Early April. The end of winter. By any dictionary definition, spring. The return of warmer weather. Riiiight, Blair thought viciously, though he couldn't understand why he should feel so annoyed, so personally picked on by Fate. This was typical Washington spring weather -- wasn't it? Except that the previous two weeks had been beautiful. Sunny. Reasonably warm. Temperatures in the middle sixties. In March, of all months. The forecast was for the warm, dry weather to continue for at least another week. Half a dozen different meteorologists couldn't all be wrong, could they? After all, these guys were professionals. They'd studied their subject. They were were supposed to know what they were talking about, dammit! Hell, lives could be lost if they weren't. And at the moment it looked as if the life of one Blair Sandburg, grad student at Rainier University, might very well be one of them. Blair had taken advantage of the warm weather to visit St. Sebastian's; his partner was tied up with a court case, and remembering Jim's discomfort at the monastery three years earlier, Blair made that his excuse for going there alone. If truth were told, much as he loved Jim -- and he didn't think it was possible to love anyone more -- sometimes he wanted -- no, needed -- time away from him -- or, more accurately, time away from his responsibilities as Jim's guide. He needed a little time alone with Brother Marcus; on the rare occasions when meditation seemed inadequate to center him and recharge his batteries, exposure to the elderly monk's quietness provided a soothing antidote to Blair's customary, almost frantic, rush through life. But he knew that to admit that openly would worry Jim. His friend was already concerned at Blair's continuing struggle to complete his dissertation while continuing to act as Jim's guide and work at the PD. Jim had thought only that Blair wanted to visit an old friend. He wasn't sorry to let Blair go alone. One visit to the monastery had been enough for him. The weather was good when Blair left the monastery, but he had not gone far before it changed with horrifying speed. As he turned onto the main road, the sky began to cloud over with a rapidity that was almost frightening. As it began to rain he made a face, resigned to driving through worsening conditions, although far from happy about it. He was relieved that the traffic was fairly light; the last thing he needed was a lot of cars throwing up spray. Within another half hour, the wind had risen, the rain changed to snow that very quickly began to stick, and visibility had been reduced to only a few yards. His car buffeted by the wind, Blair slowed, his speed reflecting the distance he could see. A car -- the first one he had seen for some minutes -- passed him going slowly in the opposite direction, its driver also clearly unhappy driving in this weather. He wasn't quite halfway home. He judged that it would take him three hours or more to reach Cascade and fully two hours to get back to the safety of the monastery; already the edges of the road were losing definition; he realized that if he didn't stop soon he could very well drive off the road, unable to see the bends in the mantle of white that was covering everything -- and he knew that between him and Cascade there were some nasty drop-offs he certainly didn't want to drive over. So while he could still make out the side of the road he drove part way off it, parking with his car more than halfway onto the side of the road. If a snowplow going in the right direction happened along he could follow it -- but he didn't expect to see any snowplows out just yet. If he couldn't see where he was going, neither would the driver of a snowplow. No, he couldn't expect help until the visibility improved. Luckily he had some survival gear in the trunk. He leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. A quick rush out of the car took him to the trunk to retrieve the old sleeping bag he kept there -- in the past it had been useful for the odd nights when he slept in his office, too tired to make the trip back to the loft, and habit had left it there even though he no longer had an office at Rainier. He slammed the lid down and threw the bag onto the seat; remained outside, crouched in the shelter of the car, long enough to pee; then scrambled round the car and into the front passenger seat, slamming the door shut quickly to prevent more snow than necessary blowing in. He scrabbled his backpack from the back seat onto the driver's seat, kicked off his shoes, shook out the sleeping bag and slid into it, then groped in the backpack for his cell phone. It wasn't there. He frowned, puzzled for the briefest of moments, then swore imaginatively, cursing Brother Jeremy's insistence that visitors' phones be left with him while they were at the monastery. He had forgotten to make sure it was returned to him before he left. Resigned to a probably long wait for conditions to improve, he tucked his hands back inside the sleeping bag. He settled down, concerned because he knew Jim would be worried, too aware that there was nothing he could do about it. The wind-blown snow piled up against the car; it grew progressively darker as the deepening snow covered the windows, cutting off the light. Sweeping down from the north, the blizzard, rare this close to the ocean, hit Cascade at about the same time it reached Blair. As the weather continued to deteriorate, businesses were closed and people began heading for home; with the judge halting proceedings early, Jim Ellison was among them. He took nearly four times as long as usual to reach the loft, having to alter his route twice as skidding cars, their drivers totally unused to the treacherous surface, blocked the more direct roads. He spared a moment to feel sorry for any traffic cops who were called out to deal with an accident. He doubted there would be any serious ones, though -- unnerved by the snow, almost everyone seemed to be driving very cautiously, and he suspected that inside another hour the whole city would slither to a nervous halt. As he parked, he frowned when he saw that Blair's car was not in its usual spot; he had been hoping Blair would make it back safely before the roads got too bad. He ducked out of the truck, locked it, and ran for shelter. Inside the loft, he shivered despite the warmer indoor temperature. Nibbling his lip, he reached for the phone and dialed Blair's cell phone. Switched off or out of range. Damn! But he knew where Blair had a note of St. Sebastian's phone number; locating it, he dialed. "St. Sebastian's. Brother Jeremy speaking." "Brother Jeremy, this is Jim Ellison. Is Blair there?" "No, Brother Jim. He left about an hour before the snow started." Jim took a deep breath. "He must be stuck, then. Even in Cascade the streets are getting impassable. I tried his cell phone, but it must be switched off." "Ah -- I'm afraid that's my fault. I still have it. He was having a last conversation with Marcus, so I told him I'd put it in his room after breakfast. Not long after he left, I remembered that I hadn't done so, but by then it was too late. He probably assumed I'd put it into his pack. At the time, I didn't see any reason to worry." Jim swallowed his instinctive reply, saying only, "He might be trying to make it back to the monastery -- if he does, will you phone and let me know?" "Of course. And we'll pray for our young brother's welfare." Jim put the phone down, thinking A lot of good that'll do! while appreciating that Jeremy undoubtedly thought it would be helpful, and instinctively turned towards the door; halfway to it he stopped, his brain catching up with his instincts. He had barely managed to get home. All he would accomplish by going out now was get himself stranded too, probably before he even reached the Cascade city limits. Better to wait -- although it tore his heart in two to accept that -- until the snow had stopped, at least. The one comfort was knowing that Blair always had survival gear with him -- the sleeping bag that lived in his car, water and, at this time of year, chocolate and dried fruit in his backpack. Jim didn't feel hungry, but scrambled himself a couple of eggs anyway, knowing that it was foolish not to eat. At least it gave him something to do. Switching on the TV, he sat eating listlessly, his attention only half on the screen, not noticing that the eggs had grown cold long before he was finished eating. The weather came on, the forecaster babbling about unexpected cold fronts from the Arctic and a low pressure area developing over the American northwest much faster than anyone could have anticipated, bringing unseasonable blizzard conditions even to the low-lying areas. "Unexpected!" Jim muttered to himself, wishing that it was feasible to sue the weather department for a forecast as inaccurate as the one he had seen as recently as last night, that had confidently predicted the continuation of the mild, dry spell over the weekend. He washed his plate and put on a pot of coffee; anything to fill the worried hours till he could head off in search of his guide. During the night the snow turned to rain, leaving Cascade's streets a mess of wet slush that, in some ways, was more treacherous than the snow. Rising in the half light of dawn after a sleepless night, Jim stared out at the rain, knowing that further inland, where the ground was higher, it would probably still be snowing; however, the wind had dropped considerably. No wind meant a straight fall rather than continued drifting, which would make it easier to clear the roads. There had been no word from St. Sebastian's, making it clear that Blair had not managed to return there. Even if Blair had reached the monastery in the middle of the night, Jim knew he would have phoned immediately to say that he was safe. At eight, Jim phoned Simon. "Banks." "Simon, it's Jim. Sandburg's been caught in the storm -- somewhere between St. Sebastian's and here. I'm due in court again today, but I can't not go looking for him." "There's nothing you can do until the snowplows get the roads cleared, and they'll find the kid. Once the road is clear he'll get home okay." "Simon, you know what he's like. There are times when he'd make a mule look positively co-operative. He'd want to get home; he could have gone on driving long after it was safer to stop and missed a bend, gone off the road. If he did that, nobody could find his car except me." "Jim, under these circumstances not even you could find him from a moving vehicle. Or are you planning on walking the whole distance from Cascade to St. Sebastian's?" Jim opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. 'Spirit guides' came into the realm of 'too much information', as far as Simon was concerned. At the same time, he was subtly relieved that there was not as yet any sign of his panther; he was quietly certain that it would have made an appearance if Blair had been in serious danger. Their spirit animals might have merged, but each still showed up individually from time to time when he and his guide were separated; it was almost as if between them he and Blair had three animal spirits -- his, his and theirs. "I realize you're worried about him," Simon went on after a moment when Jim didn't reply. "Hell, now you've told me he didn't get home, I'm worried about him! But at least give the snow crews a chance to get the roads cleared before you go rushing off. "And anyway, you have to be in court today. If you don't go, if you're not there to testify, you know what could happen. Quinton could walk. Do you really want to see him back out on the streets?" Jim shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Simon couldn't see him, then said, bleakly, "No." It had taken too long for them to pin him with a rap that would stick, and during the months Quinton had spent thumbing his nose at the PD, they knew -- but had been unable to prove -- that he had lured at least twenty underage runaways of both sexes into addiction and prostitution. Three of them had been found dead. A fourth runaway, fleeing within twenty-four hours of being 'befriended' by Quinton, had reached the safety of the PD, and their case had been built around the testimony of the fifteen-year-old who was being identified only as John, and the discoveries that Jim had made as a direct result of John's statement. And while John's testimony alone might be enough to convict Quinton, there was no guarantee of it; Jim's additional evidence would certainly see the man put away for a long time. No, he couldn't risk letting Quinton walk; Blair would never forgive him if he did. Jim forced himself to eat a breakfast that was as unwanted as the eggs he had scrambled the previous night, and headed for the door. When he reached the street, he found Megan Connor waiting for him. Even inside the sleeping bag it was chilly. For a moment, Blair considered running the engine, but there was too much snow around the car for him to risk it. The tailpipe, he suspected, was totally blocked by the snow. Despite the cold, he dozed. When he woke again, he meditated for a while, using the meditation to prevent his enforced inactivity from becoming boredom; then, groping, he found the interior light and switched it on; nibbled some chocolate and took a sip of water -- not too much, though; if he could avoid it he didn't want to discover the problems of peeing from a car totally blocked in by snow. Then, deciding that it might get stuffy, he cranked open his window just a little, pushing two fingers against the snow to prevent too much of it from falling into the car. He wondered if it was still snowing. He could hear nothing, but the snow covering the car could account for that; for all he knew the blizzard was still raging around him. Sighing, he looked at his watch. Nearly eleven. How long had he slept? Was this eleven at night, or had he slept long enough for it to be eleven in the morning? Probably still night, he decided. He switched the light off again, buried his nose inside the sleeping bag, closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, he wasn't really sleepy now, his short nap having taken the edge off what little tiredness he had been feeling. Eleven o'clock at night, he would normally still be up, deep in a book or feeding information into his laptop -- unless of course Jim had lured him up to bed. It would be another three hours at least before he began to sag, and, recognizing that, he soon abandoned the attempt to sleep and instead began to occupy his mind by mentally putting together possible chapters for his dissertation. Thinking about the PD, however, took his mind straight back to his partner. He couldn't help but wonder just what Jim was doing. Knowing his partner, it wouldn't surprise him to discover that Jim had come out in search of him and been trapped himself, but he hoped the big cop had retained enough sense to stay put while the blizzard raged. Of course, it was always possible that in Cascade it was just raining, Jim didn't know about the snow and was simply annoyed that he, Blair, hadn't phoned to say he'd been delayed; and for the second time Blair cursed the forgetfulness that had left his cell phone at St. Sebastian's. He yawned, and decided it was getting just a little stuffy inside the car, despite the the window being open an inch. Just how much air could seep through a blanket of snow, anyway? He wished he knew. There couldn't be that much snow on the driver's side of the car, though -- that was the side facing away from the wind. Leaning over, he wound the window down about quarter way; some snow fell into the car. He felt cold air blowing into what he suddenly realized was the warmer -- relatively speaking -- car, and wound the window almost all of the way back up. Just two or three inches of snow on the sheltered side, he decided. Probably just clinging to the car. Now, though, some of it had fallen into the car. Well, it could be worse. Peering out, he saw that yes, it was still dark, and he could hear the wind now, too. Though not, he thought, blowing as strongly as it was. But just the sound of the wind made him shiver. He gathered as much of the snow as he could off the seat and floor, compressing it into a big ball, then gritted his teeth, opened the car window again and tossed the snowball out. Quickly, he wound the window up again, leaving it open just a crack, and snuggled back into the sleeping bag to warm up again as much as possible. After a while, he resurfaced, chewed a piece of dried fruit, then settled back down for the rest of what he knew would be a very long night. His bladder was beginning to make its presence known, but when he thought of how cold it was, he decided to delay doing anything about it for as long as possible. By the time Blair knew he had to pee soon or involuntarily wet his pants, it was daylight, although the light filtering into the car through the covering of snow was very dim. The window that had been clear of snow some hours previously had been covered again. Wriggling out of his sleeping bag, he climbed over to the driver's seat, and, not wanting any more snow in the car, carefully opened the window. He quickly discovered that he had been right; the snow on the sheltered side was just clinging to the car, the depth of snow on the ground there only a foot or so, and although it was still snowing, it was no longer heavy and the wind had died down. The snowplows should be along soon, he thought, relieved, and began to knock the snow off the window. Next he cleared the snow from the top of the door, closed the window again, then tried the door. It opened only a few inches before the pressure of the compacted snow along the bottom made it impossible for him to push it any further, but it was far enough; he knew that he could get out if and when he wanted to. As it was, he maneuvered around until he was kneeling on the seat, unzipped, and peed out of the opening with a long sigh of relief. Intent on relieving himself, he didn't register how cold his hands were from clearing the snow until he shook the last drops off his cock. Shivering, he quickly zipped up again, still feeling the ghost of cold fingers touching his warmer cock. Closing the door, he pushed the backpack onto the floor and wriggled back into the sleeping bag. He fumbled in the pack for something edible, ate some chocolate and took another mouthful of water, then turned over the top of the bag and wrapped his hands in the fold. After a while, when his hands felt warmer, Blair removed his socks to keep them dry, pushed his bare feet into shoes that he knew would soon get wet, forced his way out of the car and began to clear the snow off the roof. He might not be able to go anywhere until the snowplows arrived -- however, he was going to make a damned good attempt at being ready to move when they did appear. Jim Ellison sat in court knowing that if Quinton did walk, it wouldn't be his fault. If he had to be here instead of searching for his partner, he was going to make damn sure that it was worth it. He gave his evidence with a grim determination and a single-mindedness that had left the defense lawyer floundering, which was probably a new experience for the man, who was more accustomed to tangling up the witnesses' thought processes, confusing them into giving contradictory evidence. Instead of the answers of 'Possibly' or 'I thought so' or even 'I'm not sure' that the lawyer's questions were carefully designed to encourage, creating doubt as to his conviction in the minds of the jury, Jim gave blunt 'yes' or 'no' answers -- and after one particularly obliquely-worded question, he simply looked straight at the judge and said quietly, "I'm afraid I can't answer that, because I have no idea what I'm being asked." The judge nodded, looked at the defense lawyer, and said as quietly, "Please reword your question." Now the jury was out debating the verdict. Beside him, Megan Connor -- who had driven him to court, sent by Simon to keep an eye on him -- murmured, "You did well, Jim. They can't possibly find him not guilty after your testimony." "I just wish they'd hurry up," Jim muttered, eager to begin his search for Sandburg. "Sandy's tough," Megan said confidently, knowing the situation, knowing that Ellison's impatience was fueled by his desire to find Blair. "And you said yourself he has survival gear with him. He'll be all right." "I try to tell myself that. If I knew he'd stopped, I wouldn't worry. I'm just afraid that he tried to get home in spite of the conditions, and ended up driving off the road. Some of the drop-offs are so steep and overgrown that a car could lie there for years without ever being found." Megan had no answer to that. Movement, noise, the jury coming back... Guilty on all counts... Twenty years before being considered for parole... Jim should have been satisfied with the verdict and the sentence, but all he could think was how long it was taking to complete the formalities. And then, when they were finally free to leave, he was still delayed by well-meaning comments, congratulations on the solidity of his evidence... He had to grit his teeth and force himself to be polite, for these people, even the reporters, were being complimentary, not getting in his face with impertinent questions designed to delve into his personal life. At last he managed to get to the street; Megan, who had not been delayed, was already waiting for him at the curb. Excusing himself as tactfully as possible, he ducked quickly into the passenger seat; she drove off immediately. He gave a long sigh. "The loft?" "Please." "He may be back already," Megan suggested. "Phone home and check." Jim glanced at his watch. The middle of the afternoon... It was just possible, he supposed. He took out his cell phone and dialed the loft. After several rings the answering machine kicked in. He snapped the phone shut. "Nothing," he said dismally. Certainly he had not allowed his hopes to rise too high, but knowing for certain that Sandburg was still missing was more than depressing. Megan pulled up at the loft. "Do you want me to come with you?" she asked. He shook his head. "Thanks, Connor, but I'll be fine." She looked at him, clearly doubting it, but accepting his word. All she said was, "Be careful." After watching until he entered the building, Megan drove off. Jim went straight to the bedroom, stripped off his court clothes and quickly dressed in warm casual clothes. He went down the stairs again and crossed to the kitchen; anxious though he was to get started right away, it made sense to make sure he had at least a sandwich and a flask of coffee with him. That ready, he packed it carefully into a bag and turned towards the door. Just as he reached it, it opened. Intent on what he was doing, he had heard nothing. Taken completely by surprise he froze for the briefest of moments, then realized -- "Blair!" "Jim." Blair dropped his backpack, took the two steps that separated them -- pushing the door closed as he did -- and threw his arms around the older man. Jim dropped the bag he was carrying, clutched at Blair, pulled him close. "Chief. Oh, Chief. You're safe... You're here..." "I'm sorry -- " was all Blair had time to say before he was effectively gagged by Jim's mouth. He returned the kiss avidly as one of Jim's hands rubbed his back while the other held the back of his head, preventing him from breaking off the kiss. Break off the kiss? That was the last thing Blair wanted to do. He clung fiercely to his partner, reaffirming his commitment to their relationship. After a long time they pulled far enough apart that they could look at each other. "Blair," Jim said again, his voice completely content; and then, more urgently, "are you all right?" Blair nodded. "I'm sorry, Jim. I left my cell phone at St. Sebastian's --" "Yes, Brother Jeremy told me." "Oh. You phoned him?" "It was pretty bad here yesterday. I didn't know if you'd left before the snow started or if you'd decided to stay over until the weather improved... Jeremy was extremely apologetic." "Well, if he hadn't insisted on keeping my phone... I could easily have left it in the car, but no, he had to have it. He said he'd put it in my room before I left -- and although I enjoy visiting there and talking to Brother Marcus, I was so anxious to get home again that I forgot to make sure he had. I missed you." Jim took possession of his partner's mouth again. Their tongues caressed in a familiar dance. When they broke apart in order to breathe, Blair said quietly, "Were you very worried?" "I knew you'd be okay if you'd stopped before things got too bad, but I was scared you might have tried to get home and maybe gone off the road." Blair shook his head. "I know that road, Jim. I know how dangerous parts of it are. Yes, I wanted to get home -- too much to take stupid risks. I was comfortable enough -- except I knew you'd be worried." "And I couldn't even come looking for you," Jim muttered. "Court recessed early yesterday because of the weather so the case carried on into today. I had to be there, Chief -- you know I had to be there." "Was Quinton put away?" "Twenty years minimum." "Good." Blair planted a quick kiss on Jim's mouth. "Two things, tough guy, then we can go to bed." "Two...?" "First, we phone St. Sebastian's and let them know I'm home; they'll be worrying too. Then I want something to eat. I haven't had anything except some chocolate and dried fruit since breakfast yesterday, and I'm hungry." Jim grinned. "Third, phone Simon and let him know you're safe. Fourth, call Connor and let her know." "Connor?" "Simon had her babysitting me today. I think he was half afraid I might take off," he admitted ruefully. "Okay, you make the calls and I'll get a meal ready." "A quick meal," Blair suggested. "Soup and a sandwich." "You got it." Little more than half an hour later, they moved back into each other's arms, this time in the comfort of their bed. "Love me," Jim murmured. "Always," Blair replied softly, as his teeth closed gently on a nipple, and Jim stopped thinking as his partner once again proved to him how much he was loved.