Jim stared in horror at the scene in front of him, for a moment feeling as if he was looking at one of those surreal, impressionistic paintings that warped the very fabric of reality. Like the popular visual conundrum of the stairway rising up and up in an endless ring: although you knew that what you were seeing was impossible, your mind couldn't quite figure out just where the picture had led your senses astray.

Silently, he turned on his heel and left the room, ignoring the pleading gaze that Blair cast after him. Jim could feel his breath panting out through his lips with a panic that he refused to acknowledge as he moved into the kitchen and grabbed himself a beer.

He steadfastly refused to hear the sounds of bodies scrabbling for clothes in the bedroom behind him.

He was leaning back against the kitchen counter staring up at the skylight when Blair emerged into the living room, raking his fingers absently through his hair as he went. The younger man had dressed hastily in jeans and a loose T-shirt, and there was an attractively tousled look about him that made Jim's stomach clench.

"Please tell me I didn't see what I thought I just saw," he said quietly, turning his gaze back to the skylight.

Blair's sigh would have been audible even without Sentinel senses. He stepped into the kitchen and, after fetching a beer of his own, moved to stand against the counter next to Jim.

"Please don't freak out about this, man," he said, taking a slow sip from his beer. It didn't escape Jim's notice that the younger man's hand was shaking.

Jim closed his eyes, feeling an unnamable dread crawl through him. "I don't suppose you plan on explaining any of that to me."

Blair sighed again. "You have to try to understand some things about Naomi. She gets stuck in these ruts sometimes--"

"You mean she's done this before? Jesus, Blair." The cramp in Jim's stomach grew abruptly more painful, and he stared at the other man in fervent disbelief.

There was a high flush of color on Blair's cheeks when he turned to meet Jim's gaze. "It's none of your fucking business, Jim," he said sharply, and while the words were clipped with anger, his voice shook with something more closely resembling fear. "She wouldn't... I mean, I didn't..." He trailed off, flustered, and dropped his gaze to the floor, the angry red blush on his face and neck deepening.

For a moment, Jim was aware of nothing but the pounding echo of his own heartbeat. His vision was consumed by the image of Blair, flushed with anger and uncertainty and humiliation, fingers clenched white-knuckled around the beer bottle in his hand, head lowered in a submissive posture that seemed somehow wrong even under these circumstances, his hair framing his face like a curtain. Jim wanted to be angry with him, disgusted with him, but all he saw was a frightened man pleading for reassurance, offering up a frantic and flimsy line of defense for the person who had just abused him.

"How long, Chief?" Jim asked quietly, letting his gaze move over Blair's hunched form, cataloguing each and every tremor that moved through him.

Blair's jaw clenched at that, but a moment later he let out his breath in a gusting sigh. Keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, he replied, "I don't know. She's always been sort of... insecure, you know? About whether I love her or not. But I swear to you, Jim, it's been years -- years -- since she's done anything like this." He looked up to meet Jim's gaze then, and his expression was so lost, so stricken, that Jim had to fight the urge to reach out and fold his arms around him.

Jim didn't say anything further for a long moment, and involuntarily, his attention wandered to encompass the still too-fast heartbeat closed away in the adjoining bedroom. The sound made him press his lips together angrily, but he reined in the wild rage that wanted to tear through him out of deference for the man standing shaking at his side.

"There's a word for this, you know," he said at last, surprised at how level his voice sounded. He thought suddenly of a sixteen-year-old Blair running off to college to make his own way in the big, bad world, and wondered if that hadn't had something to do with the dubious "affections" of a clinging mother. The thought made Jim close his eyes in sudden pain, but this time the pain he felt had nothing whatsoever to do with disgust and everything to do with heartfelt regret. That Blair would have had to live with that, with finding a way to deal with that... Jim felt unbearably sad suddenly, and after that he just felt empty. There was no way for a Blessed Protector to shield against things that had already taken place in the past.

Blair snorted with something that was suspiciously unlike laughter. "Take your pick, man. Sick, perverted, pathetic, twisted..."

"Blair." Jim's voice was stern, and Blair fell immediately silent, bending his head forward again to hide his face behind the curtain of his hair. And damn if he wasn't shaking even harder now.

This time, Jim didn't resist the urge to reach out, and he touched the younger man's shoulder lightly, smoothing his fingers over the soft fabric of his shirtsleeve. Blair tensed up at the contact, his shudders stopping abruptly, and for a moment Jim was afraid he was going to bolt from the room.

"It's not your fault," Jim said softly. Every instinct within him was urging him to grab hold of Blair and never let him go, to enfold him, to shake him, to do whatever was necessary to erase this gaping chasm of pain inside of him. The need thrummed like a mantra within him -- protect the Guide, protect the Guide, protect the Guide -- but even deeper than that was a need to touch, to hold, to ensure for himself that no irreversible damage had been done to this man that he... loved.

The thought didn't surprise him as much as it might have. It infuriated him that anyone would dare do anything to make Blair feel so obviously unsure of himself, but pain inflicted on Blair had always been worse than pain inflicted on himself. He'd discovered long ago that there were all kinds of pain in the world, but never before had he considered the possibility that there could be all kinds of love, as well.

He squeezed his hand over Blair's shoulder, and when Blair didn't resist him, Jim pulled him gently closer. When there was still no resistance, he set his beer down and closed his arms around the younger man's shoulders, tucking his head in under his chin. Blair's shoulders were vibrating with pent-up emotion as he burrowed in closer to Jim's chest, and a curious wetness began to spread out across the front of Jim's shirt, warming him. Blair's fingers were clenched in a death grip on Jim's sleeve.

"Shh, it's all right," Jim soothed, stroking gently at the back of the other man's head. "It's okay, Blair. It's not your fault."

When Blair spoke, his voice was muffled against Jim's chest. "How can you even stand to touch me, Jim? I... I mean, I..."

"It wasn't your fault," Jim said again, willing him to believe it.

Blair sniffled. "I want to hate her," he said, his voice sounding small and lost and almost indecipherable amongst his tears. "I do. But she's my mom..."

"I know." Jim tightened his arms around Blair's shoulders and was relieved when Blair squeezed him firmly in return. "I know."

It took a long time for the storm of emotion to pass, but gradually, the shudders began to bleed away out of Blair's frame, until he stood limp and completely unresponsive in Jim's arms. Jim continued to stroke his hair and murmur soothingly in his ear as he reached for the forgotten beer bottle and pried it loose from Blair's fingers, setting it up on the counter next to his own.

Blair made no objection as Jim led him into the other room, sitting him carefully on the couch and pulling his legs up off the floor until he was forced to lie down on his side. Jim reached for the afghan on the back of the couch and laid it over the younger man's unresisting form.

Blair's eyes closed, his breath moving easily past his parted lips. He looked so very young to Jim suddenly, lying there with the afghan tucked up to his chin, and Jim couldn't resist the urge to reach out and brush the soft mass of those clinging curls away from his face.

"I'll be right back," he whispered, straightening the blanket around the younger man's shoulders. Blair made no reply, but it pleased Jim that the fragile peace that had fallen over his features did not diminish.

Feeling a bit of that peace pass over into him, Jim stood and made his way to the closed French doors of Blair's bedroom. He could still hear the solitary heartbeat beating erratically behind it, and he zeroed in on that awareness as he pulled open the left-hand door.

Naomi was dressed and sitting rigidly on the edge of Blair's bed, her hands clenched together in her lap. She looked up sharply when the door opened, and the look in her eyes was brimming with uncertainty and honest-to-God fear.

Jim stared at her for a long moment, unheeding of the barely restrained tremors that were moving through her slender frame. God, she looked so much like Blair, sitting there illuminated only by the moonlight that streamed in through the open window. Despite the murderous impulses that thrummed within him at the sight of her, he could not escape that one simple truth -- that she was a part of Blair, and that Blair was a part of her, however much the thought of it might disgust him.

"Get out," he told her, and the words were spoken so softly that he wasn't certain she could even hear him.

The delicate flinch that passed over her features revealed that she had heard, but she held his gaze evenly despite her obvious fear, the muscles in her jaw clenching.

"I love him, Jim," she said, and her voice sounded odd in the stillness of the room. "Don't ever think that I don't."

Jim's fingers tightened around the frame of the open door as the rage rose up in him once again. How dare this woman sit there and talk to him about love? It would be enormously satisfying to give into his baser instincts and just lay into her, demanding recompense for the pain she had inflicted on her only child, but even in his present state of mind he was clear enough to know that that way madness lay. His second instinct was to haul her ass down to the local jail and throw away the key, but he knew that dragging this problem out into public view could only hurt Blair further.

"Get out," he said again, in the same quiet, near-inaudible tone. "I want you to get out of my home, and I never want you to come here again."

Naomi's eyes shimmered at that, but she nodded. "Fair enough."

"And I want you to stay away from Blair." Jim's grip on the doorframe tightened still further; the urge to do bodily injury to this woman was nearly overwhelming. "If I ever find out that you've come near him again, I will press charges, Naomi." And oh, how he wanted to do so much more than that, to give into the primal, vengeful heart buried deep within him, but this was Blair's mother. Blair's mother...

Naomi looked stricken by this ultimatum, and for a moment her eyes shone with a rage so powerful that it nearly withered him where he stood. Jim patiently waited out the storm of defiance, holding her gaze impassively until finally her eyes dropped and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Can I at least say good-bye to him?" she whispered.

"If you say one word to him," Jim replied, keeping his voice low, "I will personally ensure that you fall into prison so fast you'll never see the light of day again. I mean it, Naomi."

Naomi's eyes widened almost imperceptibly in the dim light, but then she slowly stood up from the edge of the bed. "I guess that's it, then." Her voice was cool.

Jim stepped away from the doorway, giving her room to pass by him. Naomi kept her eyes downcast as she stepped out into the living room and picked up her overnight bag, but then her gaze seemed to be drawn almost involuntarily to the couch and the tousled figure that lay there.

She stood there frozen for a long moment, her eyes filling with such a turbulent blend of emotions that Jim half-believed she would fly apart right in front of him. There was definite anguish in that fiery gaze, and for the first time he found himself wondering why. What could have convinced her to abuse her only son in this way? It wasn't something he was certain he ever truly wanted to understand.

"I never meant to hurt him, Jim," she said in a whisper so soft that even Jim could barely hear her. "Tell him I love him. Won't you, Jim? You'll tell him that, won't you?"

Jim closed his fingers around her elbow and steered her unceremoniously toward the door. "Remember what I said, Naomi," he said in a voice that was quiet steel. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Blair's eyes were still closed, although he could tell by the rapid cadence of the younger man's heartbeat that he was not sleeping.

Naomi cast one last, longing glance back at her son, the pain in her eyes almost palpable, then looked up at Jim one last time. Without saying another word, she turned and stepped out of the apartment. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

Jim let his breath out heavily, feeling an enormous tension bleed out of him. He had done everything he could for Blair tonight -- if there was ever going to be another confrontation between the two of them, it would be in Blair's time and at Blair's discretion. It bothered Jim that he couldn't do more, but it was an old lesson he continually had to relearn -- that pain, once inflicted, could only be endured.

But that didn't mean it had to be endured alone. Turning away from the door, he made his way to the side of the couch and dropped down to his knees on the floor. He smiled softly as Blair's eyes slitted open to look at him, and Blair gave him a tenuous smile in return.

"Thanks, Jim," Blair said, his voice subdued.

"For what?" Jim couldn't resist the impulse to reach out and touch the other man's forehead lightly, smoothing away the line of tension that he saw there with his thumb. "I didn't do anything."

"For not losing it, man." Despite the fleeting smile, Blair's tone was deadly serious. "I don't think I could have handled it if you..." He stopped suddenly and dropped his gaze, his cheeks reddening.

Jim hesitated, hating the humiliation he could see chasing behind the haunted, lost expression on the other man's face. How difficult must it be to carry around a secret like this for so many years and then to have it be suddenly, irrevocably exposed? He couldn't even begin to imagine the thoughts that must be surging behind Blair's downcast gaze.

"It wasn't your fault, Blair," he said, determining then and there that he would repeat the phrase as often as he needed to until Blair believed him. He reached for Blair's hand under the blanket and squeezed it tightly, and he was gratified when Blair latched onto his fingers, silently pleading for further comfort. Moving slowly, Jim slid up onto the couch beside him and smiled as Blair snuggled forward to rest his head on his lap, letting out a near inaudible sigh.

"What's going to happen to Naomi?" Blair asked, without letting go of his grip on Jim's hand.

"Whatever you want to happen," Jim replied, running his fingers lightly over the side of Blair's face, smoothing the hair back and gazing avidly down at the man lying curled up beside him. There was trust in the way Blair was relaxing into his touch, trust and familiarity and something else that Jim could almost bring himself to think of as love. There would be time enough in the future to explore his burgeoning feelings for Blair; for now, all he wanted was the comfort of knowing that Blair trusted him, and needed him, and wanted him to be around. No matter how Blair felt about him, Jim was determined to love him in whatever capacity this man would allow.

And maybe -- just maybe -- love could be stronger than pain.

It wasn't a quick-fix answer, but right here and now, it was enough. Blair's breathing was slowing steadily as sleep stole over him, and Jim let himself be comforted by that. There were still a lot of things that they had to discuss come morning, a lot of demons that had to be brought to light, but he felt confident that somehow, they would see it through.

Deliberately turning his mind away from the thoughts that haunted him, Jim focused his attention on the scent and sound and feel of the man in his arms, and settled back as comfortably he could against the back of the couch while he waited for the morning to come.