirt, and make a make-shift bandage over the wound. There's a noise in my ear, scratching, insistent, persisting.

"...alive. Goddamnit, Jim! They are alive, they are all right! Jim! Are you there? Answer me! Jim? Ellison! Are you all right!?"

I swallow. It takes me several tries to find my voice. "Simon?"

"Jim! Thank god! What's your status?"

But my mind is blank. What had he said? What had I heard? My voice trembles as I force the words out, syllable by shaking syllable. "Wha-wha-what 'd you say?"

"What? Oh, they are alive, they are okay. Sandburg managed to get the bomb off the elevator before it went off."

You. You did it. Saved yourself. Again. You came through. Again. Alive. You are alive.

You are here.

I take a deep breath, then can't expel it as it chokes in my throat, turning into a strangled noise that then explodes back into my chest. I start coughing, struggling to breath. Simon's voice asks if I'm all right. I start to nod my head before I realize he can't see me. It's only after I take a couple of deep, racking, sobbing breathes that I'm finally able to tell him I'm fine.

I finish tying the bandage in place on the guy I've been working on, and move back to check on Rachins, while telling Simon that I need paramedics up here. I listen to Simon bark instructions while my eyes rake over Rachins. He's wheezing weakly now as he starts to come around, my handprints sweltering red and ugly all the way around his neck. I grab him by the shoulders and drag him unceremoniously over to the metal gates of the vault, and cuff him to the bars, before settling down to take a look at his leg.

I tie a tourniquet around the leg to control the bleeding, check the other guy once more to make sure he's breathing, then settle down on the floor to wait for the paramedics.

You duck as I swap your head, you squirm as I tickle your foot, you sigh as I push into you, you groan as you come inside me. You reach toward me and I fall into you, you attract me just because you are there, inexplicable and irresistible as gravity.

Someday one of us will lose the other. One day, our best will not be enough. But not today. Oh, not today.

Today, your best was good enough. You saved yourself, once again. Saved me, and everybody else. Again.

The heat of asphalt assaults my nostrils, the rambling of a hot engine too close to my ears. Gas exhaust swirls in the close space, while the rolling tires kick up gravel into my eyes. And you are warm and tense and pressed close over me, your head tucked tight into the back of my neck, your hair tickling my cheek. I watch the dark underbelly of the truck rolling over us, and then the oppressive space is gone, and there is light and there is air and there is you and you are staring at me, breathless and wide-eyed, your hair blowing every which way in the wind.

You are the most dependable partner in times of crisis, a most compassionate companion in times of need, the whirlwind in the middle of placidity, the calm in the middle of turmoil.

I never do tell you enough that I love you, words are not enough, not enough.

I reach for you and you reach for me, we attract each other just because we are there, inevitable and inescapable, like gravity.

The power comes back on, the hum of a thousand machines coming back to life reverberating throughout the building. I listen as an elevator slides up a shaft toward me, listen as it comes closer, close enough for me to hear the paramedics exchanging last minute confirmations with their dispatcher. I hear the elevator come to a stop; the bell dings, the doors slide open. I listen as the stretchers are wheeled out into the hallway, hear the rapid footfalls of a man walking ahead of the stretchers, and an uniformed officer strides into the room.

I get off the floor to greet the guy. He asks me if I'm all right. I assure him I'm fine and don't need any medical attention, point out Rachins' gun and the detonator, and tell him to put both men under arrest and read them their rights when they are coherent. The paramedics move to attend to Rachins and the other guy, the officer starts talking into his walkie-talkie to dispatch. I slap the guy on the shoulder, tell him he's in charge, and leave.

Simon calls me as I reach the elevators, tells me that the hostages have been pulled from the elevator, they are being taken down to the lobby. The car that brought the paramedics up is still here. I step into it and press the button for the lobby. The doors close, the elevator starts its downward slide, and I lean back into the wall of the car, close my eyes, and reach out with my hearing.

Before you walked into my world, the worst that could happen to you at the university was a paper cut on your finger. Now you are no stranger to danger, more seasoned than many a veteran cop. The risk is part of the job, part of the role for those who "serve and protect." And I do believe in that role, hell, we got those people out of here today, didn't we? Well, you did.

You walked into my world, chose to share the danger, chose to share the risks, chose to share the role. Now you are embedded into my life, into my heart, my soul, my very being. I can't go on any longer without you, Chief, and when did that happen?

The day I lose you, I lose myself. But it didn't happen today. Oh no. Not today.

Voices drift into my ears, footsteps, shouted commands, equipment being dragged around, and there, your voice.

"...You, take care of that baby."

Steel, your voice is steel, razor sharp with determination.

You never had a father, only Naomi to take care of you, look after you, love you.

My elevator slides to a halt, the doors open, and I step out. You are turned away from me, your back straight, your body intent, following the Wilkenson daughter as she is led away.

Will she take care of her baby, look after it, love it?

Nobody loves as fiercely, as totally, as you do, Chief.

I follow your gaze with my gaze, watch with you as the daughter is led out the door. When I look back at you, you've turned, your eyes seek mine, our gazes meet.

And then you are flowing toward me, your face bright with the brilliance of a thousand suns, your arms outstretched, reaching out for me, holding out the world to me, falling into me. I open my arms, feel the sun move into me, feel the world flow into my arms, my arms tighten around the solid mass of your body, your arms cramp around my waist, and I bury my head into your shoulder, and breath in your scent, and feel your hair crushed against my cheek, and I'm here and you are here and we are here and everything is right and I get lost in you, I find myself in you, you are everything and everything to me, and I don't ever ever want to let you go.

And then we tumble out of our embrace, and you are looking up at me, grinning with delight and mischief, and I'm looking down at you, grinning like a fool.

"Next time, Chief..." I begin.

"...take the stairs," you conclude.

Nobody has explained gravity. It just is.