Disclaimer: The 4400 is owned and copyrighted by the following - Paramount Network Television in Association with Sky Television, Renegade 83, and American Zoetrope for USA Network. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warnings: Slash, character death. Spoilers for "As Fate Would Have It."

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What matters most is not what people say about him. People will always talk. I won’t spend my time defending him. He could be heartless and cold when he wanted to be, a shrewd businessman when he needed to be, the consummate showman putting PT Barnum to shame any day of the week. He was nothing like a father to me. Those are their words not mine. Jordan Collier was my mentor, my friend, my confidante and more importantly, my lover. I was his healer, his sanity, his conscience. Together we were a formidable pair.

He was the head of the 4400 center. He called me its heart. He was mine. From the first time I touched him after Isabelle damaged him; something awakened and stirred inside us both. He once told me my touches were addictive. Some nights when the stress and strain of running the center got to him, I’d go to his room. He’d lay still on his bed and I’d work my way down, down, down, removing tension from every inch of his body. After, I’d watch him sleep for a while before returning to my room.

Yes he had lovers. They were a facade. He made a show of chasing anything in a skirt. But he was always mine and I will always be his. From that first touch that awakened a passion in him to the last that couldn’t hold him here with me. No one knows this Jordan. Not Uncle Tommy, not NTAC.

I remember the last time we made love, just hours before the ceremony. We’d fought earlier about his willingness to die for the center. He ordered me to leave him. I sulked in my quarters, determined to be a no show at the festivities. He entered my rooms unannounced, a luxury afforded to him and him alone. I sat in my robe freshly showered, pretending not to notice him. The clothes that I was not going to wear to the reunion that I was not going to attend lay out on the sofa.

He stood over me, running a finger along the collar of my robe. I refused to look up; I refused to pull away. He spoke no words, just explored me in the same manner I explored him. I reluctantly gave in to his touches, opening myself to him. We made love one last time, although neither of us knew it would be the last. We showered. We dressed. We arrived together, like a royal couple. Everything else from that moment on I chose to forget.

What matters most is what was shared between the two of us. It’s private. It’s sacred, and it’s all I have to get me through each and every waking moment without him.