The knowledge that I couldn't move my feet sent me into a panic. I was paralyzed! How this happened, I wasn't sure. I knew that when my grandmother had been young, there'd been occurrences of Polio that seemingly struck people at random. Healthy kids would wake up paralyzed, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Later on, they developed a vaccine for the illness, and the people who could be treated were treated.

I was pretty sure they no longer manufactured the drug, since the last polio case must have occurred over forty years before I'd been born. Great. Mine was the first one in over half a century, and no doctor would be able to help me.

The thought made me squirm, and then I realized that, even though I couldn't move my feet, I could wiggle my toes. Wait, didn't being paralyzed mean you couldn't even feet your toes? I tried to sit up, fighting dizziness at moving so quickly. I almost burst into tears of relief when I saw Bob sitting on my bed.

He'd been the one keeping my feet immobile. Not some virus. The forty plus pound mass of fur, love, and drool was plopped on the bed, ignoring my feet in his quest for a comfortable place to nap.

Ordinarily, I would have shooed him away, and if that didn't work, I'd roll him off of me. He looked pretty content laying there, his eyes closed and his body stretched out so that he took up practically the entire width of the queen sized bed. I didn't have the heart to wake him up.

Moreover, I didn't have the physical strength to move him off me. His body felt like boulders over my feet—completely immotile. Warm boulders, sure, but still boulders. I rolled my eyes at Bob. I'd just have to stay there until Morelli came back and rescued me. Good thing I didn't have to go to the bathroom yet.

Which, come to think of it, was probably how he'd managed to get into my room. Morelli had kept the door closed for a very good reason, but I'd forgotten to close it all the way. Bob wasn't one to waste a good opportunity to be with another human. Or to be on top of a comfy bed, warmed by the aforesaid human. I smiled to myself.

I glanced at the clock. 3:16. Morelli would be back soon. He said he was going to bring chicken soup and popsicles. Food, in general, still didn't sound very good to me, but chicken soup held some appeal. It would probably help my throat, at least.

I didn't feel like going back to sleep, so I just lay there until I heard the front door open. Moments later, Morelli entered my room carrying two grocery bags. He gave Bob a puzzled look, then turned to me.

"You had a visitor," he stated, putting the bags on the dresser.

"He arrived when I was sleeping," I said. "I thought I was paralyzed when I woke up."

Morelli shooed Bob off my feet, but not off the bed. I stretched my legs.

"Thanks."

Morelli sat down next to me, pulling me into his arms so I was facing him if I looked to my side. I nestled against the pillows, and he proceeded to rub my feet and my legs.

"Mmm," I murmured, shutting my eyes. "That feels nice."

"Nice" was an understatement. Joe had given me foot rubs and back rubs on various occasions, and I usually fell asleep a few minutes into them. I'd wake up an hour or so later with him still next to me, Joe looking at me amusedly and me feeling momentarily disoriented before remembering the events that coaxed me into sleep.

It wasn't something I'd expected during the one time I'd lived with him. Morelli men were known for being good lovers, but bad husbands and even worse fathers. They didn't physically abuse their wives—they cheated on them instead—but they did beat up on their kids. Mostly the boys—the female Morelli's tended to get off easy. I'd never seen Joe's mother with a bruise on her face or arms that marked a disagreement with her husband after he'd had too much to drink, but I had seen those on the younger Morelli boys from time to time. After they became teenagers, the beatings became rarer, because the boys were almost the size of their parents. In a way, if you survived the first twelve years in the Morelli household, the rest of your life would be a piece of cake. Or, at least, considerably easier.

Joe had grown up in the same household as his brothers, had grown up under the same abusive father. I'd known that he had matured after his years in the navy and then on the police force. I was fairly certain that he wouldn't abuse his future kids the way his father had abused him. He probably wouldn't object to spankings if he felt the situation warranted it. Being hit on the bottom with a bare hand—with pants on, no less—was nothing compared to being whipped on the bare legs (or worse) with a heavy belt.

Of course, this was mostly speculation on my part. Despite becoming sort of engaged, we hadn't had any serious talks about our future together. I wasn't even sure if Morelli wanted kids, much less how he wanted to handle discipline when the future kids acted up. We rarely spoke about his childhood, but in the Burg, few things were kept secret.

Lots of things were kept quiet, though. You understood that you weren't supposed to talk about them. What Morelli fathers did to their kids wasn't polite dinnertime talk, but then again, most mothers thought that Morelli men were bums.

Even though I'd witnessed first hand that Joe Morelli had changed over the years, and would never become a carbon copy of his father, it was still hard to reconcile the wild Joe with the domesticated Joe who had a dog and a house, and—most surprisingly—gave his girlfriend foot rubs and back rubs.

I watched as Joe continued to work on my feet. His hands now focused on my individual toes, rubbing each one carefully. His fingers now kneaded the gaps in between my toes, and if I hadn't been feeling so sick, I would have thought I'd died and gone to heaven. The blankets were still wrapped around most of my body, but the ankles and below were free so that Morelli had better access to my feet. This was fine with me, because I found myself enjoying watching him, instead of just going by plain sensation. He was methodical, but sometimes broke the pattern to start a new one.

I sighed again, and he looked up and smiled at me.

"You're usually asleep by this point," he said, not breaking the pattern.

"I've been sleeping most of the day," I replied, shifting my weight to my side.

"Hmm."

Morelli didn't say anything else, and I found myself almost bursting with curiosity. I'd been wondering this for awhile, but hadn't wanted to ask in case he took it the wrong way. Now was as good a time as any, since he'd probably attribute any offense my question held from my being sick. I had accused him of kidnapping me earlier.

"Where'd you learn to do this? Have you been taking classes?"

The idea of Joe Morelli in a class teaching the art of massage was so funny that I let out a snort of laughter. Joe must have found it funny too, because his immediate reaction (a sly smile) turned into his own guffaw, which lasted for the better part of a minute.

The whole time, though, he didn't divert his attention from my feet. I took this as a good sign.

"Well?" I demanded, sitting up in bed. He had to shift his position to keep up with my feet's sudden movement.

Joe was silent for a little, but I was pretty sure it wasn't a bad silence. Maybe he was remembering something. More likely, he was debating whether or not to tell me. Probably, it was an old girlfriend. Maybe Terri Gilman—they had dated a lot in high school…

"My mother," he finally replied.

That surprised me. Joe's mom, the fear of all the Burg, teaching him that?

Not that foot rubs were especially sexual…well, I guess it depended where they led. Still, the image of Mrs. Morelli teaching this to Joe seemed even more absurd than Joe sitting in on a class devoted to the subject at a community college.

I just sat there in disbelief for a few minutes, and Joe didn't say anything else. I think he was pleased that his answer had that effect.

"Want to explain?" I finally managed.

Bob sneezed and rolled over on the bed. Morelli rolled his eyes at the dog before turning his attention back to me.

"She'd give us foot rubs or back rubs when we were sick," he explained. "And always to my dad after he'd had a long day."

It took a lot not to snort at this. Morelli's father, having a long day? After what, beating on his kids? Joe must have noticed my reaction, because he nodded and rolled his eyes.

"She said it made him easier to live with," Morelli explained. He shrugged. "Maybe it did. I wouldn't know.

"Anyway, she taught my sisters how to do it, because she figured that they'd end up marrying a man like my father, and need to know how to. She didn't teach me or my brothers. My dad would have had a fit." He grinned. "Maybe that's why I tried to pay attention when she taught them. And I was pretty observant when she gave me a foot rub. Not so much with a back rub, because you can't really see that."

I smiled. I liked the idea of a pre teen Joe Morelli pretending to play with a train set or do some other "male" indoor activity, while really keeping an eye on his mom and his sisters during their weekly back/foot massage lesson.

"I figured it could only help when I started dating," Joe explained. "Or, that's what I told myself."

He hadn't done it when he'd seduced me behind the éclair case, but I guess he hadn't really needed to. Mary Lou had been right—his tongue was like a lizard's. Not that I'd needed much encouragement. I'd had a crush on Joe Morelli for years, and the thought that he was a "bad boy" my parents didn't approve of only heightened my attraction to him. I'd said that he seduced me, which was true, but I hadn't really needed much seducing. Just being alone in the same room as him was enough.

"Did it work?" I asked him.

He grinned. "Hell, yeah. Not that it was the sole reason for my reputation, but it sure helped. You probably don't know this, but I was more wild than my older brothers had been at my age. We once did a tally of all of the women we'd slept with, and I was ahead of them by at least ten. Of course," he added, leaning over to give me a kiss, "that's all in the past now."

I rolled my eyes at him. "My father would probably kill you if it wasn't."

"Don't I know it." Morelli let his hands go from my feet, and pulled me into a bear hug. "You hungry?"

"Yeah." I tried to get up, but he pushed me back on the pillows. "Joe, I've been lying here all day. I need a change of scenery," I complained.

Morelli glanced at me, considering. "We can watch TV in the living room if you let me carry you there. And if you stay completely under all of the blankets."

This sounded good, but I hated that he was acting bossy. "I thought I was going to eat. How will I move my hands?"

He grinned impishly. "I can feed you."

I groaned and rolled over in the bed. "I'm not two."

"Fine, I'll figure out a way to keep your hands free." Morelli scooped me up, balancing me in his arms the way you'd carry an infant. I found myself being carried me off the bed and out of the room. "But really, Cupcake, it's your loss."

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's read this far. Please don't forget to leave a review—just a line or so would be great!