A/N: Sorry this is so late updating...guiltily looks away...It was on the other computer, which I was too lazy to turn on, becasue it's a real hassle. but I finally sent it to this computer, so all better!

Disclaimer: Sadly, as you already know, I don't own Boromir. But you can get him for me for Christmas! Just send him to... :D

Reviews:

Andrea: Thanks for reviewing! And I will try to add a litle more descripitions of Boromir's...hunkiness wipes away drool and clears glazed look from eyes.

Jaffee Leeds: Mucho gracias for your review! I agree with youthe thought of my Bo-bo dead makes me cry every time. Tear-tear.

Psycho Elf: Merci beaucoup for reviewinglove the name, by the wayand sorry this is so late coming back. Thanks again and keep those reviews coming!

A/N 2: OK, now what you've all been waiting for...dramatic drumroll in the silence

She was in the forest, running. Running! Something followed in close pursuit. Many somethings! She dared a backwards glance and stumbled over a fallen log. A hideous face leered at her; raised its crossbow. An orc! Someone slammed into the orc, making its shot fly wild. Boromir! He clocked a blow from the orc but staggered backwards, shouting at her. Run!

"Run!" Caitlin jerked upright, sweating. What had woke her? Thunder flashed, illuminating the dark room, and she saw Húan standing at the foot of the bed, barking and snarling at the door. "No!" someone shouted. Her guest! A crash came, followed by a thud. Húan yipped.

Caitlin, still half-asleep, was already wrapping her sheet around her shoulders and walking to the door. Quickly she opened it and flicked on the light in one smooth motion.

'Boromir' was shouting and swinging his arms, torso, and head on the carpet, and his legs were tangled up in his sheets and still on the couch. She ran to his side with Yipper, AKA, Húan, stumbling behind her, tripping on the sheet she wore.

"Bo! Bo! Wake up!": she called, kneeling beside him and trying to hold his arms down. His eyes flashed open and he grabbed her shoulders. "Little ones!" he gasped in a raspy voice, "They took the little ones!"

Caitlin touched his forehead. It was clammy and cold. She stroked it like her mom used to do for her. She knew what to say, "Merry and Pippin are fine, Boromir. You saved them."

"Where is Frodo?" he gripped her shoulder so hard that she almost whimpered.

"Aragon let him go. He does destroy the ring. Minas Tirith doesn't fall. Aragorn becomes the King, and Faramir becomes the steward after your father and he marries the princess of Rohan." She brushed his hair away from his eyes. Such beautiful clear gray eyes.

"How do you know all this?" he seemed much more awake now, but still out of sorts. When he tried to sit up though, he gasped and fell back, hand clutching his stomach and chest.

"What is it?" Caitlin grabbed his hands, "What's the matter?" He pushed her hands away, standing on unsteady legs

"Nothing. I'm sorry to have woken you," he said gruffly before collapsing heavily once again on the couch.

She did not take the hint. "Something pains you. Tell me what," Caitlin commanded "No wait, let me guess:" a sudden revelation had passed over her, "The Orc arrows."

He made no response, but turned away from her, making as though to go back to sleep. She grabbed his shoulder and turned him back to face her. "You're trying to tell me that going from alive to dead to alive doesn't heal wounds? Well that's just perfect—who would have guessed? Stay right there; I'm going to get the first-aid kit."

Caitlin's hands were shaking with excitement. "I can't believe it! Boromir is in my apartment!" she exclaimed to Húan in a loud whisper. She came back into the living room a few minutes later, trying open the box. She always had difficulties with it, never being able to open it, even though her three-year-old nephew could—since the age of eighteen months! Boromir was leaning against the back of the couch, eyes closed and mouth pressed firmly into a stiff line. He had pulled the blanket over his chest. She sighed, staring at him for a long moment with soft eyes, musing over the accursed stubbornness of men. Then she took a seat at his side.

She started to take the shirt off but Boromir stopped her firmly.

"Let me take the shirt off."

"No."

Yes!"

"No."

"I'll cut it off."

"I'm fine."

"I'm serious!"

"I'm fine!"

"I'll cut it off, I really will."

"Caitlin! I am fine!"

"OK!" She rummaged for the scissors, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Fine," he finally conceded sullenly.

"I can't believe you couldn't see how weak he was," she scolded herself, ignoring Boromir's presence. She often carried on conversations with herself. The psychologist had said that she'd grow out of it, but so far there had been no such luck. And it had been like this since she head read 'The Hobbit' at seven—maybe there was some connection!

Then the shirt that was two sizes too small was gone. She sighed, staring at the three, slightly swollen, scabbed holes, but mostly at the bronzed chest and smooth, taut muscles. "I believe…"