A/N: Happy Season 8 Premiere Day, kids! Woo hoo! I'm soooo excited. Not sure I like the switch to Wednesday night, but I'll deal. And, as always, thanks to those who reviewed as guests and to all of you for reading, even though I know TJ is sorely trying your patience.

Muchas gracias to my wonderful betas sallyloveslinus, skzb, and Catsluver. I continue to learn from you guys with every chapter.

Chapter 20

TJ found Sam alone—well, except for Rocket, who was usually by his side. Sam was sitting in his wheelchair at the desk her parents had set up for him in a corner of the living room, working on his laptop. Fern could be heard in the dining room tending to the twins, but the pocket doors—doors that slid on a track into the wall when they were open—were shut, and Fern's cooing and chatter were muted.

After the show Sam had put on doing yoga, TJ's curiosity concerning his paralysis had finally gotten the better of her, and she'd done some research. It turned out there were so many things she didn't know and so many possibilities. There were different levels of spinal cord injury, and they could be either complete or incomplete. She speculated that Sam's was probably incomplete since he was so strong and got around so well. He could walk with crutches, and there was the obvious fact that he had fathered the twins, even though her mom said it was a miracle.

Some injuries affected bladder, bowel, and sexual function in men. She'd been embarrassed to read about catheters and all the other things that some guys with SCI had to deal with and couldn't imagine Sam having those issues—and she couldn't ever imagine herself having a conversation with him about them, either.

She felt even worse about calling him a cripple after she read about how it wasn't really correct to say "handicapped" or "crippled," that those words were outmoded and offensive to some (even if you weren't trying to be a bitch), and that it was better to use "people-first language." It was better to say "someone with a disability" than to call them "disabled," and it was better to say that someone has paraplegia instead of that they were a paraplegic, that calling them a paraplegic defined them by their disability instead of the person they were. One web site went so far as to simply refer to able-bodied people as "walkers" and those who used wheelchairs as "non-walkers."

She would have to be even more careful how she phrased things around Sam, which was daunting, since being tactful had never been her forte. She felt yet another jab of guilt that she'd never apologized to him for what she said the night of their fight. It was time to quit making excuses and do what she knew was right. It was time she gave him a long-overdue apology.

He paused typing on his laptop and pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing.

She started to have second thoughts. He looked kind of haggard right now. Maybe she shouldn't disturb him. It probably wasn't a good time. She started to go, even as her conscience was shouting, Chicken!

"TJ?" Sam's voice was quiet and husky, and he was still pinching the bridge of his nose.

How had he known she was there? She'd been quiet as a mouse. He looked up at her, wincing a little.

"I, um...I don't mean to interrupt you."

"You're not. What did you need?"

Lord, he was always so nice. "I—I just wanted to talk to you for a minute."

He kept his face impassive. "Okay. Maybe we should sit on the sofa?"

Her stomach clenched. She didn't want to sit next to him. He made her uneasy and he was distracting. Then again, she didn't like towering over him when she was standing either, and the distance between them now was awkward. She was standing across the room from him. "Okay," she agreed reluctantly.

He wheeled over and transferred himself easily to the brown tweed sofa. TJ sat down on it with him and made sure there was a large gap between them. His eyes glinted with a hint of amusement, and his mouth twitched, showing a flash of dimples.

He was so good-looking. It put her at a disadvantage and made her feel self-conscious. She tried to ignore the magnetic effect he had on her and fidgeted for a second with the cuticle of her fingernail. Then she let her hands fall in her lap, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "I, um, owe you an apology."

His brows went up. "For what?"

"I was—what I said to you the night we fought, when I was coming back from Jeremy's—I didn't mean it."

He studied her for a minute. "It's been awhile. I didn't realize you were that bothered by it."

"I..." She cleared her throat. "I shouldn't have waited so long to apologize. I'm sorry that I said you were a cripple."

He shrugged. "I am a cripple." He stated it like it was a fact, and there was no angst or bitterness when he said it.

She was surprised by his response. "I—well, I shouldn't have said it. I spoke in the heat of anger, and I know it's not the PC thing to say. I shouldn't have compared you to Jeremy, either."

Rocket jumped up onto the sofa between them, and she absently started rubbing his head between his short, floppy ears.

Sam seemed to freeze for a moment, watching her pet Rocket with an unreadable expression on his features. She realized then what she was doing, that it was the first time she'd ever really petted Rocket or shown him affection, and she quickly stopped, placing her hand in her lap.

Rocket wasn't having it and nudged his head under her arm, obviously wanting her to pet him more. She held her hand stiffly in her lap, not giving in, although the woeful look on Rocket's furry face made it hard. Finally, he gave up with a disgruntled snort and lay down between her and Sam.

Sam drew in a slow breath through his teeth and exhaled. "First of all, I don't care how you say it—'crippled,' 'handicapped,' 'disabled,' whatever—it's all the same to me. It used to bother me when I first got hurt, but I'm over it now. It's a part of my life, and I've accepted it. You don't have to be politically correct around me. I won't get offended. Although..." he paused, a hint of disappointment coloring his tone, "...I know you said what you said that night because you wanted to hurt me."

She looked down at her hands, feeling remorse and shame. For a split second, at least, she had wanted to hurt him, and the thought sickened her now. She swallowed and made herself look directly at him. "I'm really sorry."

He nodded in acceptance. "I'm sorry, too."

She frowned, perplexed. "For what?"

"For kissing you the other night."

"Oh." Her anger had lessened over that, if not the memory of it. "You apologized that night."

His smile was faint and rueful. "Yeah, but I didn't mean it."

She let out a small laugh. "But you do now?"

"Yes. It was too soon. You're not ready for anything like that, and I was a jerk for doing it."

She felt a bit of a blush coming on for some reason and looked down. "It's okay," she muttered.

A charged silence stretched between them, and TJ felt awkward. She was about to excuse herself when Sam spoke. "Why did you compare me to Jeremy that first night? Do you think he's whole and I'm not?"

She thought about that for a minute. "No," she answered honestly. "I don't think that at all. I—I was tired and confused and really, really pissed off that you were forbidding me to see Jeremy, that you were being so...high-handed. That stuff that I said—comparing the two of you and you being a cripple—it just came out. I didn't mean to be so cruel, and I felt bad about it as soon as I said it."

His dark eyes searched hers for a long time, and she felt a stirring of heat in her core. She glanced away from his intense gaze.

"You said that you feel uncomfortable around me. My disability makes you uneasy?"

She focused on his hand, following the motion of his fingers as he absently scratched Rocket between the ears and on the chest. Sam's fingers were like a magician's—lithe and fluid. She wanted him to touch her, and the warmth in her core intensified. "Yes," she answered. "You make me uncomfortable." It was the truth, but the reason wasn't solely because of his disability. However, she wasn't about to admit how her body reacted to him.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his face and cleared her throat. "I feel like I'm always saying the wrong thing. I don't know what's okay to talk about and what's not."

He grinned, dimples charming her. "That never bothered you before."

A bit of a sheepish snort escaped her. "Yeah. I guess I've never been known for my tact."

"Uh, no." After a beat, the grin on his face morphed into more of a serious expression. "You can ask me anything about my disability, TJ. I think the less of a mystery it is to you, the less it will make you uncomfortable."

"Oh." She wasn't so sure about that. So, Sam, do you use a catheter? How much can you feel? How did we have sex? Just thinking those questions made her uncomfortable.

His cell phone rang, and she was relieved that he was distracted by it. He pulled the cell out of his pocket and answered the call. His tone was professional as he conversed with one of his clients, and he sounded so educated, so sophisticated. He would make a great lawyer. It was too bad he'd been forced to leave Berkeley because of her. She frowned at the thought.

He ended the call, promising whoever he was talking to that he would call back.

Still frowning, she stared at Rocket. Sam ducked his head a little to see her better. "Hey." His voice was gentle and deep. "You okay?"

"What?"

"You're frowning. What are you thinking?"

"It's nothing."

"Right." His tone said he didn't believe her.

She gave half a shrug. "It's just that...I'm sorry you had to leave Berkeley because of me."

It was his turn to frown. "TJ, that doesn't matter. It couldn't be helped."

"Yes, it does matter. You gave up so much."

He gave her a sincere look, his eyes full of raw emotion. "I didn't give up anything. I have everything I'll ever want right here. You and the twins, you're all I need."

His words pierced her; took her breath away. What was she supposed to say to that? The depth of his feeling for her was written in every facet of his face.

How could she have forgotten him? Had she loved him as intensely as he obviously loved her? She suddenly wanted to remember for his sake and didn't want to cause him any more pain. She remembered the picture of the two of them on her phone where Other TJ had looked so happy. She closed her eyes, straining, trying to visualize herself with him. But there was nothing. No memories at all. Just unending blackness in the part of her mind where her life with Sam was supposed to be.

The ache of it was heartrending. She felt a tightening in her chest and tears clogged her throat. She looked down at her hands, knotting her fingers together and willing herself not to cry. God, she cried more these days than the twins. She was a basket case.

She must have done a crappy job of hiding her distress because Sam lifted Rocket out of the way, setting the dog on the other side of him, and then scooted closer to her. He cupped her chin in his fingers and tilted her head so that she would look at him. "I want to hug you, but I don't want to do anything that will make you uncomfortable. Is it okay if I put my arm around you?"

Her blood surged. He was so close now and he smelled so good, like the night he'd kissed her—all aftershave, soap, and spicy male. Her body wanted his touch and the solace he offered. She nodded her head, and in the next instant his arm was around her. It only seemed natural that she should lay her head on his shoulder. Her head seemed to fit there perfectly, and the hard muscles of his shoulder and chest provided a surprisingly nice pillow for her cheek. He was warmth and strength and safety.

He placed a chaste kiss on the top of her head, and she didn't begrudge him for doing it. It seemed like second nature to him, a gesture of comfort and affection with no ulterior motives. It felt right.

"You know, we started out as friends before." His voice was a vibration that hummed through her body. "Maybe that's where we should start again. I'll give you time, Teej, if that's what you need, but please don't even think about a divorce yet. We've had so little time together. Just give me a chance and get to know me better. That's all I'm asking."

She nodded, closing her eyes. It was a reasonable request. They were silent for a minute after that until she remembered about her job with Jeremy. "So, um, I'm gonna start helpin' out with the medical bills."

There was caution in his tone. "What do you mean?"

"Jeremy offered me a job at the bank. I'll be making money, so I can contribute."

He tensed, and she raised her head to look at him better. His jaw was squared and he glanced away, clearly not pleased. "No. I don't need you to help me with that."

"But my dad said you're way in debt because of me. I just want to help. I don't want to be a burden."

"Look, I appreciate that you want to help, but I need your help more with the twins. Fern is going back to work next month. I can't work full time and take care of the twins by myself."

She was on edge. "I don't want to stay home with them. I don't know the first thing about taking care of one baby, let alone two."

"You can learn," he said in a measured tone. "You need to learn."

That made her angry. "I'm not ready to be a mother."

He looked at her for a long moment, as if choosing his words carefully and trying to remain patient. "You are ready. I know it's daunting." He leaned his head back on the sofa and let out a small cough, covering his mouth with his fist. "Trust me. I know." His mouth curved into a wistful smile. "God, TJ, you were so in love with those babies, even before they were born. You were so protective of them, willing to risk your health and your life for them." His expression clouded with guilt. "Even when I wasn't."

She shook her head, knowing she was being stubborn and unreasonable; but the thought of being stuck at home with the twins all day made her feel panicky, like she was suffocating. "I can't. I'm gonna work with Jeremy. He's hiring me as his assistant."

Sam's eyes widened and his tone was cynical. "As his assistant? Are you friggin' kidding me?"

She knew it was a sarcastic, rhetorical question, but she answered anyway. "No, I'm not kidding. And we can put the twins in daycare."

He huffed like he couldn't believe she would say that, and then he was adamant. "No. No way in hell. We've been through too much with them. We almost lost them. I'm not risking it. They could get RSV or some other illness."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Sam, people put their kids in daycare all the time. My mom put me in daycare when I was a baby. They'll be fine."

The muscles in his jaw clenched. "No. They were preemies. They're more at risk."

"Don't I have a say in this?" She tried to keep her voice from rising. "You and my parents keep telling me over and over that I'm the twins' mother. What would we have done if I hadn't lost my memory and we still lived in California? Would I have stayed home with them if you were still in law school? Wasn't I in grad school? What would we have done about that?"

"You would have stayed home with them, at least for a while." He sounded so sure of that.

"No. It's not me. It's not who I am. I need to work, Sam."

He shut his eyes for a moment, as if it were getting harder and harder to rein in his emotions. "I'm asking you not to do this, TJ. I don't—working with Jeremy won't help you get to know me or the twins."

She could feel her ire mounting. "If someone else had offered me a job, it wouldn't be a big deal. This is all about Jeremy."

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "That's part of it, yes. Can you blame me?" He gave her a direct look. "Don't you see? He's just doing this to get you away from me."

"He's just doing me a favor!"

His gaze bored into her. "I know about him, about your past history with him. You told me everything."

She could feel her face heating up.

"I know he was your first...love...and that you think you're still in love with him, that you want to pick up where you left off with him six years ago—and I know that's what he wants, too, damn him. Did you ask him what happened between the two of you?" He drove his point home, his tone caustic. "If he's so perfect, why didn't you end up with him all those years ago, TJ?"

She didn't want to get into that humiliation with Sam. It was mortifying that he knew about it, and it was even more galling that he knew all these things about her and her past that she didn't know herself. He was inside her head, and it made her furious. "It's not fair, you know? You know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about you—and no one will fuckin' tell me anything!"

"Ask me, Teej. I'll answer any question you have."

"Okay. What happened to you?"

His forehead creased and he looked away, his mouth pursed in dismay. "I...I don't know if you're ready to hear that yet."

She threw up her hands in defeat. "You just told me you would answer any question I have!"

"I know," he said, sounding drained. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and his features looked a bit drawn.

She might have been concerned if she wasn't so vexed. "I'm not some fragile piece of china. I'm a grown woman!"

"That's right!" he yelled. He was abruptly angry, his brief show of weakness gone, his eyes fierce. "You're a grown woman, a wife, and a mother—whether you like it or not!"

His sudden blast of emotion shocked her. He was formidable.

A tense, heavy silence stretched between them, and then, finally, he grimaced and let his head fall back against the sofa. His voice was quiet, almost hoarse. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

She didn't say anything, just seethed and stared at him defiantly.

He went on in that same quiet voice and looked her in the eye. "It's time to step up to the plate, Teej. Your place is here with your son and daughter. They need you, and you'll never get this time that you're missing with them back once it's gone." He paused, his expression turning soulful. "Don't go to work for Jeremy. Please, TJ. It's not just about you anymore."

She stood, trembling, barely holding in her fury, and looked down at him. She was done with this conversation. It was unfair that he was making her sound selfish when the main reason she wanted to work in the first place was to help him with their mountain of debt.

She was suddenly glad that she loomed over him. It gave her more authority, and she spoke with certainty. "Whatever I feel for Jeremy"—and she wasn't sure what she did feel for Jeremy anymore, but she was too angry with Sam to tell him so—"my relationship with him at the bank will be purely professional."

Sam scoffed, clearly skeptical.

She clenched her fists. "I start on Monday."

XXXXXXXX

TJ's stomach did a little flip when she saw Sam. He was on his crutches, heading toward his room. She felt self-conscious in the rumpled T-shirt and pajama pants she was wearing, and there was no telling what her hair looked like.

She was walking down the hallway from her room on her way to the kitchen to get breakfast, even though it was late in the morning, closer to lunchtime. So what else was new? But her late mornings would end soon. It was Friday, and she would be working come Monday.

She hadn't talked to Sam since their argument yesterday. Much to Fern's dismay, he hadn't even eaten dinner with them last night, saying he had an important law project he needed to work on. TJ figured it had more to do with her, that he was still mad because she was going to work at the bank with Jeremy. She didn't bring her impending employment up to her parents. She wasn't in the mood to deal with their disapproval on top of Sam's.

Rocket walked behind Sam down the hallway, ever the faithful companion. Sam's large body took up almost the whole width of the narrow hall, and TJ had to turn sideways to get past him. She ducked her head at the last second and concentrated on her footsteps so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes.

She pressed herself against the wall to give him as much berth as possible, careful not to brush against his arm. His arm muscles were straining, and his breathing was heavy as he slowly swung his legs through his crutches. The whole process seemed laborious, unlike the other time she'd seen him up walking around, later the same day of the infamous pie-dough incident. On that day, it had seemed easier for him.

Her heart pounded. He had a striking presence that was hard to ignore when he was in his wheelchair, but Sam at his full height was impressive and kind of intimidating—and thrilling. She wasn't used to feeling short, and it made her feel a bit weak in the knees to be this near him. She could swear that the temperature in the hallway had suddenly gotten warmer by a few degrees, and she felt her face flush. "Excuse me," she mumbled, still not looking up at him.

"Excuse me." He sounded a bit hoarse.

After she squeezed by him, she heard a wet cough rumble up from his chest as he entered his room. She remembered the way he'd pinched the bridge of his nose yesterday and his drawn features, and she wondered if he'd caught whatever ailment Vern had a week ago.

When TJ got to the kitchen, Fern was busy chopping up carrots, celery, and onions from her garden. TJ got a box of Cheerio's from the pantry and fixed herself a bowl. Fern hardly glanced at her as she dumped the vegetables from the cutting board into a large stock pot.

"Good morning, Mama."

"Mornin'," Fern said shortly, wiping her hands on her apron.

TJ sighed and sat on a stool at the counter. She could tell Fern was miffed that she'd slept late again, and she hoped she wasn't about to get another lecture.

She took a bite of her cereal but hardly tasted it. That was a good thing. It made it easier not to eat it. So far, she'd been able to keep her weight down. It was the one bright spot in her otherwise chaotic, dismal life.

She stirred her cereal, watching the little toasted circles pop back up after she poked them down into the milk, and tried to make it look like she was eating it. Fern wasn't really paying attention, anyway.

Fern adjusted the temperature on the burner of the gas stove—a relic from the '50s that was actually kind of cool-looking—then turned to TJ, bracing her hands on the counter. "I'm making homemade chicken noodle soup. I want you to take a bowl to Sam when it's ready. I sent him to bed. He's not feelin' good."

TJ rolled her eyes. Yet another ploy by Fern to get TJ to interact with Sam.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, girl. It's either him or you can take care of the twins."

TJ scowled, trying to decide which would be worse.

"I can't do both," Fern went on. "Those twins are already more than one person can handle; plus, I don't want to take the chance of inadvertently getting them sick by tending to Sam."

"Oh, thanks. So you'll let me be exposed to whatever he has instead?"

Fern's eyes traveled up and down TJ with motherly disapproval. "Well, you spend most of your time in bed anyway. If you get sick, at least it won't be a big change for you. Just make sure you wash and sanitize your hands a lot. You'll be fine." As if reminded, she turned and grabbed the bottle of hand sanitizer sitting by the kitchen sink and set it on the counter in front of TJ.

TJ ignored the proffered sanitizer and defiantly dropped her spoon into her bowl. It clanked loudly and splashed a bit of milk on the counter.

"The soup will be ready in thirty minutes," Fern said, ignoring TJ's childish display of insolence. "You might want to at least put on a bra before you take a bowl to Sam."

TJ looked down to see that her nipples were taut against the fabric of her T-shirt, and she felt her ears grow warm. She wondered if she'd had "headlights" when she encountered Sam in the hall.

She got up from her stool, embarrassed.

"I mean it, young lady," Fern called as TJ left the kitchen. "Thirty minutes!"

XXXXXXXX

Thirty-six minutes later, dressed in jeans, a Kelly-green top, and the most padded bra that she owned, TJ knocked softly on Sam's door. She was carrying a bed tray with Sam's soup and a mug of hot green tea on it with explicit instructions from Fern to make sure he ate it because he hadn't been eating very well the last couple of days.

At first there was no answer to her knock, but when she knocked again, he called, "Come in." His voice was barely audible.

She walked in, intending to leave the soup and run, but the sight that met her triggered a bout of sympathy in her. Sam was lying on his back as though he had just crashed on his bed, not caring how he landed, his forearm crutches still on his arms and splayed out to the sides, his feet at sideways right angles to his body and sticking off the end of the bed.

The bed was made, and he was lying on top of the flowery-printed pink comforter that had graced the bed in the guest bedroom ever since TJ could remember. The comforter looked ridiculously feminine underneath Sam's very masculine body. Rocket was lying curled next to him, head on his paws.

"My mom made you some soup," she said lamely.

Sam looked at her with half-open eyes.

"Um, it's chicken noodle."

He looked at her for another moment. "Thank you," he rasped.

She stood there holding the bed tray, uncertain what to do next. "Um, where should I put this?" He was taking up the whole bed.

He coughed with his mouth closed, like he was trying to suppress it. When he could speak, he said, "Just put it there." He indicated a pile of pillows up near the headboard.

She eyed Rocket warily. "Will he try to eat it?"

Sam's mouth quirked, showing a shallow dimple. "He prefers sandwiches and hotdogs."

She was hit with a flicker of something then, a moment in time like the flash from a camera—a vision of a guy with something like a hotdog in his hand and Rocket flying through the air. She lost focus for a second and then the vision was gone.

"You okay?" Sam croaked with a frown.

Her heart was beating fast and she stood still, like if she didn't move, maybe whatever it was that had just happened would happen again. Had she just had a memory of something? If that's what it was, it gave new meaning to the word "fleeting." She gritted her teeth in frustration and drew in a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm okay."

He was suddenly a bit more alert, gaze boring into her. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." She walked around the bed, set the tray on the floor, and moved the pillows out of her way. Then she picked up the tray and set it in place of the pillows on the bed.

Sam blinked slowly, like he was getting sleepy, but he was watching her every move.

It was disconcerting. "Um, the soup and tea are hot," she said.

He lost the battle with his eyelids and closed his eyes. He didn't look like he was about to move anytime soon.

"Everything will get cold," she warned.

"'Kay. Thanks," he croaked.

She tapped her foot. She didn't like that he was just lying there, and she didn't know what to do. Finally, she exhaled an agitated breath. "Do you—would you like me to, um...help you?"

"No thanks." He coughed. It was wet and he sounded really congested.

She didn't think lying flat on his back was very good for that. "Look, Mama will have my hide if you don't eat that soup. I'm under strict orders to make sure you eat it, so I think you need to sit up."

"'Kay. I will," he said, closing his eyes again.

"Well, it looks like you're about to go to sleep to me."

He grunted, and even his grunt was hoarse.

She sighed in exasperation. He looked and sounded so sick with his rattling chest, and he seemed so vulnerable, despite his massive size. On impulse, she reached out and felt of his forehead and then his cheek with the back of her fingers. He was too hot and obviously had a fever.

He leaned into her touch, his eyes still closed. "I love you," he rasped softly.

She was startled by that. They'd had a fight yesterday, and a declaration of love was the last thing she expected from him. Maybe he was halfway delirious. Still, her pulse quickened and she felt that tightening again, that uneasy feeling in her core she got whenever she was around him. She spun around and hastily retreated to the door.

"TJ?"

She froze with her hand on the doorknob.

"Please, don't go."

She hesitated, but, in the end, she couldn't resist his quiet plea. He was sick, and she wasn't totally heartless.

He started coughing, and she turned around and went back to his bedside. She gently slipped the cuffs of the forearm crutches off his arms and set the crutches on the floor near the bed. Then she grabbed his hands and heaved, trying to pull him into a sitting position. He was like a rag doll—a giant heavy one—and he fell back onto the mattress, making no effort to help her. "Come on, Sam. You need to sit up."

He waited for a second and then, instead of taking her proffered hands, he levered himself up to his elbows and sort of leaned, getting one hand braced behind him and then the other. The process of sitting up seemed to require more effort for him.

Once he was sitting, he placed his palms flat on the mattress beside him. He started coughing again and leaned forward. It caused him to really cough in earnest, louder and more productive than he had before. She saw a box of tissues on the nightstand and a paper Dixie cup like the ones they kept in the bathroom. She assumed it was for spitting phlegm into, and she grabbed it and held it out for him to spit in, which he did. Strangely, she wasn't grossed out by it. She just felt bad for him.

"Sorry," he croaked when he was done.

Lord, he was so damn polite. She held in a smile. "What are you sorry for? Being sick? I think you get a hall pass for that one."

He gave her a puppy-dog look that reminded her of Rocket. "Maybe it's better if you leave," he said. "I don't want you to get sick. I shouldn't have asked you to stay."

Something sort of protective in her surfaced and she shook her head. "I'm not leaving until you eat some soup and drink some tea."

He coughed weakly, eyes on her.

She grabbed a couple of pillows and fluffed them up against the headboard of the old four-poster bed to show him she meant business. "Come on. Can you scoot back, or do you need help?"

He huffed, but its impact was diminished because it turned into a cough. "I can do it." And he did so, the muscles in his arms bulging as he pressed into the mattress and scooted himself up against the pillows.

She grabbed the bed tray, careful not to spill the soup or the tea, and set it over his lap. Then she crossed her arms and watched him.

He picked up the spoon and cocked his head. "What?"

"I was just waiting to see if the soup was okay. It may not be hot enough anymore. If it's not, I can go reheat it for you in the microwave."

His expression was cautious. "Why are you being so nice to me? I thought you were mad at me about yesterday."

She shrugged. "I thought you were the one who was mad."

He was taking a bite of the soup, and he winced almost imperceptibly as he swallowed, like maybe his throat was sore. He took a drink of the tea after that. He didn't complain about it being cold, but she didn't think he would.

"Is it still hot?" she asked.

"It's fine," he answered hoarsely.

She didn't believe him, but she didn't argue.

He took another bite. Once he swallowed, he got back to the topic at hand. "I'm not mad."

She eyed him skeptically.

"Okay. I was yesterday. I just don't approve of you working with Jeremy as his assistant," he said cynically.

"I'm not changing my mind," she said with resolve, "and I don't want to fight with you about this again."

He let out a congested sigh, sounding resigned. "I don't want to fight, either." He brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth, took a swallow, then set the spoon in the bowl and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

She followed his movements, staring at his mouth as he wiped the napkin over it and at the faint, attractive cleft in his chin. She forgot what they were talking about.

She was distracted from his face when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of his legs begin to jiggle, although it was hindered by the leg brace. She did a double-take and then looked at him, but he appeared to be unaware as he took another bite of soup. Her eyes widened a little. "Um, can you—are you moving your leg?"

His brow creased. "What?"

She eyed his shaking leg. "You can move it?"

He peered over the bed tray. "Oh," he said flatly. He lay back against the pillows and pushed the bowl of soup away from him, apparently done with it. "No, I can't move my leg—I mean, not voluntarily. I have spasticity in my legs."

"Oh." She knew what he was talking about. She'd read about it in her research.

"My legs sometimes jerk or jiggle. Sometimes my muscles contract and get really stiff. Trust me—I don't make it happen, and sometimes it's a pain in the ass."

She nodded.

"It happens more when I'm tired or sick, I guess, but sometimes it's just random. It's nothing to really worry about. It's a common thing with SCI."

"Yeah. I know."

He raised his brows. "You do?"

"I, um, kind of did some research on it—on spinal cord injury, I mean."

"Oh?"

He sounded intrigued, but she felt a little weird about her admission and didn't elaborate. He took a sip of his tea, his big hand wrapped around the mug and dwarfing it.

She cleared her throat. "So, should we—I mean, is there something we can do, um, about, you know, your leg?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and it was obvious he felt like crap. "Yeah. I should probably take my braces off, for one thing." He eyed the tray and set the mug of tea on it. "I'm done with this. Could you—do you mind?"

She nodded and took it away. He hadn't eaten much, but she didn't comment. She'd bring him more later and make sure he ate it when it was still hot, along with more tea. She set the tray on the dresser and then went back to him. "Can I help you get your braces off?

He smiled a little devilishly. "You can, but you'll have to help me get my jeans off, first."

She poked her cheek with her tongue.

"Don't worry," he said, his mouth accentuated by dimples. "I'm not going commando. I have on boxers."

She huffed with a smile and half an eye roll. "Well, thank heaven for small mercies."

He laughed softly, which turned into another cough. He really sounded terrible.

Once he was done coughing, he took his cell phone from his jeans pocket, laid it on the nightstand, and then leaned from side to side, alternating with his hands until he'd pushed his jeans down off his hips and onto his thighs, exposing his navy blue boxers underneath. "Could you, uh, just pull my jeans down the rest of the way off my legs?"

"Sure." She did, unveiling the intricate braces encasing his legs from thigh to foot as she pulled the jeans down. She could feel his gaze on her, watching her every move. She kept her face neutral, trying not to show any reaction that might make him feel self-conscious, and acted like this was something she did every day. She was struck by the thought that, maybe at one time, it was something she had done every day.

Underneath the braces, she noticed a sock-like material on his legs that she assumed must protect them from the braces. Once she had eased his jeans down to his feet, she unlaced and took off his Adidas tennis shoes, letting them fall to the floor so she could get the jeans all the way off of him. She absently folded his jeans and set them in the seat of his wheelchair, then turned her attention back to the braces. She saw then how they must work, how they kept his legs stiff and kept his feet in position so he could walk.

He pulled at the Velcro straps on his thighs, undoing the braces, and she followed suit at various points down his legs and feet until all the straps were undone. The spasms in his leg got worse once the brace was loosened.

"Okay," he said. His nose sounded stopped up. "Now, just ease the braces off."

Rocket was watching the whole process with bored disinterest. TJ couldn't resist reaching over and giving him a brief scratch on the head, and he gave a contented little sigh.

She got back to work, helping Sam with the brace of the spasming leg first. His long leg was kind of heavy, and it was a little weird the way it jiggled, but she managed to get the brace off. The other brace slid off easily. His legs were skinny, but other than the spasms, there was nothing really remarkable about them, nothing to pity or be turned off by. "Nice tights," she quipped, referring to the sock-looking covers he still wore.

He smiled, and there was something like relief in his eyes. "Thanks. They're all the rage."

She quickly slid the cottony covers off and rolled them up. Then she held them up and looked at him questioningly.

"Uh, if you don't mind, could you put them in the second drawer of the dresser?"

She nodded and did as he asked, putting them among the other rows of various-colored brown, black, and white socks neatly packed into the drawer. His braces were still lying on the bed, and she picked them up. They weren't very heavy, but she was amazed again at how freaking long his legs were. She arched a brow. "Closet?"

He nodded and coughed, covering his mouth with his fist.

She leaned the braces against an exposed corner of the closet and then grabbed his sneakers. There was a rack that held a few pairs of shoes on his closet door, so she put the sneakers in an empty spot. Last, she grabbed his crutches that were still lying on the floor near his wheelchair and put them in the closet near the braces.

He swallowed with a wince and laid his head back on the pillow. "Thanks." His voice was raspy and husky.

She sat down on the bed again. "You're welcome."

He sniffed his stuffed up nose and then breathed through his mouth, so she handed him a tissue. When he was done blowing his nose, she held out her hand for the used tissue.

He grimaced. "You'll get my germs."

She shrugged. "I'll wash my hands."

He gingerly handed the tissue to her and she got up and walked into the bathroom across the hall. She threw away the tissue, washed her hands, and grabbed the small trashcan from the bathroom to take into his room, setting it by his bed so it would be there for any future tissues.

He was still sitting on top of the comforter. "So," she said, "I think you'll be more comfy if we get you under the covers."

He nodded and pressed his palms into the mattress, lifting his hips, and she somehow managed to get the thick comforter pulled down to where it was free of his legs without pulling off his boxers. She covered him with the top sheet and the pink, flowery fabric of the comforter up to his waist. He was wearing a black-and-gray plaid button-down, the sleeves of which were rolled a quarter of the way up his tanned arms. She pressed her lips together to hold in a smile at the incongruity of the very masculine shirt mixed with the girlie comforter.

He settled against the pillows and looked at her with droopy lids. "What?" he croaked, apparently sensing her amusement.

"Nothing. You need to rest. You want some Tylenol or some NyQuil?"

He shook his head tiredly. "Your mom dosed me up with NyQuil before she sent me to bed. I think she gave me extra."

TJ smiled. He must seem like a giant to her tiny mother. No telling how much medicine Fern had given him. "Are you gonna leave your shirt on?"

He gave her a weak smirk that still managed to be suggestive. "You want me to take it off?" he rasped.

She poked her cheek with her tongue. "Only if it will make you more comfortable."

He held her gaze for a moment. "Okay," he finally said. There was a gravity to his tone that seemed out of place.

He unbuttoned his shirt, and she helped him pull it off his arms—and was shocked by what she saw. She'd thought his body was beautiful when she saw him doing the yoga, but up close, it was stunning. His muscles were chiseled and perfectly formed, but the effect was slightly marred by the number of scars he had. There was one on his shoulder, a few on his chest, and some on his side along his ribs. Some were jagged and long; some were smaller and neater, like they'd been stitched. All appeared to be old and long-since healed.

He started coughing and braced himself to lean forward, causing the cough to deepen and be more productive like he'd done earlier. When he did, she was able to see his back. There were a few scars similar to the ones on the front of him and a long incision scar down his spine that was at least six inches long. She stared at it openly, forgetting her manners, and felt her throat tighten with emotion. It was obviously the scar from his spinal cord injury.

Still hacking, he reached out his hand. She stared at it like an idiot, but then it finally dawned on her that he wanted the cup on the nightstand. She grabbed the cup quickly and handed it to him, and he spit a glob of mucus in it. She grimaced.

Once the episode was over, she took the cup from him and set it on the nightstand, making a mental note that it needed to be replaced. He fell back onto the pillows, looking totally spent, eyes closed.

She placed her hand gently on his arm, ignoring the crazy urge she had to trace his well-defined pecs. "Sam, do you want me to fix the pillows so you can lie down more?"

He nodded, never opening his eyes. It was clearly getting harder for him to fight the fever and the sedative effect of the NyQuil.

She instinctively supported his shoulders with one hand—his skin too hot beneath her palm—and eased the pillows down with her other hand so that he was reclining more. He was still sitting up enough that it would be easier to breathe through the congestion, but she hoped that he was lying down enough that he would be comfortable and be able to rest.

She stole another look at the scars on his shoulder and chest and felt a little weak in the knees. She sank down next to him on the edge of the bed and stared at him, at his handsome face. Who was Sam Winchester, and what the hell had happened to him to cause all those scars?

She was starting to get an inkling of what she might have seen in him and how she might have fallen in love with him—his strength, his intelligence, his charm, his kindness, his capacity to forgive. And, mercy, his muscles alone were enough to drive a girl to distraction.

He hadn't moved and his breathing was even, although she could still hear a faint rattle in his chest. She reached out and felt of his forehead, knowing it would be hot like the rest of him, and it was. He didn't stir. She didn't think his fever was any worse, but she would find a thermometer once she got him settled and take his temperature so she could monitor it.

She stayed there a few more minutes. For some reason, it made her feel peaceful to watch him sleep, and she didn't want to leave. She brushed her fingers through his thick, dark hair and had the urge to smell of it, to breathe in the scent of his shampoo mixed with the smell of him. "I don't think I could ever hate you, Sam," she whispered, referring to the warning she'd given him the night they'd fought.

"So, I guess that's a start," he said, surprising her. He sounded even hoarser, like he was losing his voice, but there was a rakish tilt to his mouth that caused one of his dimples to show.

She snatched her hand back, embarrassed that he'd caught her with her fingers in his hair. "You're not asleep," she accused.

He opened his eyes and grabbed her fingers, encasing them in his heat. "I was asleep. Kind of. But something woke me up."

She rolled her eyes and wriggled her fingers from his grasp, then took his hand and gently laid it on his chest. She noticed that he had goose bumps on his arms and pulled the comforter up to his shoulders, tucking him in.

Two slits of hazel were still watching her. "Are you feeling sorry for me?" he rasped.

She snorted. There was nothing to pity about Sam Winchester, even when he was sick. "No. But, to be honest, I'm wondering how you got all those scars." She glanced pointedly at his wheelchair. "What happened to you, Sam? Why won't you tell me?"

He swallowed with a wince and closed his eyes for a moment. "You won't believe me if I tell you.

"Try me."

"Okay." He spoke in his raspy voice, watching her face with a tired yet intense gaze. "I was stabbed in the back by a poltergeist."

TBC