Disclaimer: This fic is the sequel to "The Moments We Have" and contains various spoilers for the DC Comic Firestorm: The Nuclear Man up through issue #66. The first two scenes are from issue #65, the third scene is original, the fourth scene is partly from issue #66. Issue #65 was written by John Ostrander, penciled by Ross Andru, and inked by Roy Richardson. Issue #66 was written by John Ostrander, penciled by Joe Borozowski, and inked by Sam de la Rosa. The dialogue that is in blue is quoted from these two issues. Some parts of the panels from issue #65 & #66 are described.

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"Well, that's it! You can go," the general said.

"Go?" Firestorm asked.

"Leave. Go home."

"… home … ? Home!!!" Firestorm flew upward, beyond sight of the Nevada countryside or the men on the ground, fissioning into two separate balls of light that sped off in opposite directions.

And just like that it was over.

Ronnie tumbled out of the ball of light, falling to the floor in his parents' living room. He was barely aware of his dad and Felicity as they pulled him up and helped him stumble over to the couch.

He tried; he really tried to tell them all about what had happened. At least, most of it. Ronnie considered that he might be a coward at heart. There were things he couldn't tell his dad right now. And there were things he didn't want to say.

To say it would be admitting it was true.

They had been in the Nevada desert, and Firestorm had fought the Russian meta-human, Pozhar. They'd won the battle, but the strain had just about killed the Professor and they'd fissioned, returning to being Ronnie and Professor Stein again.

And then they'd looked up, to see the nuclear missile bearing down upon them.

Ronnie had tried to form Firestorm again, just long enough to get them out of there. Pozhar tried to help them; feeding them energy just like Firehawk had once done when they'd fought the Parasite. That was when the missile went off.

And everything was on fire.

"…and then I was Firestorm again, but it was all different!" Ronnie pulled his head out of his hands and stood up, pacing over to the balcony doors to look out. "It was like I was watching out his eyes as these things happened but I had no control over the body! He has a mind of his own!"

It was all he could tell them about what had happened. It was all he could say.

His dad was beside him now, offering the platitudes of comfort. Telling him about how they'd watched it on TV. Firestorm hadn't attacked anyone; he'd gone out of his way to keep people from getting killed. He was exerting control on the sub-conscious level.

If only that was all that it was.

"Is Professor Stein now in control?" Felicity asked, coming over to join them.

Ronnie wished it were that way. And this was the kind of question he was dreading. Dreading even hearing Stein's name spoken.

Ronnie swallowed the lump in his throat. "No. I could feel the Russian in there…"

He could talk about this. Really, he could. "…But judging from his panic, he was no more in charge than me. I couldn't feel Professor Stein at all."

He could say it. He had to say it. He had to force these words past his lips, even if he couldn't look at his dad and Felicity when he said them. Too much would show in his eyes. "I think he's dead!"

They went over to Stein's apartment the next day. His dad drove. Ronnie fished the key out of his pocket and let them in. He managed to keep his eyes mostly dry, too, as he grabbed his bags. He hadn't really even unpacked after he'd left the dorm. Only his laundry wasn't in the same bag that he'd brought over. Ronnie threw that in a trash bag.

That only left the couch. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't; not in front of his dad. He wasn't going to break down like that in front of his dad.

"Dad," Ronnie said, as he threw the bags in the back of the car and reached for the rope. "We have to get the couch."

"The couch? That thing's seen better days."

"I need the couch, Dad."

"We have a couch at home."

"I'll put it in my room."

His dad groaned. "We'll have to carry that couch down three flights of stairs, Ronnie. And then back up at our apartment."

"I'm not leaving without the couch." Rope in hand, Ronnie headed for the door.

With a sigh, Ed Raymond followed him.

"I'm okay. I'm fine. Just leave me alone, okay?" Ronnie grumbled. All he wanted to do was go back in his room and curl up on Stein's old couch and go back to sleep.

They weren't going to leave him alone, though. Felicity was worried about him; he hadn't been out of the apartment since they'd gotten back from Stein's last week. His dad was lecturing him; he was sleeping all the time and this was a classic symptom of severe depression. And Lorraine was suggesting he get counseling. Counseling. What a joke.

Oh, listen. Lorraine was telling him that what was bothering him was that he no longer controlled Firestorm. Well, let them believe that. He could play along.

He couldn't tell them that he hadn't been ready to lose Stein yet. They didn't know what Martin Stein had meant to him. They wouldn't understand.

Ronnie could just see it now. Gee, Dad, I just lost my lover. When mom got killed by Shine, you were almost ready to commit suicide. You were frantic when Felicity was ill. The Professor wasn't just my partner, my mentor and my best friend. He was also my lover. Oh, yeah, that would go over real well.

Or maybe he should talk to Lorraine. Hey, Lorraine, remember we almost dated? You used to have a crush on Firestorm, and I used to have a crush on you. But we never went out or anything and it was supposed to be because of Doreen. But I'm apparently gay. Or at least bisexual. Because I fell in love with the Professor. Not you, not Doreen - Martin Stein. There was a conversation to avoid.

Felicity maybe? Sure, Felicity, not being in control of Firestorm worries me. Worries me big time. But that's not why I spend all my time in the apartment. It's not why I sleep so much. It's not why I sleep on Stein's old couch instead of my bed. Yeah, right. Skip that conversation too.

Ronnie had tried sleeping in bed. He hadn't gotten any sleep that first night back from Nevada. He'd tossed and turned in bed after they'd gotten back from Stein's. Finally, he grabbed his pillow and threw himself onto Stein's couch. Sleep almost instantly claimed him.

Comfort wrapped itself around him. Stein's scent clung to the fabric of the couch, but more than that, memory clung to it; the memory of those few stolen moments where they had been able to be together. Ronnie savored those memories - the quiet sound Stein made as he came, the taste of his seed as it spilled between Ronnie's lips, the feel of lips pressed together and skin under Ronnie's hands, the beauty of Stein's nude body before the radiation treatment.

Memory was all Ronnie had left.

But in sleep, cradled in the couch, surrounded by Stein's scent, things were different.

In his dreams, he was older, wiser when they first merged and he knew sooner what they should have together. He never dated Doreen or fooled around with Lorraine. He knew right from the beginning that his life was meant to be spent with Stein.

In his dreams, Ronnie relived all of their glories as Firestorm, and celebrated them with Stein afterward. They made love, held each other tightly and woke up together every morning.

In his dreams, Ronnie wasn't such a coward or such an ass. He never forced him to form Firestorm, everything was always decided together. Their relationship was never strained at the edges. He could tell Stein that he loved him, and there was never any question of belief.

In his dreams, Martin Stein never had a brain tumor, or the tumor was cured. The government never turned against them for trying to save the world. He never lost Martin Stein out in the desert fighting Pozhar, and they had long years of life to look forward to together.

In his dreams, Martin Stein wasn't dead.

In the cold, harsh light of the waking day, Ronnie was incomplete. He had lost the other half of his soul. He'd lost him only weeks after discovering how much Stein meant to him. He'd lost him before he could say I love you. He thought it was only natural that he wanted to sleep all the time.

His dreams were vibrant, exquisite. Every waking moment was excruciating agony. Ronnie was lost, utterly lost, with no signpost to guide his way home. The beauty of stolen moments produced wonderful memories, magnificent dreams, but nothing to cope with the moment of loss.