Pulling into a parking space at 852 Prospect St, Jim Ellison turned off the engine to his truck, then sat in the relative hush, watching the rain smear over his windshield. Through the watery darkness of the night, he could make out the vague shape of the building that housed his loft apartment, the place that until very recently he had considered his home. The windows on the third floor that opened to it were hesitantly lit by candles, looking odd among their electrically bright companions.
Choosing not to use his Sentinel sight to see past the flickering glass, Jim watched the random motion of the shadows, hands unconsciously clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel of his truck. He didn't need to use Sentinel hearing to know what was going on in up there. In fact, he was going to have to go in soon if for no other reason than to turn down the music before the neighbors called the cops.
Despite himself, he snorted at that thought. Probably the only reason they hadn't done it already was because he had once been a cop himself, and they thought he was still connected with the PD well enough that it was pointless to complain about him. Truth was, he was riding that misconception for all it was worth right now. Most of his buddies at Major Crimes had moved on in the years he'd been gone, and none of the uniforms knew him at all, it seemed. There was only Simon, and even he was stepping up to the Police Commissioner's office soon.
But hopefully the aura of copness would hold a while longer, long enough for Blair to win his battle with whatever demon that had settled into his soul a few weeks after their return to Cascade. Or at least to learn that playing 'earth music' full blast wasn't helping him much. In the extreme distance he saw the red/blue flash of a police cruiser flick into life; it stirred him into reluctantly getting out of the truck and heading up.
Choosing to take the stairs in spite of the weariness dogging him from his workout, Jim climbed slowly, mind contrarily racing over his Guide's recent behavior, looking for a way he could help. At first he had thought it was all part of the adjustment that Blair was going through from losing his sight. He'd had enough experience with soldiers and cops who'd suffered losses like that to know that unreasoning rage and depression was usually part of the package before the victim got on with his life.
Except, of course, Blair never did anything the way other people did, even adjust. He insisted, and from all evidence Jim had to take him at face value, that being blind wasn't that much of a problem for him. Yeah, he hated not being able to drive or watch girls or read - especially the last - but it was not as if he were blocked forever from those pleasures. *He* could always use Jim's vision if he needed or wanted, unlike other sightless people condemned to endless darkness.
Yet he never took advantage of that ability, preferring to learn to navigate through a blank world, taking the lumps that came with it uncomplainingly. Jim could understand that and respected the drive for independence that was behind it. It didn't stop him from wishing his partner would occasionally accept the ready arm that was always waiting for him.
Reaching the door, automatically turning down his hearing to compensate for the deafening noise coming through it, he pulled his customary impassivity around him, hating the need to do so before entering his own lair, such as it was.
On the other side he was greeted by the sight of a nearly nude Blair, dancing wildly to the music crowding the loft, head thrown back and eyes closed as if in pain. Body streaked with paint and sweat that dripped onto indecently short cutoffs, his feet pounded the bare wood floor in time to the Native American drums, adding to the vibrations smacking into Jim's hypersensitive skin. His arms were out-flung as if he were a bird on wing, and he swooped and swirled with the Bolivian pipes that were carrying the melody of the music, waist-length hair flowing after him like currents of wind.
Almost *seeing* Blair flying through a moon-filled sky on borrowed wings, Jim leaned back onto the door, again dialing down the punishing force of the sound, and admired his partner's lithe grace as he effortlessly wheeled through the nearly empty room. Part of him wanted to slip off his shoes and try to match that liquid flight, answer the almost subliminal call of the drums, as he had done when he lived with the Chopec.
Chances were, though, Blair wouldn't appreciate Jim's company for this private abandon, any more than he had appreciated it at any time over the last few weeks. So the sentinel stayed at his post, watching a bit enviously, positive that the other man was totally unaware of his presence. In fact, he was sure Blair was completely oblivious to anything but the power of the music and the feel of it guiding him through the steps of his dance.
Especially to how enchanting he was.
As often as Jim had had that exact thought that in the past, it was still an odd one to own up to, at least as far as his own personal lexicon of what was beautiful was concerned. But it was a simple truth he'd stopped hiding from only months after meeting the anthropologist, and, at the time, he'd simply chalked it up to his total awareness of his Guide. Like knowing his scent or being able to pick out his voice in a crowd, seeing Blair's beauty had been only another fact he had fit into the enigmatic picture of Blair Sandburg, student, police observer, room mate, friend, partner, guide.
Now it moved him, obliquely, sexually and he shied away from it, automatically turning toward more customary avenues. He arrowed in on his partner's vital signs, picking up the ragged breathing, the acrid tang of exhaustion, and the frenetic heartbeat even through the masking background noise and scents. Abruptly he realized Blair was on the verge of physical collapse, and he charged across the room as the smaller man stumbled, tumbling forward headfirst. His speed allowed him to catch Blair halfway down, and he went with him to cushion the impact, clutching him to his chest.
"Sandburg!" Though he didn't need to, he laid his fingers over the pulse in the slim throat, confirming for himself how thin and thready it was. "When was the last time you ate?" he barked, concern sharpening his voice.
Like always, Blair ignored the tone. "Hey, man. When'd you get home?" he mumbled, fatigue beginning to make him shake.
"Just in time, apparently." Standing, carrying him far too easily for his peace of mind, Jim snapped off the CD player, and headed straight for the bathroom, wanting to warm Blair with a hot shower. "And you didn't answer my question."
"I forget." Blair's head lolled forward onto Jim's chest, and he sighed tiredly.
Lips becoming a thin white line, Jim propped him against the bathroom wall, efficiently stripping himself and turning on the water. He stepped into the stall, taking his partner with him, unsure if Blair had the strength to stand on his own. Apparently Blair had his own concerns about that; he wrapped his hands around Jim's biceps and leaned into the tall, hard body, hanging on for all he was worth.
"Damn," he muttered. "Who stole my bones and left behind these noodles?"
"Probably the same guy that stole that impressive IQ of yours and left behind the kind of tapioca that thinks dancing for hours on end without stopping to rest or eat isn't a bad idea," Jim answered dryly.
"Whoa. That's gotta be a crime in somebody's book." Moving away a few inches, Blair tried to stand on his own and immediately wobbled so badly Jim snatched him back into the support of his own body.
"The only criminal act around here has been disturbing the peace." Jim put them both under the hot stream, automatically shielding Blair's face so that he could breath. "Neighbors are probably getting ready to call in the SWAT team to get you to turn down the music."
"Actually, the building's empty except for old Mrs. Sawyer, who's needed new batteries for that hearing aid of hers for months," Blair said, trying to smile.
"Small blessings," Jim retorted, and began soaping him up, absently noting that the paint was dying the bubbles interesting colors. They seemed to pick up the primary hues of the pigments, turning into fragile gemstones that were nearly alive with supple motion. His eyes trained onto a particularly brilliant one as it was born and followed it through its brief life as it journeyed from the swell of a sharply defined collar bone, down the flow of wiry muscles and limbs, and to the black hole of the drain, where it swirled dizzyingly at the brink of its extinction.
A loving palm cupped his jaw, thumb scoring tenderly along his cheekbone, and called him back from his zone. "Wow, that is sooo cool," Blair murmured, looking down at the drain between his feet. "No wonder you still get caught up in things once in a while. The world must be a pretty beautiful place to you."
Without thinking Jim returned the caress, tilting up Blair's head so that he could see his features clearly. "Yes," he whispered, "It is." The drops of water beaded on the long lashes, highlighting the intense color of Blair's eyes, and transformed the long curls into a provocative veil that accented more than it hid, framing a strong, passionate face that needed no help to be appealing.
To his surprise, Blair actually blushed and hid his face on Jim's breastbone, huddling close as if to minimize his presence. "Love you, too," he murmured.
Jim laid his cheek against Blair's temple, not needing to say or do anything but be there, soaking up the first ease that had between them in what felt like forever. When the water's temperature started to drop, he hurriedly finished washing them up, giving the long tresses only a minimum of attention though he knew he'd have to listen to complaints about it later.
After Jim dried his lover off as he best he could, he bundled Blair into a warm robe and took him to the small downstairs bedroom where they'd been sleeping on a mattress on the floor since their return. Making a quick side trip to brew up some tea, he blew out the candles and locked up the loft, returning with a cup of hot, heavily sugared brew to the lump of blankets that his partner had become. For once, Blair made no protest over not using honey, giving Jim a very clear idea of how exhausted he was.
Sipping at the liquid, he hunched over the cup as if to capture more of its warmth that way, studiously not looking at the other occupant of the room. Jim knew he was expecting questions, maybe even a fight, but at the moment, all Jim wanted to do was creep under all those covers with him and rest. Setting aside the cup for Blair when he was finished, he picked up the spare towel he'd brought with him, sat on the mattress, leaning back onto the wall, and pulled Blair to sit in the 'v' of his legs.
With his fingers and the absorbent terry cloth, he worked on Blair's curls, taking out the worst of the wetness and tangles, smoothing the raw silk into a semblance of order. This was a familiar ritual for them, since his partner insisted that if Jim wanted him to keep his hair so long, he was going to have to help him take care of it. Privately he thought Blair wouldn't cut it anyway because of the pure sensual feel of the softness on his bare skin.
He took advantage of that now, tracing the liquid slither of individual locks over the lean back, using the action to mask his subtle massage. It lulled Blair into twisting to curl up against him again, forgoing the bulk of the bedding for the heat of a human body. That was exactly what he'd been hoping for, and Jim brought up his knees to fence his skittish captive in a little more closely. His own eyelids began to drop as he fell victim to his own scheme to seduce Blair into sleep.
Automatically he did a fast check with his senses to be sure nothing was out of place; that they were secure. Though their time on the streets of Washington, DC as Panther and Chief was behind them now, and the enemy that had forced them into that life was defeated and gone, Jim hadn't relearned to trust the sanctuary of either Cascade or the loft. In part that was why it was still so bare; why they were sleeping on the floor, weapons never more than a grab away, in the most easily defensible and escapable room in the place.
Nothing was off or worrisome, and he let go of another level of alertness, dropping the towel and merely petting his lover with gentle random touches meant only to reassure both of them all was well.
From under his lashes Jim studied the blank room around them, idly recalling when it had been filled with artifacts, books, magazines, and all the rest of the paraphernalia of a grad student's life. Maybe that was another reason they hadn't started to refurnish the loft. How could they know what possessions they needed when neither of them really knew what they were any more? Not cop, not grad student, not mercenary, not fugitive.
Well, they could always start with the basics, he decided sleepily. A real bed for instance. We could put it right next to that huge barrel cactus.
It took a second, but the strangeness of the thought - and the image - was powerful enough to jar him all the way awake, and Jim sat up suddenly, reaching for his gun. His reaction dumped Blair out of sleep, sending him into battle readiness though he remained motionless, without even muscular tension to betray his hand finding his knife.
"Shit," Jim muttered, head turning slowly as he took in their altered surroundings. The wall he'd been leaning against was now a huge boulder, one that radiated off heat from the scorching day's accumulation of sun, and felt abrasive and coarse to his back. The ground was sand and grit, sparkling with stolen moonlight and firelight. Right in front of them was a low fire, one that was barely embers, hardly giving off as much light as the stars overhead did. And they stretched endlessly, as did the horizon, yet seemed clear and close enough to touch, as they always did in the desert.
As shocking as the change was, the hardest part of it to deal with was the sight of the two people on the other side of the fire. Sam Beckett and Al Calavicci were sprawled casually on a sleeping bag, the older man behind the younger, head propped up on one palm as he met Jim's stunned glare calmly while Sam apparently slept, head pillowed on an arm.
"Took you long enough to get him settled down," Al grumped, idly stroking the flannel covered shoulder in front of him. Like Sam, he wore jeans and flannels, with what looked like black turtle neck under his. A quick glance down told Jim that he and Blair were dressed the same in style, differing only in color and fit. "We woulda done this ages ago if he," Al went on, jabbing a blunt finger towards Blair, "hadn't been working himself up to such a tizzy."
Straightening up slowly, Blair said defensively, "I wasn't 'working myself up.' I was trying to establish the right physical conditions for a shamanic trance."
"Don't mind him," Sam said, blinking sleepily and punching his partner in the ribs with an elbow. "He doesn't like waiting."
"Damn straight," Al grumbled.
"But he is right," Sam went on earnestly, "about doing a Vision Quest unnecessarily, Blair. You should save that for the hard things, the ones you can't work out any other way. Fasting and going without sleep for prolonged periods are too hard on your body, and Jim has a tendency to provide sufficient life-support to stymie the chemical process you're trying to trigger, anyway."
Looking frustrated, Blair pulled at the hair on the sides of his head with his fists. "Stupid, stupid, of course that's why..." He cut himself short, pointedly not looking at Jim and added. "And it is important to me, Sam."
"Can I help?" A sharp glance was sent the scientist's way, but he met it placidly with nothing but sincerity in his hazel eyes.
It softened Blair back into his normal self, and he grinned. "I guess if anybody is an expert on identity crisis, it'd be you, right?"
"After five or so years leaping around into other people's lives, I suppose you could say that," Sam agreed, smiling. "I take it being home isn't the happily-ever-after you'd counted on while on the run."
"Not even close, man." Blair slumped back into Jim's arms, rubbing his cheek over him apologetically. "Going back to Rainier was like going back to my kindergarten classroom and marveling how small the desks were. And if Jim decides to go back to being a cop, there's no way I can ride with him as his partner now. Whoever heard of a blind observer?"
"You don't have to be blind, Chief," Jim protested mildly, glad to finally get that out in front.
"Uh, uh, no way am I going to use you as a crutch," Blair said firmly. "Too risky. Using your sight only works when you're conscious and when I'm within a certain range. Which, I might add," he finished with some asperity when Jim tried to interrupt, "we don't know the exact parameters of because a certain Sentinel hasn't been very co-operative with the testing needed to establish them."
"Chief," Jim told him solemnly, "if the idea was to make you feel back at home, willingly going along with one of your tests was the last thing that would have helped!"
Blair chuckled, but quickly became serious again, picking randomly at the tiny pills of cotton on Jim's gray shirt. "So what did you want to talk to us about?" he said, not trying to make the change of subject more subtle. "Must be pretty important for you to construct all this." He waved at the desert around them, then added appreciatively, "Man, it looks like the real thing."
"I'd say thanks," Al told him, "but this takes all of us. I'm just the director of the show, so to speak." At their questioning looks, he explained with barely disguised glee, free hand cutting through the air like Italian semaphore to punctuate his words. "See, kid, you're the writer, the one who communicates the scene to the rest of us. And Sammy here's the producer, you know, the one with the power to make it so. Jimbo is the set designer - who besides a sentinel could know better what sand feels like or how the desert smells at moonrise? And I'm the one that makes all the decisions about the action and how it looks. Moonrise or full dark, big bonfire or almost out campfire."
"Why'd you get the job?" Blair asked in honest curiosity.
"Because he's had a whole life time of getting the all the dogs to mush in the same direction," Sam answered for him, tone half-laughing and half-serious.
"Working with scientists is more like herding cats," Al shot back instantly, "And we don't want to get into what raising a house full of women was like."
Sam's answer was a fond look and putting the conversation back on track. "We decided to try getting in touch with you this way first because once we Leap into a place and time, we're committed to staying there until we get the job done, more or less. For what's needed, though, we didn't want to give up the advantage of being outside of Time until we *had* to, so I thought since you'd Leaped, too, that I could, I don't know, kind of bring you halfway out of Time long enough to talk to you."
"There's something you need Panther and Chief to help you fix?" Jim asked, more sharply than he intended.
"Not exactly, but sort of," Sam admitted apologetically, but he didn't back down from Jim's hard stare. "The two of you did a lot of good as mercenaries or vigilantes or whatever you want to call what you were doing in DC. Don't ever forget that. And much as you might hate to think it, what your alternates did in their time line wasn't necessarily evil, either. It was mostly just filthy, unpleasant work that nobody else could do and seriously needed taken care of.
"In fact, since the last time we saw you, Al and I have been making sure that the cases that Panther and Chief worked on that *had* to be done, got done."
To his surprise, it came as a relief to Jim to know that, whatever path he took/had taken, his life had been worthwhile. Apparently Blair took it for granted, because all he did was ask, "And you've run into one that you can't handle? Considering what you've got at your disposal, that's scary, guys."
"We've got rules we gotta follow, like anybody else," Al said mildly. "One of them is that we can't get too close time wise to our 'death', which you already know, and another is that we can't Leap to help the people closest to us." His normally cheerful face sobered, eyes dropping to his partner's. "Price is way too high."
Capturing the hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze, Sam said something to him with his gaze that comforted Al, giving his attention back to the pair on the other side of the fire only when he'd won a new smile. "In the original time line," he started, "Panther and Chief were hired by a very wealthy man who wanted revenge for the death of the woman he'd fallen in love with and was carefully courting. It sounds like something out of a bad romance novel, but he didn't want her intimidated by his money and family, so he'd hidden that from her and most everybody who knew her, letting them think he was only a bookstore owner.
"Then she vanished, and her body showed up a week or so later. She'd been repeatedly raped and sexually tortured until it literally killed her. As if that weren't bad enough, six weeks after, about the time her family was beginning to recover from the shock, a bust on a totally unrelated case turned up a video tape with her death as the main feature."
"Snuff porn," Jim muttered, feeling his stomach roll queasily. Cops knew it existed, occasionally found tapes like the one Sam mentioned, but the people who had the money to buy it usually had enough to keep themselves out of the way of the authorities. Or the good sense to destroy tapes like that before they could fall into the wrong hands.
"Yeah," Al agreed, disgustedly. "Have to admit, I liked Panther's way of dealing with that scum. Won't go into details, but let it suffice to say that the producer of the films and his head 'casting director' had a punishment that fit the crime."
"Al," Sam chided grimly. Ignoring the other man's unrepentant lift of chin, he went back to his explanation. "Regardless of how it was accomplished, one of the side effects was that they saved six other women from the same death, since that was the first film like that the producer had made. But in this history, the man who hired Panther and Chief won't be able to find a private investigator or mercenary that he could trust to track down his lover's killer and will try to do it himself. Not only will he die, so will those six women, and the 'director' will never even be suspected of what he's doing. The 'casting director' will die in a year or two, but it'll be in a shoot out over a drug buy, and he'll kill a cop before he goes down."
"What's his connection to you that keeps you from leaping to prevent all that?" Jim asked bluntly.
"The woman in question is my daughter, Sammy Jo." Sam's voice was flat with pain, and he rolled to his stomach, turning his head into the concealment of crossed arms.
Confused, Jim looked to Calavicci for clarification, and found the admiral's eyes closed in the same agony.
"I don't remember Dr. Beckett having a daughter," Blair said softly, filling in the silence. "She was born from a Leap?"
"Yes." The answer was muffled, then Sam sighed and pillowed his cheek on his arms, soaking up Al's feathered strokes over his features. "It's nearly impossible for me to do anything at all to help her, because I've already changed her history twice, however unintentionally. Once when I saved her mother from being convicted for murder, and then again when Weisman took over Stallion's Gate. She was supposed to be part of Quantum Leap, but his interference with it sent her into a different line of research all together. She's an absolutely brilliant woman, and as beautiful as she is smart. Abigail did a good job of raising her, too."
"You don't have to convince us to save her," Blair protested. "We would anyway, because it's right. The question is *can* we? Can Jim and I fit ourselves into our counterpart's place well enough to help her and the others? We won't kill, except in self-defense." He said the last firmly, and Jim silently supported him with a hard glare.
"Do you have a setup in mind?" Jim asked despite that, mind already running over what they needed to get started.
"No, not really." Sam told them honestly. "I have a wealth of information on Gregory Sanderson, know where and when his accomplice, Jerry Wirhun, will take Sammy Jo, but I thought the best thing to do was share it with you and let you decide how to use it. I've Leaped into more than one soldier or policeman, but I'm too close to this situation to be able to make a workable plan."
"I still think the best bet," Al said, "is to snatch her and hold her 'til the danger passes. Jim and Blair can bring down Sanderson while he's scrambling to find a replacement for her."
Sam started to argue, but no sound came from his lips, and the cool night around them wavered, loosing color for a moment like a television set about to blow. Jim blinked, which was no help, but it convinced him that the problem wasn't with him. Everything came back, and Al swore softly. "Sam?" he asked, worriedly.
"I'm tired. We're going to have to let go soon," he admitted.
"Give us the basics," Blair encouraged. "We can take care of the rest, and if it looks to you like we're heading off in the wrong direction, you can find a way to let us know without resorting to this again."
Feeling the boulder behind him flatten and smooth, becoming more wall-like, Jim warned, "Better hurry." Not sure how his senses would work in this situation, he nevertheless focused them, realizing that their surroundings were becoming more like the stage Al had initially envisioned. The strong heartbeat surging against his skin was perceptibly slowing, and he wrapped Blair up more firmly in his arms, alerting Calavicci with a nod that Sam wasn't the only one wearing out.
As fast and precisely as possible, Al briefed them with everything he thought might be useful, freeing his partner to concentrate on holding the scene together a few minutes more. Jim listened intently, not sure how much Blair was picking up, watching their bedroom begin to intrude into the conversation. Eventually there was nothing left of their friends or the desert but Al's voice whispering into the still room, reminding Jim absurdly of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Soon, even that was lost to the bass hoot of a big rig driving past their building.
He looked down to the man in his arms to find Blair peering up at him through eyes surrounded by deep bruises of fatigue. A thousand different things to say flitted through his mind, some of them angry, all of them concealing concern, but all that he said was, "Rest, Sandburg. We'll deal with it tomorrow."
With a half nod that acknowledged that the conversation wasn't necessarily going to be about Sam's request, Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's waist and nestled down, asleep before his next breath.
***
A strong pull on my hands where Al was gripping them tightly enough to leave nail marks made me take a step forward, bringing me clear of the sheet of shimmering opalescence that was Blair's and Jim's life. My next step was more of a stumble, and he caught me, going to his knees with me as I fell to mine. I snaked my arms around his waist and buried my face in the curve of his neck as we went down. Beyond tired, beyond weary, what I hid from wasn't my partner's worry, but the Power radiating at his back because I was afraid that simply seeing the shine would be enough to call me into It.
Al must have understood that; he cupped the back of my head in one meaty hand, holding me in place and murmuring to me as if I were crying. Maybe I was. Maybe I was shedding the silent, invisible tears of a soul-deep loss that could never be properly grieved. The loss of never being able to claim the only child of your body.
All I knew for sure was that my anchor, my sanity, my courage was hanging onto me as tightly as I clung to him, unselfishly pouring his strength into me like he always did. There was an odd sensation of floating, calling up a childhood memory of being carried to my bed by my father. It made me smile into the crook of Al's neck; I doubted his intentions were that innocent.
Tired and distracted as I was, I still spared a second to marvel at how easily Al had adapted to the quasi life we had in this Outside place where Time was something you could see and touch. Physical laws simply didn't apply here, and he not only accepted that on a visceral level, but acted on it as casually as he smoked those obnoxious cigars of his. So when I finally pried myself away from my refuge, I wasn't surprised to see us kneeling in the center of a dense cluster of threads that obscured both the Brilliance and Its counterpart.
He pushed me to my back, then sprawled over me, keeping his weight on his knees and hands though I wouldn't have minded being crushed a bit by him. Conveniently we were both naked, and his urgency was riding on me hotly, just above my hip. It was typical of Al that he would use sex for comfort, and at the moment I wanted to let him, despite our long-standing debate over whether or not our bodies were 'real' here. Teased by the thought that I could be stretched and ready for him, almost like a woman, simply by wanting to be, I shifted under him to bring our erections into better alignment, sighing in pleasure at the intimacy.
Mumbling something happily, he found my mouth to give me one of his special brain-destroying kisses that I loved so much. I opened my lips to him eagerly, wanting him to taste and tease me, wanting the tickly slide of his tongue over mine as another way for me to hide in him. Groaning he quickly took me up on my offer, burrowing into me until I thought it was a distinct possibility he was going to make me finish by doing nothing more than French-kissing me.
When he nudged hungrily at my thighs, I didn't hesitate to spread them for him. Though it had startled me to discover that I loved being on the bottom, I would have given Al what he wanted even if I'd hated it. I knew I'd never be able to keep up with his gargantuan appetite, but if being under him kept him happy and content instead of homesick and regretting that he'd stayed with me, I was more than willing to be his whore.
Besides he was one hell of great lover.
Muttering indistinctly, he scooted down to hook my knees over his shoulders so he could get into me, and that made one of my feet brush through one of the many strings surrounding us.
……A medium-sized man, built like dancer or a gymnast, bent over another man, his shoulder length brown hair partially obscuring his flushed features for a moment. The man under him brushed away the errant strands, lingering over a high cheekbone, meeting the dark brown eyes solemnly.
"Mac, are you sure that you want an old man like me?"
In a soft Scottish burr, the younger man whispered, "Joseph, d'ye really think this," and he combed through the heavily salt & peppered beard, "Or this," and he stroked one of the stubs where the legs ended, "Matters a whit t'me?"
Joe laughed softly, "No, I don't suppose it does." He reached up to take a kiss ......
Al suddenly rolled away, pulling me out of that string, and I wasn't surprised to find both of us fully dressed, my lover standing with his back to me, smoking, a split second later. "Al?"
He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to study his cigar and said as nonchalantly as possible, "Sorry about that, Beautiful."
"Sorry for starting or sorry for not finishing?" I snapped, both frustrated and worried.
He was looking into the distance, and that warned me that he was hurting and planning to brush it off as not worth mentioning. "Seeing two men going at it," he said neutrally, "brought up some bad memories, that's all, Sam. Killed the mood for me." With an obvious effort, he looked back at me again to leer. "Now if you'll let me find two lovely ladies doing the same thing..."
Putting my hands on my hips, I shook my head slowly, not willing to let it go, but knowing better than to make an issue of it when he had his barriers up. Whatever was troubling him would surface again; I could wait.
"Speaking of lovely ladies," and he pointed with his cigar at the history closest to him, "Is there a way of seeing the original for someone after it's been changed? There's something about this that's hinky."
"Not that I know of," I answered, automatically looking at the flow of color I knew was Sammy Jo's. "Which doesn't mean anything because it never occurred to me to try before. Hinky?"
"Yeah. I was just thinking that mostly it's a wrong decision or a bad influence that makes a life go off track; usually all we have to do is nudge them toward the right direction to fix things." Al was staring at the ripples as if he could read them directly. "What decision did Sammy Jo make that made Sanderson pick her? She's a gorgeous woman, but there are millions of those. Why her?"
It was a good question, and I found myself imitating him, watching the string as if it were the person creating it. "You think we should target him? Save those women by changing his history?"
"Naw. Some might wander into making porn films telling themselves it's a way of making a living until they can make real movies, but he was beyond that before he started," Al said thoughtfully.
I had to agree with him. From what I'd been able to stand seeing of Sanderson's life, there didn't seem to be a chance he could be turned from murder, because, to him, it wasn't real. People weren't real. Everybody was an actor on a screen in his mind, and I'm not sure that he could ever be convinced otherwise.
Still... "Think we should try to find a profiler to help us? If we know how he makes his choices, we can divert him away from Sammy Jo by changing things so she doesn't fit what he wants. Not that it would stop the murders, but it once she's far enough away from him, we can get closer to Sanderson and bring him down."
"It's an idea," Al said absently. "But that's not what I was thinking." He shook himself and took a puff on his cigar. "Anyway, you could suggest that to Blair."
"Mmm." It was my turn to be distracted. I was being drawn into the vibrant pulsing in Sammy's string, Al's question from earlier about seeing the previous history echoing in my head in harmony with it.
"Sam."
I heard him, but there was a thought just at the edge of my mind I wanted to snag before it got away, so I didn't answer, trying to pin it down. Something about the basic property of visible light...
"Sam!" This time he nudged me, which made me lose my chain of thought, and I focused on him, exasperation on the tip of my tongue. But I lost that, too, because he was smiling that soft smile at me, the one that makes my heart grow a few sizes larger.
"What?" I asked.
"Sorry," he said contritely. "It's been so long since I've seen your 'genius at work' face, I didn't recognize it. Did you lose it?"
Not wanting him to feel guilty, I asked, "Genius at work face?"
"Well, it's either that or you're suffering from premature Alzheimer's because there's definitely nobody at home behind those peepers of yours on occasion. And since you usually come back with an idea fit to make the Nobel committee sit up and take notice when you do, good bet it's the first." Al grinned and popped his cigar back in his mouth.
"You pay that close attention to my expressions?" If my heart got any bigger, I was going to need a new chest.
"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "Sorry if it bugs you."
"I think I like it," I admitted, easing in closer to him, bending my head so he wouldn't have to look up at me. "Like it a lot."
Tilting his head back as he negated whatever space was between us, Al murmured, "Good, cause it's a habit I don't want to give up."
The only thing I could think of to say to that was a smile, so I did, letting my forehead rest against his. We stayed that way a long time; is there a better way to spend eternity?
***
Moving deeper into the bookstore, leaving Blair at the desk chatting with its owner, Jim tried to absorb as much of his surroundings as possible for sharing with his partner later. It would have been something of a challenge except that this sort of shop had been the younger man's favorite haunt since long before Jim had met him. He probably could have described the shop before they even arrived.
It was the first floor of a rambling three-story building that was probably hundreds of years old, originally built as a home in the Back Bay area of Boston. Like many others there, it had been converted to combination business and rental property. In the distance Jim could hear the owner, Nicholas Bennet confirm to Blair that he did indeed live over the store, renting out the third floor to students. In the way the young Shaman had with people, Blair even had the shop keeper confiding to him that he would sometimes exchange rent for labor in the bookstore, as had the aunt from whom he'd inherited the shop.
Coming to stop in a corner near a big bay window and the fireplace, both of which were filled with flowers on this bright early summer afternoon, Jim picked up a book on WWI to help him blend in, and surreptitously studied the place. Shelves rambled along the walls and into the many small, low ceiling rooms with no discernable system and, it *looked* like a book lovers home that had been opened to the public. Scattered here and there in the many corners made by the shelves were tables, chairs, lamps, even plates of cookies and cakes, all of which invited the customers to sit down and read the books they were browsing. Through a doorway he could see a small kitchen with coffee makers and teapots alongside a small cardboard box that said 'donations.' A row of cups and mugs stood like soldiers waiting their turn for duty as honor guard for one of the thousands of tomes in the store.
Though there were many new and bestsellers on the shelves, the majority was old, out of print books, most in excellent condition. There were also the mandatory artifacts, antiques, relics, and odds and ends for sale, including a very eclectic assortment of CD's, silver jewelry, incense, and what smelled like hand-dipped candles, all scattered on the shelves with the books or hanging from the walls. To a big man like himself, the place was crowded, cluttered, and maybe a bit claustrophobic. For Blair, it was a home away from home.
From here he could see in the reflection of another big window Blair talking excitedly with Nick, hands waving, white cane dangling dangerously from one wrist, as he described some of the rare manuscripts he'd been allowed to handle in the past. Jim gave major points to the storeowner; there wasn't a trace of pity or derision from him at the thought of a blind man waxing eloquent over books. In fact, he wasn't sure if the sturdily built blond man whose face made Jim think of the Dutchboy on the paint can, had even noticed Blair couldn't see.
Without thinking Jim tuned into the conversation in time to hear Nick confess, "My Aunt Candace all but raised me; both parents were too busy with their own thing to be bothered with the job. A year or so before I went to college, Grandmom died and left her, among other things, an *enormous* collection of books and this place. Aunt Candy had always hated living under anyone's control so she decided to open a shop about the time this area started going retail." He chuckled reminiscently, looking up at the ceiling as if to see through it to the next floors. "I spent as much time visiting her upstairs as I did in class my sophomore semester, and moved into the third floor apartment for grad school. It wasn't much of a surprise when she left the place to me when she passed on last year."
"Hey, man, sorry for your loss," Blair said sincerely, fingers finding the other man's wrist long enough for a gentle squeeze of sympathy. "I think she'd be so glad that you decided to carry on in her place."
Nick shrugged, but left his arm where it was. "At first I thought I'd sell it, but I didn't want just any buyer, so I opted to run it myself for a while until the right one came along. And to be truthful, I was more than a little tired of the rat race I was in; thought a temporary change would do me good." Suddenly he grinned. "Guess it wasn't so temporary a change."
"Hey, it's a dream life, if you ask me," Blair enthused. "This place is fantastic."
"Thanks; Aunt Candy would be practically purring if she could hear that. You're her favorite kind of 'young man,' too. In fact..." Nick's voice trailed off and he looked Blair over speculatively. "I don't suppose you need a place to live, or will in the near future? The third floor is empty, and I'm looking for a tenant."
"Hey, thanks but you're about three weeks too late. My partner and I just moved into a garage apartment behind the house of this really nice elderly lady. It's not too far from his job or mine, and there's a T stop right at the end of the block, so it's easy for me to get around."
"Your partner?"
Instinctively Jim ducked his head over the unread book in his hand, obscuring his face and interest in what they were saying. A split second later he shook his head at himself. From here Nick couldn't possibly see him, and Blair knew he was listening.
That didn't stop the obvious pride and love in his Shaman's voice when he said, "Big, gorgeous, ripped man who's probably got his nose buried into a history book?"
"Didn't see him come in, but there's lots of places he could be and I'd never see him without sending out a search party," Nick laughed. "Well, if you know somebody who's looking, and isn't into Heavy Metal bands, the KKK or politics, send them my way. Kinky sex practicitioners are okay as long as I get invited to the orgies."
"Will do. In the meantime, can I borrow your books-on-tape catalogue for him to read to me? I'll track him down and get it back to you in a few." Blair asked, leaning onto the counter familiarly.
"Excuse me." The woman's soft voice so near to his side jerked Jim's attention away from his lover's conversation and back to his immediate surroundings with a nasty jolt. He blinked, covering a reach for his gun by dropping the book to his side, and focused on the woman in front of him, wondering how in the hell a stranger had gotten this close to him.
Though the dark-haired woman was sleek and beautiful, dressed in a conservative business suit that subtly cooed, 'wealthy professional,' the very sight of her set his already jangled senses screeching. He automatically backed up a step, keeping his blandest face in place. "Can I help you?" he asked coldly.
"I was just wondering if that book was any good," she answered sweetly, looking him over very boldly. "I'm looking for a gift for my father, and he's very much into WW I history, but very picky about what he reads. Would you recommend that one?"
"Not really," he said shortly, making as if to walk around her.
With a sultry look from beneath her lashes, playing up their emerald depths by doing so, she blocked his exit with a graceful swing of her hip. "Really? Pooh. This is my last chance to shop before the party, and I can't think of another thing. I don't suppose you know of another that is better?"
In another time and place, Jim would have been flattered and not a little interested; aggressive women who knew what they wanted and weren't bashful about going for it had always been a weakness of his. Despite that, this one set his teeth on edge for some reason he couldn't fathom, one that didn't have anything to do with the fact he wasn't on the market any more. "Sorry. I usually just look at the pictures." He made another move to go around her, which she again stopped him with a feminine counter.
"Oh, I have trouble believing *that,*" she simpered, inching inside his personal space. "Those incredible blue eyes of yours have far too much intelligence in them for me to buy an 'all brawns and no brains' ploy. Let me see; muscular, shoulders back posture, very short hair - ex-military I'd guess. You could probably *write* a book similar to that one, couldn't you, from personal experience."
If her change of tactics from 'starting a conversation as a prelude to a pick up' to 'you're so handsome I want to fuck right now'' was supposed to be flattering, it wasn't working. If anything, it made Jim want to get as far away from her as possible. Her sudden appearance felt more and more contrived, staged for an unknown purpose, and it brought his hackles up. Jaw tight, muscle jumping, he said bluntly, "Look miss, if you're want a suggestion for a good buy, I'd try talking to the owner. Now if you'll excuse me..."
Intending on using the book in his hand as a buffer, Jim raised his arm to sweep her aside and started forward. Pouting prettily, she reached for it, simpering, "Oh, come on..."
Whatever else she would have said was lost as Blair slipped past her, interposing his body between them. "Man," he said happily, "I have been looking all over for you." He fit himself into his normal place, one hand clutching at Jim's belt, the other in the crook of his elbow, pressing more closely than he usually did in public. Casually he let his cane drop across them like a barrier, as if he were not paying attention to where it went. "Nick, he's the owner, said I could take the catalogue home with me, and that there's a website that BU maintains for volunteer readers for textbooks not in it that you can look up for me. With some luck you won't have to wade through the entire semester's reading with me." As he bubbled on, he virtually dragged Jim past the living obstacle in front of them, pretending he didn't know she was there.
The snarl that whipped across her face permanently erased any beauty that Jim might have seen in it. Unconsciously cementing the contact between himself and his partner by covering the hand on his arm with his own, he let himself be towed away, not giving her a backwards look, though he tracked her with his hearing as she stormed away, filthy words trailing after her. He nodded acknowledgement to Nick as he called out a goodbye to Blair, but otherwise was too pre-occupied with the odd turn of events to make his own contact with their 'client.'
To confuse him farther, Blair was more buttoned down than Jim could remember him being since they'd met. Once out of earshot of the shop, he'd stopped talking, brain obviously moving along at warp speed while they headed for their bus stop and home. There was no feel of him in Jim's mind, not even the normal, comfortable 'weight' of Blair's thoughts rushing alongside his own. A clumsy nudge, mentally, brought about a flash of a smile in his direction, enough to let him know that Blair wasn't totally out of it.
Despite that, he stayed silent and introspective all the way back to their apartment, letting Jim navigate for them, though he normally preferred doing it himself. His quiet, coupled with the encounter at the store, had Jim ready for a lover's quarrel of epic proportions as soon as they got through the door.
In fact, they didn't made it all the way up the steps before Blair turned, letting his cane fall when it would, and plastered himself onto Jim's body, mouth unerringly finding his partner's for a voracious kiss. Caught off guard, Jim didn't respond to the onslaught immediately, but stumbled them the rest of the way up the enclosed stairwell. Falling with Blair into the dark corner used for winter coats and boots next to their doorway, he couldn't get the door opened because of the distraction.
Tiny insistent taps at the closed line of his mouth coaxed him into opening for his lover, and he accepted the hot probe with a soft sigh. Blair hungrily sought out every sensitive spot, every delicate curve of Jim's palate and tongue, turning his sighs into hoarse moans in seconds. Both of his lover's hands were locked onto the back of his head, holding him in place for the oral attention, and it was Jim who dropped his hands to his partner's backside to grind their growing erections together. Head spinning from both lack of air and the sudden rush of blood to other parts of his body, all Jim could do was ride out the first knee-weakening wash of passion, marveling at how turned on a single kiss was making him.
Up until now their lovemaking had been gentle, almost timid, as they learned about each other's likes and needs, both of them adjusting to this new way of being together. Though neither were ignorant about what men did with each other, it had never been of any interest to either of them before, and they had been taking their time, exploring the possibilities almost innocently. Now, for whatever reason, Blair wanted more, and from all indications, wanted it very badly.
And Jim was more than willing to give it to him, for no other reason than that.
Palms suddenly sweaty, he kneaded the solid bottom he held, encouraging his lover, spurring him into letting go of whatever restraint he might have had left. Blair tried to crawl into him, as if he wanted to fuck him from the inside out, and all Jim could do was hang onto his writhing hips, groaning.
A distant noise - Mrs. Martin coming out of her house - made him let go to grope for the doorknob to their place again. While she had seemed very tolerant of 'those nice gay boys', he didn't want to test how far it went by having her walk in on them while Blair was trying to undress them both by will power alone.
Miraculously he got the door open and them through it safely, despite legs that felt as if they'd generously donated all the strength in them to the hard-on trying to rip its way out of his pants and into, onto, alongside,*whatever*, as long as it was in contact with Blair. More by luck than any rational decision on his part, they made it to the old-fashioned brass bed in their room, literally toppling onto it in a tangle of limbs.
He wound up flat on his back, their weapons under the pillow, his legs hanging over the side of the tall bed. Shirt shoved off, his nerves burned from the nips, licks and sucking kisses Blair lashed his bare chest with. Trembling, too stunned from how fast things were happening to do more, he laid there and tried not to whimper. It wasn't easy; Blair forced his knees apart and stood between them, lunging into Jim's crotch with determined passion, even as he scrabbled at the zipper to remove the barrier between them, mouth relentlessly continuing its ravishing. In his mind he could hear his partner chant/think 'Good, good, here, yeah, damn, so good, my jim, my jim, love you, there too, love you, oh yeah, that's, yes, yes, love you, yes,' and the litany became his as well.
Somehow, they were naked, and Blair leaned over him, braced on his arms, waiting for tacit permission to do what was next. It was Jim who reached into the nightstand drawer to pull out what they needed, and readied his lover to take him. Blair groaned, teeth clenched and eyes rolled up into the back of his head, for the few short minutes it took, then set himself at the portal to Jim's body the moment he was released.
Expecting the pain of an uncontrolled shove, Jim wasn't prepared for the slow, steady force his lover used to penetrate him, or for the wonderful, wonderful way it felt to be opened, stretched, filled, despite the aching burn it caused. Wantonly he lifted his heels to dig them into the box springs of the bed, spreading himself wider and gasping Blair's name over and over. As if that were a cue he'd been waiting for, Blair began to pump, shallowly at first, but with growing force and speed as Jim encouraged him with his own thrusts and moans.
The litany in their heads became two-edged, both voices making one joyous stream of "dear god, dear, good, so good, lover, harder, please, please, yes, cling to me, answer my hips, god, love you, more, more, there, just like that, yeah, just like that, good, good, good, good, god, god, Oh My God I'm Going To Come!!!!!!" They screamed the last together, and Jim locked his legs around Blair's waist, trying to impale himself all the way up to the brain on the cock inside him. Spurts of liquid ripped their way out with claws of ecstasy that tore their way all through Jim, leaving only sweet pleasure behind as wounds.
Sweet pleasure mixed with sweeter lassitude, and he barely managed to cushion Blair's boneless descent down onto him. With the last of his awareness he boosted them both backwards and to their sides, content to stay that way until his body remembered it could do other things besides breathe and hum blissfully.
Cautiously turning to his back a long time later, Jim looked up through the high window opposite their bed, mindlessly watching fluffy clouds drift past it. A few minutes later Blair's face appeared in the middle of his view, but it was a better one, anyway, and he was just as content to watch the flow of color and light in those vibrant, laughing eyes.
"Are you ever planning on coming back to earth?" his mate asked smugly.
"Are you planning on giving me a reason?" Jim answered, remotely wondering if he'd ever been so damned sated before in his entire life.
"How about a repeat performance of what sent you up there in the very near future?" Damn, Blair was more or less smirking.
Pretending to think about it, Jim waited until a fraction of a doubt shadowed the brilliant blue, then tumbled them both over so that he was on top. Unfortunately the quick move pulled in all the wrong places, and he couldn't clamp down on the pain before his lover picked up on it. Hastily he said regretfully, "Not too near future, I think. But as soon as possible."
"Damn." Blair struggled to get out from under him, but Jim shamelessly took advantage of his size and held him in place until he could kiss him into temporary submission. Even then, Blair glared at him when he broke off to find some more air, though his breathless flush ruined it completely. "Are you hurt?" he asked. "Let me check. Damn, damn, I knew I was going too fast."
"Sandburg," Jim said insistently, with amusement lurking under his words. "I'm okay. No, I take that back. I'm great. I am also going to have a lot of trouble sitting down tomorrow, but that's to be expected under the circumstances. And I meant it when I said I wanted to do it again as soon as possible."
He was subjected to one of his Shaman's most penetrating looks, but the joy inside him was too pervasive for Blair to hold out against for long. Within seconds he was beaming instead of glaring, and his air of not-quite-smugness came back. "It's a date then, because I have to tell you, lover, the *only* thing stopping me from pouncing on you again right now is the fact that a vital component of a decent pounce is currently asking me if I'm crazy, he's gotta rest."
"Well, I suppose if he's gotta, he's gotta," Jim said mock-regretfully. "I'll have to make do until he's ready."
"Name it. I'm yours to command." Blair said seriously, so seriously that Jim sobered and sat up, making himself comfortable against the headboard, automatically checking his gun and Blair's flint knife.
"Chief, I'm *all right*," he asserted again. "You don't owe me anything except maybe an explanation for why now, and why so frantically, as if you expected me to say no."
Blair sat up, too, naked except for his cloak of curls and a beam of golden sunlight, and he unselfconsciously went into lotus, brushing his hair away from his face. "I wish I could. All I know is that when I saw you talking to that woman, everything in me felt like she was going to murder you in front of me. I swear, if she had actually touched you, I would have killed her, positive as I was doing it that it was in self-defense. Once we got away, I was torn between wanting to scrub you clean of her presence with gallons of hot water and lye soap, or marking you so thoroughly any miniscule trace of her would be completely obliterated."
His voice was so stern, his demeanor so fierce that Jim automatically snapped back to working status, accepting the necessity of it with almost painful regret. "If it's any help, she felt wrong to me, too," he told his partner. "Too determined to get to know me, too willing to use sex to do it when I wasn't giving her so much as a direct look in encouragement."
"Could we have been made by one of local heavies?" Blair asked, visibly relieved that Jim was taking him seriously.
"So far there's no reason to believe they even know we're in their territory, yet, let alone able to connect their current problems to a grad student and a gym manager," Jim said firmly. "And if they had, you know as well as I do that we wouldn't be having this conversation; the local M.E. would be doing our autopsies instead."
"Point." Blair impatiently put a lock of hair behind his ear, sliding his fingers down to the end of it to twirl the strands around his thumb as he thought. It looked like a good idea to Jim, and he picked up one curl that was tickling his knee to idly use it as a paintbrush to draw abstract designs on his thigh. His skin was still so sensitized from love-making that the light contact sent goose bumps over him, raising up the hairs on his arms and legs. Distantly thinking that it felt pretty good there and would feel great elsewhere, Jim gave a tiny tug to encourage Blair to move closer.
Still thinking, his partner went along with the unspoken suggestion, fitting himself along Jim's side, head pillowed on his shoulder. "Do you remember Sam talking about Evil Leapers?" Blair asked suddenly.
"Yeah, but I thought we took care of that when we stopped Ziggy from becoming Lothos," Jim said disinterestedly.
"Well, if Sam could start Leaping as himself before he 'undid' the Project, maybe one of Lothos' agents made the same transition before we changed that history." Blair added his own strokes to the invisible pattern Jim was sweeping onto his belly, leisurely skating around the edge of it.
At his words, Jim stopped his play, considering the idea seriously. "You're right," he said finally. "And Sam might not know that, either. Which means wherever it is that he and Al are now, they could be in danger and not be aware of it. And *we* have no way of contacting them."
"Hey, no problem," Blair said instantly, leaning up on an elbow so he could cup Jim's face. "They're our backup, remember? That means they're keeping a close eye on us, and probably know everything we do." Thinking about what they *had* just done sent a sweep of color into Jim's cheeks, which Blair felt in his palm as well as in his mind, and he added hastily, "Uh, except for that. I'm sure they give us privacy."
Sam would anyway, Jim would be willing to bet. On the other hand, Calavicci, much as he liked the older man, was a scoundrel and tease. Though his companion would undoubtedly not co-operate for any peeping tom activities, Jim wouldn't put it past the admiral to have more than one sly dig on hand the next time they met. Uneasily, embarrassment increasing, he wondered what form the comments would take. Normally, it would have been the normal mano-el-mano bull that guys threw at each other when they knew someone had gotten lucky.
He knew how to respond to that, the kind of smart-assed comebacks that were acceptable, and the way to shut them down if the lady in question was more important than a quick lay. He had no idea how to deal with razzing where Blair was concerned. Or if he'd be able to at all. What they had was so completely beyond the experience of the average locker room crowd that he couldn't even imagine trying to explain it or defend it.
"Jim?" Blair asked uncertainly. "They wouldn't be, you know, disgusted or anything if they did get a peek. I mean, they're in the same kind of relationship."
Covering the hand on his face with one of his own, Jim planted a kiss in the palm of it, forcing away his momentary unease. It didn't matter if this was 'normal' by anyone's definition. For them it was right, he was blessed to have it, and he knew it. "We'd better make a point of repeating important pillow talk," he said mildly. "To be on the safe side."
Reassured, Blair went back to using him for a teddy bear, yawning hugely as he did. "Good idea. Probably should make a point of reviewing what we do know periodically, to make sure they are getting everything."
Finding the sloping curve of an ear to toy with, Jim nuzzled at his lover's forehead. "If there are other Leapers involved in this, Chief, it won't do us any good to tackle them. That's literally Sam and Al's domain. We stick to the problem on hand unless we hear otherwise. Okay?"
"..kay... Going to prowl later tonight?"
Yeah," he murmured, feeling himself relax into his partner. "We've almost got the underbelly mapped. All those nice slimy, slug trails are starting to make sense. If you're sure the best way to abort Sanderson's career is by making him poison to the people with money to bankroll and secure his kind of production, we'll have what we need in a few more days."
"Best way," Blair muttered. "Not done anything really illegal yet, or not enough to put him out of business permanently. And even among pornographers, his kind is the bottom of the food chain. There won't be anyone waiting in the wings to step into his shoes, and we can save not only Sammy Jo, but all those girls."
"He'll probably end up making info commercials for some netlet somewhere," Jim agreed. "Talk about your punishment fitting the crime."
Blair's answer was a breathy chuckle that ended on a soft snore. Sleep before spending the night wading through Boston's social sewers seemed a good idea, and Jim willingly followed him.
***
The smallest, most analytical part of Jim's attention couldn't help but wonder if Blair saw and understood the irony of what they were doing. Here, in the darkest, most dangerous part of town, the Sentinel made his way with all his senses up and focused on his prey, leaving his Shaman to actually tend to the business of keeping them moving safely and competently through forsaken alleys and back streets. And Blair did it with only his instincts and the minute flashes of feedback from Jim that never stopped darting between them.
They hadn't so much as bumped into a garbage can.
Ahead of them a small time thug who played at both bouncer and pimp, cockily strutted down the middle of the small street, randomly kicking at cars and garbage with equal disdain. If the information that Jim had overheard in the locker room today was good, the man was on his way to a meeting with a director who was looking for stage hands that weren't 'caught up in all this touch-feely woman's lib shit.'
It wasn't that they didn't know where Sanderson was, of course, or what his current project - a hardcore bdsm flick - was. It was that they were looking for a legitimate way onto his staff, and this guy might provide Jim with the opening they wanted, if it was Sanderson he was meeting with. So far their other strategy of derailing the funding wasn't proving to be very successful, though the local police department was murmuring with a mixture of confusion and happiness about their recent windfall of solid anonymous tips, clumsy criminals, and mysteriously appearing evidence. A few bolder souls occasionally even whispered about a man called Panther who used to hunt in DC.
The two of them had carefully watched the jockeying and reinforcement of position among the crime lords they had caused with their interference with local dealings. A few they had mentally marked as needing to come down as soon as feasible, but for the time being all they did was look for the one who might be behind Sanderson, providing him with a safe place to work and cash to do it.
Reluctantly they had come to the conclusion it wasn't someone looking for an investment in a high risk, high profit venture and a man reckless enough to do it. It was a private collector. That made derailing Sanderson a moot point. A collector would simply turn his attention to another director, in another town if necessary, and six different women, or more, would be the ones to die. To stop a collector, they would have to scare him off from actually backing that first film before he could discover the 'high' from the kill and become willing to chance being caught, no matter what, to have it again.
And they were running out of time. Sammy Jo would arrive in Boston in two days for her research sabbatical; she would vanish two weeks later.
A barely perceptible tug guided Jim past a wad of clothing inhabited by a very drunk human, and he answered with a shared image of their mark slowing, checking out doorways as if hunting for the right one. A moment later he vanished into a building, but Jim and Blair were already in position in an inky corner, the bigger man backed into it for support from the walls, while his partner stood sentry in front of him, hand resting lightly near his knife.
A casual glance would miss them; a studied look would mistake them for lovers taking advantage of hidden spot. An up-close inspection would leave the viewer unconscious, with only a fragment of a memory of black leather in motion to tell him what happened.
Chin almost to his chest, Jim focused his hearing on the people in the nearly empty building, having trouble making out their words because of the echoes reverberating through the huge room. Their target was only one of several there for an interview, and while Sanderson was present, it seemed he wasn't the only one with a say in the hiring. Letting his partner know with a squeeze that they might have stumbled onto the moneyman, Jim skipped past the three hoods, Sanderson, and the casting director to latch aurally onto the unknown person with the hope of at least being able to recognize his voice later.
Aside from guessing that he might be a heavy man because of a wheeze in his breathing and the ponderous way he moved, Jim could find nothing to distinguish him from any other person he met on the street. Frustrated, he signaled his intention to try to find an opening into the building and crept down the sidewalk, checking for a boarded window, shoddy door construction, anything. No luck. His next effort was to find a nook or ledge that they could hide in for the prolonged period of time it might take for all the occupants to leave. He could probably pinpoint the money man from the others by simple process of elimination, giving them half a chance to ID him.
All the while he gave the distorted, booming words of the interviews inside a fragment of his attention, stomach churning as the questions became more and more pointed about attitudes on women. Distantly he wondered what tragedies had given those men such a low opinion of the feminine sex, or if there was no reason at all except a need to hate *something.* The fists clutching his trench coat side and sleeve became white knuckled in strain, and he paused to check with eye and heart on his partner, worried about how much his Shaman was absorbing from him and the others.
A curt nod sent him back to work, but soon they were back in their original corner to confer silently on what to do next. Before they could cobble together a workable plan, Sanderson gave a cheerful farewell to his candidates, thanking them for their time and telling them that he would be in touch with their selection either late tomorrow or early the next day. In the meantime, their sponsor would like a private word, and he sailed out of the building with no more warning than that.
He had no sooner cleared the threshold than 'their sponsor' said in a dead, dead voice, "I'm sorry, but none of you met my qualifications. These gentlemen will show you the way out."
Thinking to catch a glimpse inside the still open door, Jim had started to move, but picked up speed to a run, dragging Blair with him, as the sound of guns clearing cloth and clicks of them being readied assaulted him. They were safely around the corner, deliberately kicking the drunk sprawled at the corner to warn him as they went, when the first shots were fired. Choosing an angle that would let him see the reflection in the glass of a car near the ajar door, Jim watched the four thugs die, gunned down by two more of the same breed. There was no sign of the man who coldly ordered their death for no reason other than they didn't hate women enough.
Not even considering trying to follow one of the shooters back to his boss, Jim shrank into the wall at his back, trying to become one with it as the gunmen spilled out of the building, looking up and down the street for potential witnesses. Telling himself that he and his Shaman were too far away to be spotted, he still had to fight down the urge to run, run now! Take Blair to safety! as he watched the wino trying to stagger away from the sound of shots. The drunk's movement only alerted the crooks to his presence, and every muscle the sentinel had tightened in preparation to try to help. Quick as his reflexes were, there was no time. One blast added the wino to the murderer's list of victims, Blair's mind echoing angry sorrow from both of them.
The killers split, checked in both directions, then came back to nod that the job was done, calmly walking away in different directions as the first far off wail of sirens sounded. When he was positive that they were distant enough, Jim gave in to the imperative clamoring at him and literally ran from the scene, not caring if they were noticed now. A few blocks away he forced himself to slow to a walk, strolling into the well-lit, well-populated street with a casual demeanor totally belied by his pounding heart and invisible quaking.
Beside him, Blair wiggled out of his black shirt, tying it around his waist with shaking hands and leaving the plain white tee he'd worn under it in place. He freed his braid from where he'd stuffed it down the back of the tee, added a long, dangly earring, then took out his cane, gliding into position for his partner to guide him. Jim made his own minor alterations to allow him to blend into the new background, but his Sentinel mindset was locked so tightly into place, he wouldn't have been surprised to see people steer around them to avoid the glaring madman walking down the street.
Thankfully Blair didn't seem to have a problem with that; if anything, he was as tightly locked into Guide mode, if the constant strokes and pats on Jim's hand and arm were any indication. Somehow they managed the requisite small talk to the bus stop and on the way to their apartment, falling silent once they were safely on the way up the stairs. Once home, they showered and fell into bed, clinging to each other frantically, weapons near at hand, neither willing to begin a conversation on what happened.
It took every relaxation technique they knew to convince themselves they were safe, at least for a time, and both took it for granted they were going to return to their habit of one always being on guard. Too keyed to sleep, Blair nominated himself for the first watch, sitting up against the headboard, Jim's head pillowed in his lap.
Smoothing the short hair under his fingers, he whispered just as Jim was ready to drop off, "This is too much for us, man. We're not ready to deal with someone that cold, that evil."
"You want to leave?" Jim asked, for once not sure of the answer.
Blair hesitated, but answered, "Part of me does, yeah: the primal part leftover from when my ancestors made up rituals to keep evil spirits at bay. But the thinking part of me keeps saying, if not us, who?"
"Do you think that would help?" Jim said seriously, partially surprised that he was the one who was willing to suggest it. "A ritual, I mean. If so many people from so many cultures think it's a good idea, well, maybe it could be."
"That means it will be us, doesn't it?" Blair said bluntly.
"Can you really walk away? Sam aside, what we owe him aside, those innocent women aside, could anybody who knows what we do really walk away?" He knew he sounded defeated already, and truth was, he wasn't so sure they weren't.
Blair wasn't going to allow that attitude. "Then we go into it *assuming* we're going to win, Jim. Not because we think we're invincible, not because we're holy or special, but because we *have* to. No room for doubts; you have to believe in the outcome for it to happen."
"Part of the ritual, Chief?" he said tiredly.
"Yes, it is." Blair was unyielding in his firmness. "And it works, at least part of the time. Why else would people keep doing them?"
Despite it all, Jim felt a shiver of pride and love in his mate, and it helped him push away his fear. "Okay, so what else besides confidence is needed for this ritual of ours? Fasting and a blessing of our weapons? Dancing under a full moon naked? A virgin sacrifice?"
"If I said yes, would you actually do them?" Blair asked, semi-seriously.
"Well, we're too late for the virgin part, but I could manage a few steps if the drums were right." Jim smiled, thinking of Blair wheeling to pipe music by candlelight and the urge he'd had to join him.
Laughing softly, Blair tweaked Jim in a sensitive spot, making him yelp. "I might throw that in just so I can see it!"
Capturing the teasing hand, Jim kissed it. "You've only got to ask and you can have a private performance any time."
"Actually, I have a different kind of performance in mind," Blair murmured, raising their joined hands to return the gesture.
Though sentinel instincts snarled that it was too dangerous to be distracted by sex right now, his Shaman soothed with the promise of that release would let him relax and focus better, and Jim leaned up to whisper against his mouth, "You only had to ask."
end part
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