Author's Notes - Please see end of story.

DENTURED

Ignoring a twisting pang of hunger, Blair checked his reflection in a plate glass window, making sure every detail of his appearance was just right. He had quickly discovered the trick to not being chased away from an outdoor café as a starving homeless man out to grab leftovers from the tables was not to look like one, even if that was exactly what he was, now. His jeans and flannels were in good condition with just a touch of dust on them, as if he had been hard at work all morning and would be dropping them in the laundry five minutes after getting home that evening. His hair had been recently washed and was tied back, and a hard-hat that looked worn but not *too* worn dangled casually from one hand. Ear protection hung around his neck, and his boots looked new, but broken-in comfortable.

All in all, Blair decided, he gave the perfect impression of a construction worker who was just taking a short break from the job or waiting to meet up with someone, exactly like he intended. It made the extreme effort needed to keep clean and presentable when living on the streets more than worthwhile, since no one would give him a second look, especially the sharp-eyed waiters who had been trained to keep the bums away from the customers. He had to be careful not to stay in one spot too long, though; that would look suspicious, no matter how he was dressed. But in the months he'd been scavenging for the necessities of life, he had picked up the knack of drifting from one vantage point to another without calling attention to himself, and already knew the best places to wait at this particular establishment. All gave him good views of the outdoor dining area and were close enough that he could quickly, casually walk by and scoop the food off the table when the customers were gone.

Targeting the people most likely to leave enough leftovers to make the risk worthwhile was important, too, but he had that down to a near science, Blair thought with some satisfaction. It was an unexpected skill, like many others he'd discovered in himself since he had changed his life so drastically. In a way, it was a bonus from his studies as an anthropologist and time as an unofficial police consultant.

Clenching his fists, he shuddered. A wave of despair and agony caused by the passing memory of that lost life hit him, but he forced himself to concentrate on what was important in the here and now. Helped by the ache in his empty stomach, he got through it, once again.

Two women or more, Blair reflected silently, doggedly grabbing after his original chain of thought with mental hands. Are almost never worth waiting for. They either eat as if they're on a diet - especially if they're casual acquaintances - or pig out totally and clean their plate, something they only do if they're close friends. A man and a woman dining together are fifty-fifty chance at food, usually. But if she's dressed expensively, and they're giving off date vibes, then she'll almost always order an expensive meal and hardly touch it.

Leaning on the wall in a deliberately casual stance, Blair snorted to himself, despite his intense focus. He'd been on the wrong end of the wallet of that 'you want me, better be able to afford me' attitude a few times. Again he had to stomp down on his mental meanderings, this time succeeding before the pain could rise. As luck would have it, his best bet seated themselves at the well-shaded corner right at the edge next to the sidewalk, mercifully distracting him from his internal struggle.

Forgetting everything but the possibility of a meal, he scoped out his target: two men, obviously not friends, but business associates of some kind or another. They took perfunctory glances at the menu, and launched into a discussion on something that was probably of earth-shaking importance to them and to no one else in the whole fucking universe. From the waitress' self-satisfied air when she walked away, he guessed they had ordered lavishly to impress each other. Most likely, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation, they would leave behind a significant portion for much the same reason. All Blair had to do was hang on and not blow his cover.

Without warning, he heard Jim's voice in his head, repeating those words in varying tones of amusement, affection, warning, and deep worry, just as he had so often in the past. Buckling under the onslaught of loss and longing the memories of him always released, Blair fought to stay aware through the emotional overload, tears swimming in his eyes. When the worst of it was gone, leaving behind the bitter regrets he had taught himself to ignore, he struggled back to his feet, using the wall for leverage and stepping back into the shadows. Furtively he glanced around to make sure no one had noticed what had to be to them odd behavior, then stubbornly went back to the mindset of acquiring food.

Though his appetite had disappeared into his turmoil, Blair knew he couldn't afford to miss any chance to eat; the faint trembling in his hands told him that. He hadn't been able to find a pick-up job at any of the construction sites in three days, and the food kitchens had been swamped thanks to the latest round of layoffs at the docks. The tiny amount of cash he had left was needed to keep his place at the shelter, no matter how hungry he got. As token as that sum was for what essentially amounted to a roof, locker, and cot, it was important as proof to himself that he hadn't given up on trying to find his way out of the broken existence he led.

Pulling himself together as best he could, he shifted position with studied casualness enough to see the faces of his target clearly. The one big disadvantage to businessmen, Blair thought, yet again dragging his mind back to the problem at hand, is that they can take twice as long to leave as anybody else, even women on a major gossip tear. These two seem to be in a hurry, though.

The waitress brought out a tray, not of drinks, as Blair was expecting, but of appetizers. Heart sinking, he realized that his panic attack - which is what he had always called his mini-breakdowns for of lack of any thing better - had lasted longer than he realized. Automatically he checked out the other diners to gauge their progress in hopes of estimating just how long, noting uneasily that several more tables had filled.

He blinked, positive that low-blood sugar was causing hallucinations. That couldn't be Jim sitting with a woman and child at the corner table immediately behind the businessmen. It couldn't. Jim hated outdoor cafes, for one thing. For another, the food at this place was filling, but mostly badly seasoned; it survived because of location. Jim would never be able to stand the cooking. Besides, besides, besides....

With an effort Blair stopped making excuses and accepted what his heart had wanted to believe all along. That it was Jim sitting there, chatting casually with a lovely woman, including the young boy with them with the ease he'd always had around children. They must have already ordered, because their menus were gone, and they seemed oblivious to anyone outside their little three-person world, heads bent toward one another in a private circle.

It gave Blair the chance he needed to drink in the sight of Jim, eagerly looking for signs that he was happy and doing well. A luncheon date - so far from the police station - boded well in the personal relationship department. Maybe Jim had finally found the right Mrs. James Ellison. Certainly this warmly smiling woman, affectionately teasing her son, was a vast improvement over most of the barracudas and criminals Jim had dated in the past.

Professionally, it was nearly impossible to say how Jim was doing based on just appearances, but Blair thought he saw signs that pointed toward at least not having any problems there. Jim *was* away from his desk in the middle of the day for a personal matter, which he wouldn't do if he were under any stress at all, like working on a hard case or suffering under IA scrutiny yet again. Nor did he seem to be in any particular hurry to return to it. He had the subtle air of a man not watching the clock, but taking the time to enjoy the moment.

Still, there was something in the way that he held himself, a tenseness or wariness, that worried Blair. For a mad moment he considering easing closer to be able to get a good look at Jim's expression, confident he would be able to read much, even if Jim was hiding behind one of his masks. But moving toward him might be enough to attract the notice of the wary soldier part of Jim to make sure of who was getting inside his personal perimeter.

In fact, I'm stupid for staying here, Blair thought. Move! Before he sees you! Or the wind changes and he scents you! Move! The last thing you want is for him to find you!

His feet stayed put, as did his eyes, and no amount of derision or badgering that he aimed at himself changed that. The compulsion to stay exactly where he was, soaking up every second of being near the person that embodied all the missing pieces of his life, the precious reason Blair endured the purgatory he existed in, was too strong. Surely Jim had long ago given up looking for him, worrying about him. If he did notice Blair lurking in the shadows like a feral cat, he'd probably just toss off a careless wave of hello, and go back to entertaining his lady.

The rationalizations worked better than the dire warnings, and he relaxed fractionally. Even if Jim's over-protective nature still had him searching for Blair, this was the last place he'd expect to find him. There couldn't be any harm in just reassuring himself, just for a little while, that he'd done the right thing.

Food forgotten, hunger forgotten, Blair watched Jim enjoy his lunch, giving every indication that he was enjoying the company of his companions, as well. It seemed to be mutual; the little boy especially lit up under Jim's interest as if he seldom had reason to be happy. As the meal progressed, Blair couldn't help but wonder if that were exactly the case. From the tone and level of conversation, it was clear that the child was either very small or very bright for his age. He ate slowly, what little he did eat, and his hands were noticeably shaking by the time he gave up on trying to feed himself.

To Blair's astonishment, Jim took up the task of getting a few more bites in him, doing it so offhandedly that the boy probably didn't suffer an ounce of embarrassment at being fed in public. A few minutes later the woman stood, discreetly leaving cash for the bill and an envelope next to Jim's plate, and warmly made her farewells. Unlatching the gate at the corner of the fencing around the café that had been put in for handicap access, she picked her son up and carried him away, leaving the gate open.

Uncertain whether he was more surprised that Jim let her carry the child without his help, or that Jim let a date pay, Blair waited for him to leave as well. Instead, Jim scrubbed at his face with both hands, then turned slightly in an odd way that Blair didn't understand, and looked right at him. They stared at each other across the distance for a moment or an eternity, until Blair couldn't stand the pain flowing between them a moment longer. He glanced away, only to inevitably look back, unable to deny Jim his chance for whatever closure he needed.

He moved closer, into punching range if that was what Jim wanted to do, for once without word one on his tongue. This was Jim's show. He owed him that for disserting him, necessary as it had been.

When he was a few feet away, Jim rolled back from the table in a wheelchair, expression empty and worn. "Did you really think," he said tiredly, "that I wouldn't know you were there, Sandburg?"

"I...." Blair stared at the leg that ended above the knee, the empty pant leg folded under the stump. "I...." His eyes skittered up to meet Jim's, and the enormous change there was more than he could stand seeing. His mind shut down and he ran, knowing nothing but more agony and dread than he knew how to live with.

* * *

Fingers tightening on the rims of the wheels of his chair, Jim watched Blair go, not surprised when he immediately ducked to one side to be out of his line of sight. Only Sandburg, he thought with an amazing lack of rancor, would remember in the middle of a full-blown retreat to compensate for sentinel abilities. But then, he's always had a handy capacity for being able to think on his feet. The really interesting question was what will he do next?

Jim couldn't even pretend he had an intelligent guess to that, and, with the ease of traveling a well-worn path, resolutely turned his mind away from Blair. He had other things that had to be done, and he turned back to the table to pick up the envelope Mrs. Eden had left, kicking his pride hard to let him do it at all. Heading for the hospital, he of necessity gave his full attention to navigating sidewalks and crosswalks that were nowhere near as accessible as the city council wanted to believe. Even after nine months of making his way in a wheelchair, it was still a grueling trip, and he arrived nearly snarling with exhaustion.

Thankfully the bank of elevators he needed was close to the entrance Jim preferred, and he rode up to the neonatal floor, pretending not to see the nurses sharing the car with him edge away. Half of the oncology staff thought he was a monster, thanks to how well he had handled nearly puking himself to death after his one go of chemo. The ones who had tried to restrain him during the single round of radiation were sure of it, and that he was insane besides. He supposed it was only that strange sense of duty nurses had in general, to take care of patients no matter what, that had kept them from smothering him to death in his sleep.

At times, it was hard to forgive them for that. The rest of the time Jim was sure it was their punishment for being such a god-awful patient.

The doors finally slid open, and he wheeled through them, turning toward the neonatal unit out of habit. It was the one place Jim was sure of his welcome. Much as the nurses might hate him, they would put up with him there for the good he could do, though he'd overheard more than one whispered comment that it didn't make sense that such a bastard could be so good at soothing their littlest patients. Jim was hardly the only volunteer who came in to rock sick preemies and infants, but he was the one that over-worked, over-stressed parents looked forward to seeing come.

Today no one was in except for Gladys, who had run the neonatal ward since God was in diapers, and despite her short, matronly form, probably still intimidated Him. She didn't even look up from the charts she was updating into the computer, but said, "Baby Doe had a bad night; work that magic of yours and give him a few hours rest."

With a bare grunt of acknowledgement, Jim eased the tiny baby from his bassinet, careful of the tubing and wires, wrapping him up warmly before tucking him under his chin, hands holding him just right. Far too weak to cry, the infant made a tiny noise of pain, then squirmed, as if adjusting himself to get the most of the body heat and comfort being offered. Closing his eyes, Jim concentrated on what his skin and ears told him, fingertips barely touching the crown of the downy head. Murmuring nonsensically, he rocked slowly until the baby went to sleep, at peace himself for just a little while.

Several hours and three sleeping infants later, he begrudgingly turned a little girl over to her worn, but happy parents and left for the children's oncology unit for a tutoring session. Though twelve-year-old Trevor Morgan, brown eyes sunken in a too-thin, ghastly pale face, looked as if he was on the edge of hurling from his chemo, he gamely propped himself up in the bed and opened his math workbook. Bluntly, Jim said, "Get anything done?"

Just as bluntly, Trevor said, "Not a heck of a lot, but some. Come on, go over it with me before I have to spew."

"Spew, then we'll work."

"Naw, it's no fun unless I can aim for someone's shoes, and you dodge too good. Besides, I like adding fractions. They actually make sense, you know?" Trevor picked his pencil and stared down at the paper, as if daring Jim to argue, free hand nervously playing in what was left of his black hair.

Easily recognizing the attitude for the misery it was, Jim simply went over the numbers with him, not surprised that what had been done was correct. They worked a few more problems together to so he was sure Trevor understood the concept, and went onto the next lesson.

"Hey, there's ten more problems," Trevor protested, holding the page down so Jim couldn't turn it.

Shrugging, Jim said blandly, "Work 'em if you want the practice or get bored stiff with nothing else to do, but you don't need it, and you do need to start multiply and dividing them. Don't worry; they'll still make sense."

vTrevor's response was a razzberry, but he turned the page and listened as Jim went through the first few problems with him. Typically he caught on very quickly, though after a half an hour or so, the pencil was trembling in his grip. Wanting to give him an honorable excuse to rest for a bit, Jim stretched hugely and rolled his chair back and forth a few times.

Watching out of the corner of his eye as if he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure that a question would be in character with the attitude he copped, Trevor tapped his pencil against his notebook. Jim waited him out, but before the kid could make up his mind, a series of loud wails from the next room had them both wincing.

"That one's still screaming," Trevor muttered disgustingly. "Like she hasn't already been here for a week."

"We all scream," Jim said indifferently, holding up his hands and flexing them as if all his attention was on that small movement.

"Yeah, but sooner or later you stop. Doesn't do any good, anyway."

"Sooner or later," Jim agreed. "But it takes as long as it takes, you know?" He waited a beat, then said to his knuckles. "Most keep screaming, but only on the inside."

With studied indifference, idly thumbing through the pages of his notebook for effect, Trevor said, "You think?"

"Sure. You can see it in the way people pinch their mouths shut, sometimes. And in parent's eyes when they think nobody's looking." Spinning the chair in a small circle, as if practicing the move, Jim added, "If it sucks, it sucks, and telling yourself that you just have to swallow that down and get on it with it doesn't stop the simple fact that *It Sucks.* So it's okay to scream how unfair it is, and how much you hate it, even if it's only to yourself."

Jim came to a dead stop and pinned Trevor with a hard look. "As long as you go onto the next part, that is."

"Next part?"

"That you're just like everybody else. Maybe the part of your life that sucks is easier to play the pity card for, but the fact of the matter is everybody's got their problems. The point of the exercise is to get around them, past them, through them, whatever works for you and get to the good stuff."

Tone oozing skepticism, Trevor asked, "What good stuff?"

Reaching over and tapping the workbook, Jim said gently, "That's up to you to discover, because it's *your* good stuff."

"Huh!" But Trevor didn't argue, and he went back to his math looking more thoughtful than fractions warranted.

Twenty minutes later Jim left him with his mother, accepting the envelope Mrs. Morgan discretely gave him with something resembling grace. The trip home to his one-room basement apartment took what was left of his strength, and he let himself in with very real relief, parking the chair out of the way in the corner next to the door. For a long minute he just sat there, seriously contemplating this once just going straight to bed.

That was the one mistake that could easily lead to never getting out of bed at all, and Jim finally boosted himself up onto his good leg. Braced with a crutch and firm grip on all the hand-holds he'd installed, he went into his microscopic kitchen nook with its hot plate and mini-fridge and checked the cupboards. More from necessity than desire, he took down one of the cans of instant soup, mentally counting the few meals he had left. While it heated, he added up the money in the envelopes, amending his grocery list to accommodate the total.

It wasn't much, but it was enough for a while longer, and trying to find that heartening, Jim ate his soup, ignoring the silent screams for Blair echoing in his own head.

* * *

It took three days for Blair to pull himself together enough to face Jim, which he had known, on one level or another, he was going to have to do even as he ran from him. Of all the scenarios that his mind had dredged up for him during the restless, barely sleeping nights on his cot in the shelter or while endlessly roaming trying to find a safe, dry place to doze for a few hours, the possibility of Jim doing or being anything but a cop had never once occurred to him. He was that sure of sentinel priorities and necessities; he was that sure of Jim, himself.

The worst case he had imagined was Jim's abilities going dormant again, leaving him like he'd been before - a good cop with conviction in what he did. Blair had wanted to believe the most likely state of affairs was Jim partnering with Megan, or some one like her, who was willing to work with and around the unique problems and benefits Jim's senses created. At the heart of himself, he had hoped with everything he had that Jim had grown beyond the need for that kind of backup. There had been indications of it in Jim's ever-growing confidence and skill in being a sentinel. Every time Blair had thought he had a handle on what Jim was capable of, he'd step up another level in precision or depth, usually with little guidance from him.

Though he expected Jim to hunt for him, if only to give him a piece of his mind, Blair knew he wasn't really needed anymore. Instead, he had become a liability that Jim couldn't afford, thanks to that damned dissertation of his. He had never doubted that he had done the right thing by leaving to protect Jim and let him live in peace.

Walking slowly toward the café he where he'd seen Jim, wondering if his trembling was obvious to people passing by, Blair unwillingly called up the image of Jim's missing leg. Finally he silently admitted to himself, Sure I was right until now. It's the same leg shot by Zoeller. An infection? Some bizarre sentinel complication that the doctors couldn't anticipate? Did I leave too late? Damn it, I should have booked the minute I found out that Sid had the dis. Maybe he was hurt in an accident? Did the doctors give him something or do something I could have stopped if I'd been there?

Mentally sighing, he gave up on the endless litany of questions he had no answers for. Until he found out how responsible he was for Jim's condition and made what restitution Jim would allow, he wasn't going to be able to live with himself. Not that I'm doing such a great job of it right now, but at least I used to be positive I had done my best for him.

Coming to a stop in almost the same place he'd bolted from before, Blair looked at the table where Jim had been sitting, almost as if that would conjure him into being there. A lone woman, book in hand, sat by herself, and Blair turned away, digging his fists into the pockets of his jeans, and considered the restaurant's location. Cascade Central Hospital's not far. Close enough for a man in a wheelchair to make without too much trouble. It's got a good rehab center; maybe Jim's a patient there? Or was?

It was a good place to start, and he went in that direction, wishing he had the strength to stand going to the loft and facing Jim there. Four blocks away Blair saw a person in a wheelchair coming toward him, and he stopped where he stood, waiting anxiously until Jim caught up to him. By the very tips of his fingers he managed to hide his reaction to the flat resignation in Jim's eyes and said softly, "I have to know."

Jim considered him for a long moment, then nodded once shortly. "Not here. My place isn't far."

Unable to prevent a jump of surprise, Blair let him lead the way, falling into step beside him. Of course, loft, stairs, undependable elevator... I would have thought Jim would take all that as a challenge, though.

The new apartment was a single room tucked into the rear corner of a basement, probably converted from a storage area for the business in front. It had a long, gently sloping ramp, though, and a serious steel door, along with steel shutters for the row of short, skinny windows running along the top. Almost from habit, Blair looked at it from a sentinel's perspective. Good light, and good visibility from the inside, and I'll bet Jim's got one of set of shutters rigged so that he can get in or out through them without being seen. Once a cov-ops Ranger, always a cov-ops ranger.

Taking Blair's hesitation at the threshold for granted, Jim let himself in, parked his chair by the door and carefully stood, clumsily using a crutch once he was upright. Not quite blocking the door, he didn't exactly invite Blair in, either. They were back to staring at each other, speech damned by immeasurable amounts of regrets, sorrows, and pain.

When the urge to take off again began nagging at him, panic a living thing fluttering under his breastbone, Blair blurted, "I need to know."

Not pretending he didn't understand why Blair had to ask, Jim said bluntly, "Bone cancer. We have Zeoller to thank that it was caught early; showed up on the x-rays the doctor ordered when the leg didn't feel right to me while it was healing."

"Oh." Blair sagged against the doorframe, mind whirling. Chemo - for a sentinel? He couldn't begin to imagine how bad that could be; radiation would probably be worse. "How long ago?"

"Couple of weeks or so after you left."

The lack of acrimony in his tone pricked at Blair, but he pushed his guilt aside. "Guess you sold the loft to make things easier until rehab was done, huh?" To his dismay there was a quaver in his voice, though he had wanted to hide how much it bothered him that he could never go back there again.

Oddly, that hint of distress seemed to get through to Jim. He slowly reached out and caught Blair by the elbow, steering him inside and nudging him into sitting on the long twin bed along the wall opposite the door. The gentleness in his grip, so completely at odds with the barrenness in his expression, alarmed Blair, and he hung on tight to the edge of the mattress with both hands. "Jim?"

With less grace than Blair expected, Jim pivoted to perch on the edge of the only luxury in the room: a large leather recliner set counter-corner to the bed. Elbows on the edge of the arm rests, hands loosely linked, he said quietly, "Once the press got our address, it only took four days before someone with a grudge followed them. I got everyone out before the bomb blew, but just barely. The building was a total loss."

Eyes closed, Blair hunched in on himself. "I didn't tell them, Jim. I did *not* tell them. They were just there when I got home that evening, laying in wait for me, asking why I was being hired by the department if I was a fraud, and did it have anything to do with you being my roommate."

"I know. I got home first, saw them in time and parked around the corner to come in the back way, then tried to get in touch with you to warn you, but couldn't get through. And it never occurred to me that you were the leak behind that particular bit of news. We never found out who was."

"Most likely one of the same cops who wondered out loud and in total disgust what a self-confessed liar was doing getting a badge, or more accurately, *who* was he doing?" Blair said, distantly wondering why there wasn't any resentment left. The harassment they'd both taken after the few hours it took for word to get around about the job offer should have supplied enough for the rest of his life.

Blair shook his head hard, dismissing the subject because it wasn't important to where they were now. With what he wanted to be honest cheer he said, "Well, at least the insurance money had to come in handy lately."

For a moment, there was a flash of the old Jim: jaw muscle jumping, eyes sparkling dangerously, shoulders back and straight as if ready to go on the offensive at the slightest provocation. As quickly as it came, it was gone, and Jim slumped, studying his hands and flexing them as if they ached. "Insurance company refused to pay, claiming the policy was void because the destruction was a direct cause of my own negligence. Their contention was that since I knew that having my home address become common knowledge could lead to a direct attack, I should have vacated and put the loft up for sale immediately."

"God." The knowledge of what Jim had gone through in less than a year was horrifying, tearing at his mind and spirit, and Blair asked weakly, "Didn't the department give you any support? If your insurance company screwed you, another one could do the same to other officers."

Letting out a sigh in a long, slow hiss, Jim considered him for a moment, clearly trying to make up his mind. Just as Blair thought he would clam up or change the subject, he said tightly, "I want to get out the shit cleared out now and get it over with. Just remember that *none* of this is your fault, in any way. Got me?"

Before Blair could answer, Jim went on in an even, quick clip designed to get information out as fast as possible. "Simon and I pulled a lot of strings to get you hired, but with all the new attention from the press and you leaving without notice, it all rebounded back on us. I'd just learned about the cancer, so I made Simon step clear of it and took the heat. For the record, he didn't want to and put up a hell of a fight, but the fact of the matter was that being sick actually worked for me. Who's going to want a decorated 'cop of the year' crying harassment when he's in the hospital with a terminal disease? Simon has Daryl to think about, and the rest of Major Crimes needs his support on the job. It meant he and the others had to officially distance themselves from me, and frankly, it had to go to the personal level as well to be believable."

"Your Dad, your brother?" Blair asked, dully.

Looking away, Jim massaged one hand with the other. "Had washed their hands of me when they found out about you becoming a cop. Just as well, all of it. Last thing I needed when I was in a hospital was to have to deal with anybody's pity and good intentions. If they could have even stood being around me; we both know what a lousy patient I am."

The last was probably meant to be humorous despite the flat tone, but Blair didn't find it funny at all. Every word of Jim's had impacted brutally, making Blair's head spin, though there wasn't the slightest trace of anger directed at him. Not the hidden, denied feelings he expected, but *none,* as if Jim had truly never blamed him for any of the hell his life had become. That was the worst part of it all, more than he could bear.

Sparkles flitted around the edges of his vision, and Blair realized he was going to faint a split second before darkest surged up to claim him. From a long, long distance away, he heard Jim's worried exclamation of "Blair!" That he still cared, that concern for him was still part of Jim's makeup, hurt unbearably and he surrendered to unconsciousness with shameful relief.

* * *

Expecting Blair's reaction to his accumulation of news to be bad, Jim wasn't particularly surprised when his vitals started going through the roof. Despite that, he worked so hard at staying detached from his own recitation of agony, that he was caught off guard when Blair toppled forward, out cold.

Lunging forward and calling his name, Jim barely caught him before he hit the floor, and somehow got his shoulder under him well enough to heave him back on the bed. Silently cursing at himself for his carelessness, he swung over to sit beside Blair and straighten him into a comfortable position, checking his pulse. His skin was cold and clammy with incipient shock, and Jim tugged the edge of the blankets up to cover him as best he could, not liking how *thin* he was under his many layers of clothes. Nor was it easy for him to accept the sour tang of starvation destroying Blair's normal fragrance.

"What exactly have you been doing with yourself?" Jim asked. "You dropped off the map so completely Simon and I were both sure you had left the state, at least." He hesitated, but the desire to know was strong and Blair wasn't likely to tell him without being pressured, the last thing his obviously over-stressed nerves needed right now. That in mind, Jim looked him over again carefully, this time with a detective's eye.

Despite the apparent clues that Blair worked construction, he couldn't be doing it daily. There wasn't enough grit trapped in the treads of his shoes or ground in under his nails or caught in his pores. Scent didn't back it up either. In fact, the stale, unwashed body smell that clung to him - though he was clean himself - reminded Jim of jail cells and decrepit bus stations. Or homeless shelters. Christ, Blair, you didn't have to go that far to hide from me. You just sounded so bad - panicked, holding in tears, hurt. Once I was sure you were all right, I would have made myself scarce. Not willingly, maybe, but I would have given you your space.

For the thousandth time Jim mentally replayed that last phone conversation with him. He had been at the door to the balcony, looking down on the news vans and reporters camped in the parking lot and listening to Naomi try to talk herself into calming down. When the phone rang, he had snatched it up, half-way expecting to find that his home number had been given out, too, snapping, "Ellison."

"Jim, man...."

"Sandburg?"

"... Not coming home. Can't. It's just so fucked up. I fucked up."

Instantly worried, Jim said, "Where are you? I'll come get you, give you a ride."

"No. I said I can't. Shouldn't anyway, that's as good as can't isn't it?" Blair gasped, as if choking down sobs.

Focusing his hearing with all he had, Jim listened for other people around Blair, holding him hostage or threatening him, but there was only the lap of water against rocks and distant road traffic. "Chief, you okay?"

Laughing, with an edge of hysteria under it, Blair said, "No. Don't know if I ever will be again, either. Look. I'm not coming back. When everything's all settled down, if it ever does, I'll get in touch. Tell Mom to go ahead and leave for that spiritual tour, all right?

"No, you..."

Blair had hung up on him, and no trace of him had been found, despite all the effort he and Major Crime put into looking for him. Naomi had dithered, but finally did as Blair had instructed, much to Jim's relief. She was sure that Blair had just left to take time to calm his chi and clear his aura. But then, she hadn't heard what was in Blair's voice; he had.

Jim brought himself back to the here and now with a start to find his palm covering the crown of Blair's head, as if in prayer, and he snatched his hand away despite wanting to do anything but. The privilege for that sort of friendly contact had been revoked, and nothing Blair had done or said had given any indication that he was willing to reinstate it or any other kind of familiarity, for that matter. On the other hand, Blair was sliding straight into sleep, as if the sense of Jim being close let him truly rest, and there was no reason Jim couldn't see to it that it was deep and restoring.

Moving cautiously so he wouldn't disturb him, Jim got up and went into the kitchen to quickly heat a cup of soup, so that hunger wouldn't wake him prematurely. He wasn't worried that noise or light might; the place was soundproofed and had blinds suitable for a sentinel. When the soup was ready, he sat back down beside Blair, and doing his damndest to make his touch impersonal, he coaxed him into half-sitting, half-leaning against him long enough to get nourishment into him.

Though he never really woke, Blair eagerly drank it down, rolling to his side and curling up once it was finished and Jim laid him back down. Taking off his boots, he covered him warmly, then took a moment to study his position. It looked more defensive than comfortable, and Blair would wake up too soon, sore and stiff, if he stayed balled up so tightly.

Without thinking and using the same painstaking, almost not-there pats and strokes he used with the sick babies he tended, Jim made small adjustments to Blair's position, drinking in his tiny sighs of relief and comfort. Tucking in a pillow here for support, folding a blanket there for extra warmth on chilled flesh, he read what was beneficial by those soft sounds, along with the tension in muscles and thrum of nerves. By the time he was done, Blair was so far under that it would take a major earthquake to wake him, and Jim no idea what to do next.

Absurdly, what he wanted to do for no reason that he could fathom, was to simply sit there and keep watch over Blair until he slept himself out. After that maybe get a decent meal into him, then repeat as necessary until there was some hint of the Blair that he had known in this deliberately nondescript, diffident, somehow fragile specter. Failing that, at least get hint of what had spooked Blair into abandoning his old life entirely, so that Jim had a hope of a chance at fixing whatever the hell it was.

What he had to do, however, was get back to what had to be done right now, and Jim automatically glanced at his watch. He had three tutoring sessions this afternoon, and hated the idea of postponing. Lessons were always planned around the kids' treatment schedule to be able to work with them when they were hopefully feeling their best. Taking two containers of his carefully hoarded beef stew from the freezer, he put them in the slow cooker to thaw and heat with the hope that Blair would help himself when he woke. Using more firmness with himself than he should have had to, Jim left, uncharacteristically wavering on his decision as the door shut behind him.

Looking at, but not truly seeing the lock, he slowly reached for it, key in hand. Since his room had once been a secured storage area for the business over it, it had to have a key to get either in or out, unless the panic bar was hit to open the door, setting off alarms. Jim had long since disengaged the panic bar, preferring total control over anyone coming in or out over what he considered the minor risk of being trapped inside himself.

In this instance, though, Blair might not appreciate having his access blocked, probably taking it as yet another trust issue on Jim's part. But there was only the one key and Jim didn't want to leave the door open, more for Blair's safety than any concern he might have over his meager possessions. Or that was what he told himself, managing a sincere enough a mental tone that he was almost convincing. With a microburst of resolve, he engaged the deadbolt, effectively locking Blair in until he got back. Assuring himself that Blair would most likely sleep until his return anyway, he turned to make his way to the hospital.

Despite that, he silently argued with himself as to whether or not he'd done the right thing, and in the end, simply pushed it into the realm of 'it's done now,' and got on with his day. Dealing with any kid took presence of mind, especially sick ones, and Jim knew better than to give them less than one hundred percent of his attention if he wanted to be taken seriously. It was a challenge that he'd learned to like, to his own wry amusement, reminding him of the best days at 852 Prospect.

For once the comparison didn't ache, and Jim made it through his first two tutoring sessions without any problems. His last lesson of the day was with Trevor, and when he arrived, Trevor was on his side, leaning over a bowl and vomiting violently. Looking near to tears, his mother hovered nearby, apprehensively patting his shoulder and back, ineffectually offering comfort. Her tentative gestures were at odds with the confident, professional clothing and manner the petite brunette usually had.

Her distress was only making Trevor's worse, and Jim wheeled in and said in as off-hand a tone as he could muster, "No lessons today, I see. Since I'm here, want to take a few minutes to grab a coffee, Mrs. Morgan? I'll sit with Trevor until you get back."

Dithering, Mrs. Morgan looked back and forth from her son to the door, gray eyes plainly showing how much she wanted the escape and just as plainly that she felt too guilty to take it. To encourage her, Jim added, "The cafeteria has those purple popsicles - he told me once that they were about the only thing that tasted halfway decent that had a chance of staying down when things got like this. The cold from them felt good on his throat, too."

With a legitimate excuse to latch onto, Mrs. Morgan said, "Are you sure? He doesn't really like company at all when it's this bad; I just can't see where it could possibly be a good idea for him to be alone. What if something happened?"

Catching a glimpse of pure pleading from Trevor, Jim said, "I'm sure. He had some independent assignments, and I can look over them while you're gone so that you and I can discuss them later."

In a surprisingly composed voice for the misery in her expression, she said, "Well, he does love those popsicles. Trev?"

Trevor gave her a thumbs up between gasps and waved her off. With a wane smile and last pat to his shoulder, she walked away, though Jim got the impression she would have preferred to run. A moment later he heard her start to cry, though as quietly as she could. When she was swallowed up by the elevator, Jim moved to the bed, not certain what he should do. Mostly the families of his students preferred not to have him around when they weren't doing well, and he was usually just as glad, hating how useless and hopeless their suffering made him feel. Pretty much the way Mrs. Morgan is feeling right about now, he thought. And probably why Mr. Morgan's never around at all.

A shudder of empathy went through him as Trevor vomited again, bringing up only bile. Dry heaves were the worst part, in his opinion, remembering his own bout with chemo so vividly, his muscles started to hurt. He could see that Trevor was hurting, too, especially between the shoulder blades.

The image of Blair tucked into bed with every inch of blanket and pillow situated for maximum comfort hit Jim. On impulse, he went out to the nurse's station and got a few chemical hot packs, wrapping one in a small towel as he went back to Trevor's room. Once there he stood, bracing himself on the bed, and held the improvised hot compress against Trevor's back, trying to judge by breathing and body language whether or not he was using too much pressure. With a small moan of relief, Trevor leaned back into the compress, telling Jim that he was on the right track.

Deliberately using his senses the way he had instinctively with Blair earlier, Jim focused on other areas on Trevor's body that showed signs of physical distress. Too much strain on his abdomen, Jim thought clinically. Support just under his naval might make it easier to stay in position over the bowl he's puking into. Won't have to work so hard at staying upright. Rolling up another towel with his free hand, Jim placed it just under Trevor's hip until he could feel him rest his weight on it.

"Man," Trevor barely whispered, relief clear in the faint sound. Surprisingly, a few moments later his heaves faded away, first into sharp hitches in his breathing, then into stifled hiccoughs. He sprawled forward, pulling a pillow into his chest to stay off his queasy stomach, eyes half-closed in exhaustion.

Clearing away the bowl, Jim sponged off Trevor's face with a cool washcloth a nurse must have left behind, using a barely perceptible touch that seemed to help him feel better. "Why not catch a few z's until your mom gets back? I can take what you've done home with me to check over; today was only going to be review of stuff you know down-pat."

For a moment Jim thought Trevor would nod off without comment, then he mumbled, "Got reading. Hate it and put it off too much."

Respecting his unwillingness to give in to his illness, Jim said, "That was vocabulary, wasn't it? What say I read aloud, then ask you to give me definitions."

"Good by me."

Shifting so that he had a hip on the bed to ease the stress on his leg, Jim began to read, one eye on Trevor, keeping his voice soft and level, nearly a drone. One hand on the book to keep it open, and the other spreading over the small of Trevor's back, he monitored him closely through the blanket, occasionally fine-tuning the placement of bedding until he had Trevor cocooned in as much physical ease as he could create. Before long, Trevor drifted off, and Jim dropped into his wheel chair, absently massaging his thighs and thoroughly satisfied with his accomplishment.

Hoping that Trevor's mother and the nurses wouldn't disturb or move him, Jim quietly left for home, keeping his promise and taking Trevor's workbooks with him. Once outside his own door, he stopped and listened, halfway expecting to hear Blair fuming at him. Instead there were only the sounds of a sleeping man, and he let himself in as silently as possible to keep from disturbing him, surprised at how well he did, all things considered.

There were indications that Blair had been awake, at least briefly, to use the bathroom and eat, and Jim looked him over with an idea to improving his position, the same as he had earlier. It was easier this time to judge what to do and how to do it without rousing him, and Jim wasn't sure if it was because helping Trevor had given him practice or if it was just easier when it was Blair he was reading. With that food for thought, he added water and beef bullion to the stew to stretch the servings, tended to the small chores that were part of his evening routine, and settled into his chair with papers and lesson books, cheese and crackers at hand for his dinner. Through it all, he kept an eye and ear on Blair, subtly reassured by the steady thrum of vitals and small mutterings he remembered so well from when they were roommates.

Before long he dosed off, not unusual after a long day, but he kept waking long enough to check on Blair, as if it wasn't enough for his subconscious that he was close enough to hear and scent, but he had to see and touch him, too. Each time he confirmed Blair's reality, he would fall asleep again almost instantly, and despite the frequent interruptions, it was the best night's rest he'd had since Blair had left.

It was late morning when Jim woke for the last time, mentally checking the time and his schedule for the day. Though it was one he had imposed on himself to keep him from sinking into lethargy, he took it as seriously as any he'd had because of his job. Tempting as it was to use Blair as an excuse to slack off, this once, he couldn't afford to let himself treat this day any different from any other. Most likely, Blair's presence was only temporary, and his daily goals were the bedrock of his ability to handle his life.

Excuses in place, he carefully got up, hesitated by the bed, one hand stretched toward Blair, then stubbornly went into the bathroom, taking a change of clothes with him for after he had shaved and showered. He came out ready to start breakfast to find Blair leaning against the door jamb to the closet, looking rumpled but ready to do battle. Without the slightest inflection in his voice, he said, "You locked me in."

"Not really," Jim said, wondering to himself why he was bothering with a delaying tactic that didn't have a chance in hell of working. "You have to know I wouldn't rent a place with only one exit, even if it were legal to do it. Watch."

He turned off the bathroom light, then opened the closet door and turned it back on at the same time. One side of the closet slid away without so much as jarring the stack of boxes supposedly propped against it, leaving a path to what could only be the rest of the basement for the building above them. "Used to be a freight elevator. There's a door to the main street on the far wall. I would have thought you'd be able to find it."

Not responding to the diversion by so much as looking at the door as it moved, Blair said with a little more warmth in his voice, "You locked me in."

"Jesus." Jim struggled to his chair and dropped into it. Of the hundreds of times he'd mentally rehearsed this conversation, he'd never found an opening volley that wasn't accusatory or angry or any one of a dozen other things he *didn't* want it to be. He opened his mouth, not at all sure what would come out and praying that it wouldn't be too awful. "We could have gotten through it."

To his surprise, Blair winced, and plopped down onto the bed. "At what price?" Not giving Jim a chance to counter, he added tiredly, "I made it upstairs that night. I heard you and Mom yelling."

Blindsided by what seemed like an irrelevant sidebar, Jim scrambled to remember what he could have possibly said then that had tripped Blair over into panicked flight. Cautiously, he addressed the cause of the argument itself, hoping to find a clue in Blair's response. "Naomi *did* agree in the beginning to get behind the idea of you becoming a cop, and I promised when she did that she'd get her chance to present the alternatives she had in mind to you. She just wasn't very happy about it or my methods."

Clearly surprised, though Jim couldn't tell by what, Blair nevertheless said, "You pressured her into it - and I thought she was immune to being intimidated into doing something she didn't want to do."

With a shrug of his hands, Jim said, "I was motivated and knew what buttons to push. I still think I was right, much as it didn't work out the way I'd hoped. You *did* deserve to know that your friends at the department were behind you, trusted in you. I honestly thought that having a job option on the table would make it easier for you to regroup and decide what you wanted to do."

Blair looked positively shell-shocked, prompting Jim to add with a naked sincerity that was both painful and a relief, "I would have backed any move you wanted to make. I won't lie. I wanted you as my partner, but if you hadn't been able to see your way to carrying a badge, we *would* have been able to make something work for us."

"I didn't hear enough," Blair muttered to himself, though Jim understood him perfectly. To Jim he added, voice and expression both questioning and painfully uncertain, "Mom shouted that I wasn't a killer, that I could never pull the trigger, and you agreed with her, Jim, you *agreed* with her."

Trying to recall her words and his with crystal clarity, Jim said slowly, "Naomi thinks that anyone who pulls a trigger is a cold-blooded killer, no matter what reason they had to do it - even self-defense. I agreed with her that you weren't one, and that it was dangerous to be in the field with a partner that that I couldn't trust to defend me. There didn't seem to be any reason to point out to her that I had already relied on you to watch my back for several years at that point, and you'd never let me down in any way. Nothing was going to change there as far as I was concerned."

Shrinking in on himself without so much as moving a muscle, head down as if he wished he could vanish, Blair said, "Not that it mattered, did it? In the end it was all for nothing."

Until that moment Jim had thought that he'd known every kind of pain possible - knew the depth and taste and coil of every hurt a man could take on his soul. But the utter loss and anguish coloring Blair's voice as he realized how much he'd given up for a sentinel who had ultimately proved to be useless was a new brand of agony that made all of it look like a slap on the wrist. He bit down on a scream, drawing blood from the inside of his cheek, exhaling until his lungs were empty and blackness edged his vision.

Only then did Jim draw in a slow, careful breath, locking down on everything but the moment he was in. Though his first impulse was to say or do something to make up for what Blair had lost because of him, he had nothing to give that could even come close. That left doing whatever it was that came next, and from habit he checked the clock.

Awkwardly standing, unable to look at the dejected form in front of him, Jim said, "Look, I have a therapy appointment in a bit. Why don't you shower up while I fix breakfast? I've got a few changes of your clothes; got them from your locker at the department. We can pick it up from here then if you want. If not, I've got some news you might want to hear, most of it a lot easier to hear than the crap we've had to wade through so far."

Wordlessly Blair got up and shuffled into the bathroom, moving as if he'd taken a beating. He shut the door behind him with a finality that told Jim what he could expect from Blair for the rest of his life, and it was the last blow to almost vanished reserves of control. With more haste than care, he made breakfast and put out the clothes, and, calling himself every kind of coward that ever existed, left. Locking the door without thinking about it, he wheeled away as fast as he could, wishing for the very first time that he could still run.

* * *

When Blair came out of the shower, he was surprised to find himself alone, but not surprised to find that he was relieved by it. Everything was so different from the way he thought it would be for Jim and all of it so wrong! He could barely wrap his mind around it, and hadn't really had a chance to try, thanks to the exhaustion that he'd been staving off for weeks. Yesterday, as if it had just been waiting for a moment of weakness - or maybe a safe place, he admitted ruefully, accepting that just being in the same room with Jim made him feel more secure - it dropped on him like a rock.

Thanks to the enticing scent of home-cooked stew, he'd managed to crawl out from under once, mindlessly standing over the crock-pot and stuffing himself. Appetite sated, he had blearily aimed himself at the door, standing stupidly in front of it for several long minutes while he tried to figure out why it wouldn't open. Finally he'd wearily given up on the puzzle, hit the bathroom, then gratefully collapsed back into bed, out halfway down.

It had taken the familiar and much-missed sounds of Jim getting ready to start his day to pull him awake again, this time much more clear-headed, and he'd lain in bed while the shower was running, trying to understand why Jim had locked him in the day before. The most plausible explanation, to Blair's mind, was that he hadn't had the chance to really rant at him yet, and feeling that he owed it to him, he got up, deliberately choosing an opening line to give him an excuse.

Jim hadn't used it. Instead he had given Blair yet another reason to find a nice, quiet, private place and do nothing but process for a couple of years or so.

Dressing quickly and tying his dirty clothes into a bundle, Blair headed for the door, but pulled up short at the sight of food waiting for him, debating with his plaintively complaining stomach for an instant before folding the scrambled eggs into the toast for a sandwich. No need to piss Jim off even more by wasting it, he reasoned. Not like you can reheat eggs, really, and they'd start to spoil, leaving a bad smell for him to deal with when he gets home.

His stomach didn't care about the excuses, and he took a huge bite as he reached for the doorknob to let himself out. It didn't budge, and he stopped mid-chew, hesitated, and tried to turn it again. He did it again, Blair thought in disbelief. That sonofabitch locked me in. Why in the hell did he do that!"

Absently he finished chewing and swallowing his mouthful, stepping back from door and staring at it as if it were a valuable artifact that he was trying to evaluate. It refused to give up whatever secrets it held, and he spun on his heel, going to the emergency exit Jim had shown him earlier. On command, it performed as it should, and Blair ping-ponged his gaze back and forth between the open door and the locked one.

Nonverbal communication, Jim Ellison style, Blair realized, heart kicking at his chest. He shut the emergency door, and sank down on the bed, mechanically eating his sandwich and thinking furiously. Okay, it's been nearly a year, but I could still be considered the expert on the language. All I have to do is add it up. Let's see, he fed me, gave up his bed for me, didn't yell or freeze me out, stopped me from leaving, but left a way out if I needed it.

On the surface, it could only mean one thing. He wants me to stay, but will understand if I don't want to. Shaking his head at himself, Blair denied the possibility. No way. I'm misreading the whole situation. I have to be the last person he wants in his personal space. How can I be anything but a reminder of the wasted effort he went through to accept his abilities? All that work to learn to use them, the price he had to pay every day to have them, and it was all made pointless by a few rogue cells in his own body. God, just looking at me has dredge up more unbearable memories than anybody should have to face.

Misery rose up to take control of him, making his last swallows dry and painful. Before it could get too firm a grip on him, though, Blair caught sight of his pack of laundry sitting at his feet, looking out of place on the bare floor. It was so odd to see it there, that he couldn't help but think, Jim kept some of my clothes? This place is so tiny he hardly has room for his own.

A spark of memory pulled Blair to his feet, and he went back to the closet, this time consciously looking at the boxes lined in front of the escape exit. Two of them had his name written neatly on the side in permanent marker. If the loft blew up, wouldn't all my stuff be gone? Curious, as much as anything else, he knelt down and opened the top one, hands freezing in place on the box flaps when he saw his laptop, his copy of "Sentinels of Paraguay," and the few other precious possessions he would have wanted saved from destruction.

Not knowing what to make of their continued existence, Blair reverently touched the book's cover, feeling the same old spark of awe and excitement, then slowly set that box aside to open the other. It was filled with his journals, a few of them slightly smoke-damaged and water stained, but all in good condition. Didn't Jim say he barely got the building evacuated in time? But he somehow managed to save these? Then took care of them when he didn't know if he'd ever see me again? Why?

The answer was obvious, much as Blair could hardly believe it. Jim still thinks of me as his partner, even though I left without warning. Just like Jack Pendergrast, when I vanished, he gave me the benefit of the doubt, despite having plenty of reasons not to. In his mind, I was his partner, and he trusted me to be doing what I had to, even if he didn't understand what or why.

Stunned, but with the evidence too strong to doubt his conclusion, Blair said aloud to make it more real, "My God, he still does. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here; he would have dismissed me like I didn't exist the moment he realized I was watching him at the café."

Another thought occurred to him, and Blair frowned. "Unless he needs me with help for his senses. No, he would be angry if that were the case, and acting like a bastard for having them turn on him for what must feel like the millionth time." His frown deepened. "That is, if they're still on-line at all. Wouldn't the surgery, if nothing else, shut them down in pure self-defense?" He hadn't really had time to consider all of the possible ramifications of Jim's illness, with or without his abilities intact. For Jim's sake, he should, if only to repay him for not losing faith in him, and for setting aside his role in the disaster being a sentinel had become.

Taking out the book, then closing and replacing the boxes, Blair retraced his steps back to the bed, and sat cross-legged in the middle of it, mind racing. For a moment his conscience nagged at him to be out finding work and not continue to live off Jim's hospitality, but he ruthlessly squashed it. Jim wanted him to stay. If he was going to be any use to him at all as a partner, and there was no question that's what he wanted, he needed to *think,* long and hard.

Morning bled into afternoon, then into early evening as his brain worked feverishly, and the lone book on the bed gradually accumulate the company of journals, hastily scribbled notes on scrap paper and the laptop as Blair went over everything he had learned or theorized about a sentinel's health and well-being. A trip to the library for Internet access was going to be necessary, he decided somewhere along the way, and possibly to Rainier University Library to find some of the less well-known journals he needed. That could wait until he had a chance to question Jim about his condition, though - a possible battle of wills that Blair actually found himself looking forward to.

For reasons he didn't care to examine too closely, he didn't want to leave his refuge just yet, anyway. The readily available pot of stew and bathroom close at hand were a convenient pretext, along with the hope that Jim really did want to find him waiting for him. Then too, it was the first chance he'd had to savor any privacy since forever, and it was amazingly relaxing.

Deeply immersed in a list of references he wanted to check, Blair hardly heard Jim come in, and he glanced up to find him smiling at him, a strangely satisfied look on his face. "You know, Sandburg, I've often thought that if a coven of vampire wannabees captured you for use as a sex-slave and conveniently handy snack, you'd spend your spare moments out of bed and conscious studying texts on their condition and writing a paper on their cultural antecedents."

Giving him his most innocent air, Blair said, "They'd let me out of bed?"

To his delight Jim's smile broadened to a grin. "Even vampires have to rest once in a while." Locking the brakes on his chair, he stood, wobbling a bit out of what seemed like sheer fatigue to Blair, and went to check the crock-pot.

"Bad day at therapy?" Blair asked uncertainly, wary of Jim's reaction to a personal question despite the fact his presence was obviously welcomed.

"No better or worse than any other session," Jim answered with unexpected frankness. "Still haven't been able to find a prosthetic that I can stand for more than fifteen minutes, tops."

"New skin on the stump not reacting well to the material they're made of?"

Just like that the conversation was up and running, with Jim filling him in on the details of his diagnosis and current health. He stayed with the startling candor and lack of self-pity that he began with, not down-playing the bad parts, but all of it sounding almost as if it had happened to somebody else. Blair's initial caution wore off quickly, and he asked for the details he needed to understand what was going on with Jim physically, gladly leaving the emotional aspects for later.

All while they spoke, Jim freshened up the stew and pulled together a chef's salad, and Blair moved to help clean and chop vegetables, the two of them working in the tiny space without so much as a misstep. When they were ready to eat, Blair held Jim's bowl for him without asking while he settled in his chair, handing it to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jim accepted the help with the same attitude, a minor miracle in and of itself, in Blair's opinion, making him privately wonder just how deep the changes in Jim went.

He didn't want to bring that up just yet, though, but when the talk somehow segued into how he had spent the days and nights since leaving the loft for the last time, Blair tried to match Jim's openness with more of his own. For some reason the recitation of the bare facts of his shambling life came without pain or discomfiture, making the sorrow in Jim's eyes easier to bear. He imagined his own had looked much the same when he'd listened to Jim describe his days of struggling just to get by.

Once he was done, they somehow wandered onto easier, happier subjects, and Jim caught him up with the news on the guys in Major Crimes, Simon and Daryl, even Naomi. That lasted until they cleaned up from their small meal, faltering only when the last dish was put away, leaving of both of them uncertain what to say or do next. It was the first awkwardness that had ever fallen between them since that bizarre moment when Blair had tried to impersonate a doctor to introduce himself to a potential sentinel, and Blair had no idea how to dispel it.

Leaning back on the door, one foot propped against it, Blair mentally scrabbled for a new topic or, at the very least, a graceful exit line, but he was still too raw to tackle anything more emotionally loaded than 'how's the weather.' Nor, to be strictly truthful with himself, was he ready to leave. Jim's company was a balm on nerves Blair hadn't realized were so ragged, and, despite indications to the contrary, a part of him was convinced that once he walked out the door, he'd never see Jim again.

Regardless, he said blandly, "It's getting late. I'd better leave or all the good cots at the shelter will be taken when I get there."

Wringing out the sponge and propping himself against the sink, Jim said sharply, "Good cots?"

Not wanting to go there, Blair shrugged dismissively.

Visibly reining in whatever he wanted to say, Jim looked away, jaw muscle jumping. Just as the silence became to heavy to tolerate, he said unemotionally, "The C-line buses don't run after six, so you're in for a long walk." He paused, though not long enough for Blair to fit in another shrug. "You could stay here tonight."

"Hey, you gave up your bed for me once already; no way am I kick you out of it again," Blair protested, sounding sincere despite wanting with all his heart to stay.

Still not looking at him, Jim said, "I spend most nights in the recliner; easier to get out of than the bed."

His explanation sounded reasonable, but Blair wasn't sure he could trust his own judgment, he wanted to believe him so much. The honesty he'd used earlier bubbled up, and Blair said without intending to, "I want to stay, but I don't want to wear out my welcome, either."

Meeting Blair's eyes, relief flashing through his, Jim said with equal sincerity, "You won't." Summoning a partial smile, he added, "Since you've already established a beachhead on the bed, you might as well consider it yours for the time being. Like I said, I usually spend the night in the recliner, and it's not like there's another chair to offer you."

Eyeing his accumulated clutter, Blair said, "It's like osmosis. I start studying, and things just start stacking up."

"What are you looking for, anyway?" Jim asked, sounding a little distracted as he made his way to his chair and dropped heavily into it.

Blair sat too, opening the file on his laptop that held his notes, reticent to bring up any aspect of Jim's sentinel abilities for fear of pouring salt into the open wound of all that he had lost with his leg. A file on Jim's drug reactions caught his eye, and he said without so much as a pause to indicate his mental hesitation, "What I've got on your hospitalizations and injuries, how you healed, that sort of thing, in case there was something useful to give your doctors."

"Find anything on scar tissue?"

Filtering out the issues they'd already covered, Blair ran through the rest with Jim, falling into the habits of a researcher without thinking. Several hours later, when they were both stifling yawns, Blair finally shut down his computer, only then noticing that Jim hadn't balked once at being a 'subject' again. It had felt natural, as well; more like the give and take of a discussion than scientific query and response. Wondering if that were another change in Jim or one in himself, he cleared the bed as Jim stood to get ready to sleep.

It seemed to be something of a struggle for him, and Blair forgot everything to watch him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye until he was in the bathroom. Blair worried that it was so difficult for Jim to do even the most basic of things; surely by now he should have adapted to the changes in balance and mass distribution. He seemed too tired, as well, if the deep lines around his eyes and mouth were anything to go by.

His concern went deep enough that he found an excuse to be at the foot of the bed when Jim came back out of the bathroom, alert to every nuance of how he moved. His intense focus on him allowed him to know at practically the same moment Jim did that he was going to fall, and Blair was beside him in an instant, braced to catch and steady him. Underestimating how much strength it would take, he stumbled under Jim's weight, half-falling himself into the wall between the closet and bathroom doors.

Jim thumped into him, pinning him against the brick, hands digging into Blair's shoulders as he fought to get his good leg under him. They both grunted from the impact, Jim's containing an element of pain, then they shifted in unison, adjusting their stance until Jim was only resting against Blair. Hands at Jim's waist to help support him, Blair froze in place until Jim stabilized himself, muscles flexing in ways that didn't feel right.

Expecting him to pull away once he was steady, Blair was caught off-guard when Jim dropped his head to Blair's shoulder, panting harshly. From pain, Blair knew without asking, though he couldn't determine the cause. Gentling his grip, he waited it out with him, too afraid to so much as pat his back or hug him in case he accidentally added to his hurt.

Eventually Jim's breathing returned to normal, body relaxing in infinitesimal increments until it was obvious the worst was over. Still, he didn't move away, but leaned heavier into Blair as if he didn't have the strength or will to stand on his own. Not that Blair minded. The solid reality of him hard against his body was a reassurance he couldn't easily turn away from.

Jim must have felt the same. With a tiny sound of approval, he nuzzled into Blair's throat, his breath tickling and tingling its way down the collar of Blair's shirt to curl pleasantly over the skin of his chest. He lifted his head to brush his cheek over Blair's ear, then dragged his chin over the crown of Blair's head, creating more tingles that trickled down Blair's spine, chasing out a small moan of pleasure from him.

Going still at that small noise save for fists clenching and unclenching where they rested on Blair's shoulders, Jim said hoarsely, "Stop me. Now. God help me, I can't stop myself."

There was a pleading urgency in his voice that tried to wake the same in Blair, and he ordered himself to push Jim away, to release the hold he had on Jim's hips. Both commands were blatantly ignored, and Blair whispered imploringly, "I can't." He pulled Jim tighter against himself, thrilled him with the rightness in it. "I can't."

Feeling Jim's resistance and will build, Blair tried to steel himself for his withdrawal. Thankfully, *wonderfully,* Jim abruptly succumbed to whatever need was driving him. Inhaling as if his lungs were empty, Jim relaxed completely, molding Blair into himself until they fit together almost seamlessly. Slowly running his hands up and down Blair's upper arms, Jim went back to nuzzling Blair's face, bumping lightly with his nose, cheeks, and chin, mouth open as if to taste the wisps of scent the contact released.

Though the heat from him melted any brain cells still working, leaving Blair preternaturally aware of his own body, it wasn't a sexual awareness. It was a sensual one, awakening his flesh to the delight of being touched, the wonder of having nerve-endings that knew soft from rough, satin from burlap. Mindlessly he yearned for even more than what Jim lavishly bestowed on him, but had no words to ask for it, even if he could have pinpointed precisely what he wanted.

As if he had the same longing, Jim began to explore Blair's features with tiny, tender kisses that were exquisite in their delicacy. A random thought bounced by - Jim's lips are more sensitive than his fingertips, he has to be looking for more sensation - but Blair didn't bother to pay much attention to it. Sparkles and shivers of pleasure danced over and through every part of him until he was trembling, eager for whatever Jim wanted to do next.

When Jim brought his mouth to Blair's, slightly open, breath rushing in and out, he willingly accepted the caress, acknowledging that it wasn't a kiss so much as it was a sharing. They breathed into each other, trading the essence of their lives until Blair was dizzy and weak-kneed.

Why that awakened his slumbering desire, Blair didn't know, but awaken it did, and he unhurriedly transmuted the near innocent claiming of lips to fiery possession of them. Jim responded to that change with a growing hunger that made Blair's cock harden uncomfortably, trapped as it was between the unforgiving tightness of his jeans and Jim's muscular thigh. When he shifted to relieve the ache, Jim took it as a cue to transfer them to the bed, maneuvering Blair so that he lay under him. Blair caught a glimpse of the demanding need in Jim's eyes as they moved, and an answering surge of pure lust stabbed him, making him cry out. Planting his feet flat on the bed, he angled his hips up to cradle Jim's, bringing their erections into perfect alignment.

Moaning his name, Jim drove down onto him, and Blair answered with a thrust of his own, setting up a liquid rocking that was intended to go on as long as possible. The intimacy of their love-making was more important than the release that was its ultimate end, and Blair sent his hands to wander over every inch of Jim that he could reach, coming to rest at last on either side of his head, cupping it gently. They stared into each other's eyes, watching pleasure rise and reflecting joy at its creation until they could no longer hold back the need for climax.

Blair broke first, clinging tightly to Jim and bucking frantically as his finish roared through him, overwhelming him to the point that all he knew was the throbbing ecstasy of his finish and Jim's triumphant shout of completion. When he came back to himself, sleep so close he could have easily faded right into it, Jim was dead to the world, sprawled on top of him, head pillowed in the curve of his shoulder. That suited Blair just fine. He wasn't ready to face the questions of why now, straight or gay, one-night stand or relationship, sheer loneliness or something more, or even was it good. It was enough for him that he was sated and content all the way to the core of himself, and that Jim was with him, the heavy mass of him better than a blanket or teddy bear from keeping away the night fears and worries. With a yawn and final wriggle to get them in the perfect position, he followed Jim into sleep.

When Blair woke the next morning to the sound of the shower running and dawn light filtering gray and cold through the high windows, he wondered at first the night's love-making had been only a wet-dream, albeit the most realistic and vivid one that he had ever had. But his jeans were crusty and stained at the crotch, and his skin still held the echo of Jim's body heavy on his own. Jim's scent, well-mixed with the aroma of sex, surrounded him like another blanket, warming him through and through.

Too comfortable to move, he listened to Jim start his day, vaguely concerned at how the 'morning after' would play out, but too mellow to really worry. Jim had always been at ease with his sexuality, so 'gay panic' and its accompanying terrified outrage didn't seem at all likely; given it *was* Jim, stonewalling and denial was most likely.

Snuggling down into his pillow, Blair supposed that he should at least be trying to figure out how he felt about last night himself, but couldn't find any real reason to bother. It wasn't as though he hadn't had a passing interest occasionally, even specifically about Jim once in a while. His problems had always come from other people's perceptions of his bedroom activities, not any questions he had about his masculinity or orientation.

At the moment none of it felt very important, and Blair sleepily contemplated the differences between being kissed by Jim and by anybody else, not that there was a living soul who even came close to the sweetness and passion in Jim's kisses. He wouldn't mind more of them, he admitted freely to himself: a lot more of them and everything that went with them. Daily would be good, hourly even better, but he would take what he could get, even if it was just the memories of a single night's worth.

There was something troubling about that, a more alert and questioning part of his mind pointed out, but before Blair could bring himself into focus enough to discover what, he heard a hard thump, coming from the bathroom, instantly followed with a loud "Damn!" from Jim. A heartbeat later he was in the bathroom himself, being a crutch for damp, naked Jim as he lowered himself to sit on the closed toilet seat. Jim's features were contorted in agony, and he grabbed the upper part of his stump, squeezing so hard his knuckles turned white.

Kneeling beside him, Blair could see the knots of bunched muscles, and he snagged a bottle of lotion from the back of the tank, drenching his hands before methodically pummeling the worst of them. "Does this happen often?"

Mumbling curses under his breath, Jim worked on a particularly painful looking cramp near his hip. "Can't... seem to convince... *this* part that... the *rest* isn't there any more."

"Huh. Is that normal for amputees?"

"How the...damn, damn, damn... am I supposed to know?" Jim snapped.

Glaring up at him, Blair said, "Maybe because you asked your doctor, your therapist, another amputee?"

Jim just grunted, but Blair could almost hear him thinking that if his reaction wasn't normal, the last thing he wanted was for someone else to know about it. It was actually comforting to know that some things didn't change, as least where his stubborn, overly self-reliant, reasonably paranoid partner was concerned. Burying a smile, Blair added, "I'll add that to my research, get it done as soon as I can."

Between the both of them, it didn't take long to massage the cramps away, and Blair gave a last, long stroke from thigh to scar, making sure they were gone. He glanced up to confirm that there was no pain left in Jim's expression, and found him staring at him, eyes dark and smoldering with desire. Hastily taking a mental step back, Blair saw the erotic connotations in their respective positions, and couldn't help stop an answering surge in interest in himself.

Along with the desire, though, was a wariness in Jim that Blair easily recognized. It was the same barely disguised vulnerability that he'd seen in more than one girlfriend after he'd just slept with her, silently asking him if he still respected and cared for her, or if she was another notch in the bedpost now that he'd gotten what he wanted. He had never like seeing that in anyone, but it especially hurt him to see it in Jim.

He knew exactly how to counter Jim's guarded stance, and leaned in to kiss him, putting every ounce of reassurance and affection he could into it. To his surprise, Jim took command of the kiss at once, turning it into a solemn declaration of intent that was incredibly arousing, despite its seriousness. Breaking away, fingers carding through the curls on either side of Blair's head, Jim said apologetically, "I have a doctor's appointment early this morning."

Blinking, Blair dragged his mind away from his libido, worry immediately coming to the forefront. Seeing it, Jim hastily added, "Routine checkup and standard tests."

Studying him, Blair decided he was being up-front with him. "I'd go with you just to keep you company, knowing how much you love doctor's offices, but I really need to see if I can find some work." He stood, offering Jim a hand up. "In fact, I should get going; the construction guys troll for their day help way early."

Unselfconsciously taking it, Jim said, "I'll dress in the main room then, so you can clean up now." He paused a beat, then added, "You'll want to change; I think I've got at least one more pair of your jeans on hand. You can toss your laundry in with mine, then we could do it together later tonight. It's a pain in the ass for me to do on my own."

Happiness bounced through Blair, both at the request and the admission - and the invitation underlying it. Grinning, he said, "Sounds good to me." Jim grinned back, and for the first time in a very long time, Blair felt ready to face the world.

* * *

Watching Blair walk out the door to go to work was the hardest thing Jim had ever done in his life, including laying on an operating table, waiting for a doctor to cut off his leg. It didn't help that they had already set up a meeting time and place only hours away, or that Blair had been more like his old energizer-bunny self when he left. Too many of the people who had never come back to him had been given no choice in the matter; that could happen all to easily this time, too.

Stomach clenched so tightly that breakfast was out of the question, Jim made a lunch for himself, and, on impulse, made another, imagining Blair's shyly pleased face when he gave it to him. Digging into a reserve of good coffee he kept on hand for a rare treat, he made a large pot, filled his thermos, then grabbed his pack and left, heading in the direction of the street corner where unemployed manual laborers hung out hoping to catch the eye of a contractor or construction foreman needing extra help. It was hard to imagine Blair mixing with that crowd; it was mostly the chronically unemployable or illegal immigrants.

With that at the front of his mind, it didn't really surprise Jim to find Blair in the middle of a confrontation with five Hispanics, or that he was handling it with a calm aplomb that had to confuse his adversaries. Back to the busy street, lamp post at one side, to keep from being surrounded, he faced the lead aggressor with a loose, easy stance that proclaimed utter confidence. To Jim's discerning ear and eye, though, Blair was terrified: one raised fist or shouted threat from making a run for it or possibly having a heart attack.

Quickly scanning the area for the cops who patrolled regularly along this avenue for problems just like this one, Jim scooped up a thin metal pipe about three feet long that had been discarded near a dumpster, lay it across his lap, and put on a burst of speed to get close enough to help if he could. With a loud, firm, 'coming through,' he rolled right at a skinny, nervous type with his hand in his pocket, playing with what Jim was sure was a switchblade. The group broke apart to make room for him, and he slapped the end of the pipe up to hit the skinny guy's wrist, hopefully numbing his fingers too much to pull the knife. At his yelp, Jim said, "Sorry about that, damn chair is fucking clumsy to handle."

Totally belying that, he snapped a sharp spin that left him beside Blair, hoping like hell that the machissimo that many of the immigrants lived by would make publicly attacking a cripple in a wheelchair as imaginable as wearing a hooker's dress. If not - well, it wasn't as if he'd never been beaten up before. Affecting an unconcerned tone, he said, "Left your lunch behind, Sandburg."

Taking it with the same false casualness, vitals settling considerably and effectively hiding his startled reaction to Jim's unexpected appearance, Blair said, "Hey thanks, Jim. Thought I'd forgotten to finish up something when I saw you coming."

"No, I'm all set. If the doc keeps me for the night, I'll leave a message so you won't have to drop by tomorrow," Jim lied blandly, to give Blair a plausible cover for their relationship so it couldn't be used as an excuse for more animosity. Handing up the thermos, he added, "Bonus, if you will. My old captain sends this to me on a regular basis."

With genuine eagerness, Blair snatched it from Jim's hands. "Not that flavored crap, right?"

Around them the murmurs of anger and hostility took on an edge of confusion and worry, growing loud enough that Jim didn't think it would be wise to pretend he didn't notice. Glancing around, he asked the guy who seemed to be in charge, "Problem?"

In unaccented English with a hard edge to it, the middle-sized, but very muscular man said, "Not at all. Merely having a discussion with Mr. Sandburg here about... competition."

Opening the thermos and using the top as a cup, Blair said mildly, heartbeat raising again, "And I was pointing out that differing species can occupy the same environment without being in competition because they take advantage of differing resources. For instance, because I have a commercial driver's license, I am not looking for the same opportunities as these other gentlemen." He took a sip of the hot, sweet coffee and added reverently, "Ohhhh, man. I like your idea of a bonus."

By now the aroma was filtering through the morning air, and Jim was willing to swear he could see noses twitch. Calculating possible repercussions, he slowly reached into the pack hanging from the back of his chair and took out the mug he carried for use at the hospital. "Still haven't been able to get a union sponsor?" he asked, working on fragmented memories of what his brother Stephen had mentioned about working with them, and handing the mug to Blair.

"Hey, no family, no connections." Holding up the mug and looking questioningly at his lead adversary, pointedly ignoring the others, Blair wordlessly offered a drink. "Technically, I'm a scab when I fill in for a missing driver or operator, but since the alternative is sometimes closing down part of the site and half the crew missing a day's pay, people look the other way. And I start my shift shoveling and end it shoveling, so there's plausible deniability."

With a gracious inclination of his head, the man accepted the coffee and Blair poured it for him. "This is not what you trained for, si'?" he asked, as if only making conversation, using a sharp gesture to push the others back a step as they grumbled their restlessness.

"He trained as a teacher, patrona," a young man said unexpectedly, coming up from behind him. "Even now he teaches. From him, I learn to drive and how to pass the exam for the commercial license, and I am saving for the fee."

"Hmm," the man said noncommittally. He sipped at the coffee and broke into an honest smile. "I agree - this is an excellent 'bonus.' You would teach others if they asked?"

"If they ask and have some idea of how the big rigs work. Not everyone is capable of handling that much horsepower and size. Site foreman has to okay it, too, and it's *strictly* off record." Finishing his own coffee, Blair put the top back on the thermos and casually stepped off the curb, breaking off the conversation and the confrontation. "I really appreciate you bringing me my lunch, Jim. You going to be able to make your appointment on time after coming out of your way like this?"

Taking his cue effortlessly, Jim tucked the pipe in his lap down between his leg and the chair cushion and rolled after him. Waving off the proffered return of his mug, he said lightly, "Keep it; I have more just like it."

"Beunos Dios," Blair said sincerely to the head honcho. "I enjoyed our conversation." To Jim he said, strolling away unhurriedly, "You cutting across to Delancy and then down Chance? There's an Access stop at that corner."

"Just as easy to keep going down Chance; it's mostly downhill. I've got time." Keeping up the inane conversation on best routes and methods to get to the hospital until they were out of earshot, Jim darted a quick look back, frowning at the tight cluster of men, all talking earnestly in Spanish. "I didn't make matters worse, did I?"

Doing the same, but nodding in satisfaction at whatever social/anthropological interpretation he made, Blair said, "I don't think so; you gave me the opening I needed to stake my claim in a way that wouldn't ruffle anyone's pride and guarantee they'd pay attention. It's harder to get people to listen when they're already worked up for a confrontation, and even harder for them to back off." Abruptly he grinned. "Not to mention your oh, so, smooth way of telling them that you're an ex-cop. Your 'old captain' and CPD mug got the point across very nicely, I thought."

"I figured it couldn't hurt for them to know that you had police connections, no matter how tenuous."

"A hint's enough; the last thing most of them want is official attention for *any* reason," Blair said almost absently. Changing gears, he looked down at Jim and smiled. "Like being undercover again, huh?"

"Felt pretty good," Jim admitted, a little surprised at himself at how easily it came.

"Yeah, it did." There was a wistful nostalgia underlying Blair's words, but he didn't let it show in his eyes. Instead he gave a friendly punch to Jim's shoulder. "Better get a move on or you'll be late." Without giving him a chance to respond, he darted across the street, half-turning to throw a brief wave goodbye to Jim, and called out a greeting to a harried-looking man staring down at a slip of paper in his hand.

Tempted to stay where he could keep watch over him, Jim wheeled away instead, unwilling to risk undoing what they'd accomplished. The glow of satisfaction from it hovered in the back of his mind, though, staying with him all day and making it go easier. It helped him keep his patience during his physical with his physician, who had always seemed personally aggrieved that Jim never responded typically to any treatment or medication. When he sat through two conferences with parents who were more interested in Jim's opinion of their child's recovery than their class work, he was able to keep the why behind their behavior in the front of his mind and get past it. He was even able to bring a semblance of charm and social skill to an interview for prospective student, amused to hear the mother mutter to the father as they left that maybe his reputation for being a hard, cold martinet was a *bit* exaggerated.

It wasn't until he reached the neonatal unit that his good mood faded, and even that was into a heartfelt sympathy for Gladys and the only nurse she had with her. All six of the babies were crying, varying only by the volume and level of demand in their shrill voices. Working his shoulders as that would help prepare himself, Jim turned his hearing down, and rolled in, asking Gladys with a look where to start. She pointed to Baby Doe, mouthed 'don't know what's wrong with him,' and turned her attention back to a three-pound scrap of life in an incubator spending too much energy on wailing.

Scooping the baby up to cradle his head in one palm and his torso in the other, Jim crooned, "Hey there, big guy, what's the problem?"

Almost as if by magic, the baby stopped crying, regarding Jim with a solemn, intent gaze that was unusual for him. Curious, Jim returned the stare, hands shifting to accommodate tiny kicks and wiggles. That was different, as well, as was what his sense of touch was telling him. What he was picking up from the baby wasn't exactly a hum or a buzz or really anything he had a word for, though it reminded him of when a vibration had gone on too long, leaving his nerve-endings thrumming.

Giving a more purposeful kick, Baby Doe started to work up back up to crying, and Jim automatically jiggled him slightly, raising and dropping his hands just enough for the baby to be aware of it. It quieted him instantly, and he beat his little fists in the air, as if to encourage Jim to keep up the motion. He's restless, Jim thought with surprising confidence. Tired of lying there sick with nothing else to do but be sick. Can't say as I blame him.

For the next little while, Jim did his best to create different physical sensations, moving the tiny body this way and that, secure in the cradle of his hands, always extremely careful of wiring and tubes, and depending on the baby's reactions to judge what worked best. Before long little Doe was making cooing noises and squirming energetically, much to the nurse's shock. Not sure if it was because he was actually playing with a baby or that the baby was feeling good enough to want it, Jim ignored her and kept his senses focused on little Doe.

When one of the squirms brought a frisson of pain, Jim put him belly down on his own chest, and finger-patted the tiny back, coaxing him down from his play and into rest. With a surprisingly wide yawn, Baby Doe dropped off right away, and Jim put him back in his bassinet, smug all over again for another worthwhile deed. Only then did he realize that Blair was watching him from the glass in the door, beaming at him in total bemusement.

With a last glance around the nursery to make sure that the others were settled, Jim took off the hospital robe and cap, casually stuffing them in the laundry next to Gladys. "See you tomorrow."

Gladys, who never voiced anything but what needed done, quietly said, "Thank you."

It was enough to give Jim pause on the way through the door, but Blair was waiting for him on the other side, almost bouncing on his toes. "I thought we were going to meet in the lobby," Jim said.

"Two nurses walked by talking about the snarly bastard with the magic touch doing his thing up here, and I just knew it had to be you." Blair fell into step beside him, instantly matching his pace without a bobble. "Trust you to find a way to..."

"Mr. Ellison?" a woman interrupted softly.

Stopping and twisting to look back over his shoulder, Jim asked, "What can I do for you Mrs. Morgan?"

Looking rumpled and besmirched, unlike her usual careful deportment, but alone as usual, she said, "I was wondering if you would mind dropping by and visiting Trevor for a few minutes. The chemo, the past few days have been...." Her voice trailed off, as if she couldn't bear even looking for the right terms to use.

"I doubt he'd appreciate his tutor's company if he's having a rough time of it," Jim said, turning to face her. He rolled close enough for her to be able to keep their discussion quiet, ultra aware that Blair had eased closer to him in silent support.

"He hasn't slept," she blurted. Hands twisting the straps of her purse, she added more evenly, "Not for more than an hour at a time, except for the afternoon you read him to sleep. Then he got six hours rest before the pain woke him again. That's more than any of the meds can do. Lots of the nurses say you have a special knack at putting babies to sleep, and I thought that maybe you'd worked it with him, and wouldn't mind doing it again, just this once, because he's so *tired,* and if he doesn't rest, he isn't going to be strong enough to fight, and all the doctors say that the will to fight is very important, and would you? Please? I... I could pay."

"Mrs. Morgan...."

"No, I shouldn't have said that, right? Money, it's like bribing or insulting if you have a gift, but Trevor does like you. Even if you can't help, he would appreciate a visit." Her gaze flitted every where but at Jim, brushing over Blair several times, but too distressed to so much as wonder why he was there.

"Jim," Blair said just for him to hear, soft tones of compassion under his words. "It's not like we're in a hurry to do laundry."

It was the truth, and unable to explain his reluctance even to himself, Jim nodded once shortly, and led their tiny procession through the halls to Trevor's room. Before going in, he caught Blair's eye, and with the same wordless communication they'd used that morning, asked him to keep the mother occupied while he was inside. With a quiet murmur, Blair stepped to Mrs. Morgan's side and pulled her aside, radiating a calm understanding that Jim hoped she could absorb.

Once beside Trevor's bed, Jim took a moment to look him over, worried by his pallor and the bruise-looking smudges of exhaustion around his eyes. Deciding that if he were already asleep, he'd still tuck him in, Jim managed a genuine smile when Trevor's eyelids fluttered up, a half-smile crooking his lips as he recognized Jim.

"Heard you were slacking off," Jim said. "You're getting away with it because, a, you're already ahead of where you're supposed to be, and b, I'm in a good mood."

"Good mood? You been terrorizing the nurses again?" Trevor shot back, badgering tone almost perfect, despite the thready quality of his voice.

"Nope, that was getting old, and they're on to most of my tricks. Had an good friend drop in for a visit; he's out with your mom, keeping her company."

"Heh, that's the real reason you're glad you don't have to do lessons with me. Got better things to be doing. Part of that good you were telling me about?"

"Hard to do better for 'good.' The ones that stick around when you're sick, especially; that is if you give them a chance," Jim said a little ruefully, re-thinking about his own hard line about that.

Trevor shifted microscopically, pain clear in the movement, but clearly considering Jim's words. "You go ahead and take off, then. We can catch up tomorrow; I'll be able to get some work done tonight."

"Deal," Jim said promptly, waiting a second for effect before adding, "Except I want to get that vocabulary out of the way. Do you remember any of what I read to you?"

For a second Jim thought Trevor might lose his temper, probably more as an excuse not to cry than because he was really angry. But he only swore once and said tiredly, "Not a lot."

Locking the brakes on his chair, Jim pulled himself upright so that he could sit on the edge of the bed, balanced on his good leg. "Tell you what, I'll go over it again, and this time ask you what the words mean as they come up in the story. It's not too long, but you still might want to get in a good position where you can focus more on vocabulary than on how miserable sitting up in bed is."

Trevor studied him dubiously, as if sensing Jim had ulterior motives but not really sure if he wanted to object to them. With a shrug of indifference, he rolled to his side, pulling his pillow to his chest, one knee up. "You're right, sitting up sucks; you just keep sliding down and having to pull yourself back up again, and the sheets and things get all twisted."

"Gets to the point where you wish anybody who makes beds for a living had to stay in one 24/7 for a few weeks, just so they'd learn how to make one right," Jim agreed. "I know a few tricks, though, if you don't mind me messing around with your pillows and blankets."

"Go for it," Trevor said tiredly.

Book open on the mattress near Trevor's pillow, Jim read as promised, glad that he had taken the time to familiarize himself with the story so that he only had to keep half an eye on it. Most of his senses were concentrated on Trevor, and, guided by sight with touch and sound piggy-backed in a very disconcerting way, he did what he could to ease Trevor's discomfort the way he had before. It felt like he was picking up on more details, and using the technique more effectively, but the only real evidence he had was that Trevor fell into a deep sleep very quickly.

When he was done, Jim made his goodbyes with Mrs. Morgan very short, brushing off what he had done as nothing special, and left, halfway expecting Blair to hassle him immediately for specifics about this new sentinel thing. For once, he wanted him to; a sounding board might be just the thing he needed to get it all straight in his own head. Instead, Blair asked with a hint of strain in his voice, "You tutor?"

Surprised and unreasonably irked, Jim caught himself before he could bite out the annoyed words that popped into his head; given how much Blair had lost because of the senses, he was entitled to pretend they didn't exist now. Finding a bland voice, he said, "I fell into it while I was here, post-surgery. I could hear this one teacher losing it because the kid he was working with had a major bleed, in turn making matters worse for the kid. No nurses on hand, and you wouldn't believe the noise, so I went in to kick the teacher out, and calm the kid. Distracted him by acting like nothing was happening, and got him going over his multiplication tables while I worked on the bleed."

"Let me guess, word got around about the ex-soldier/medic/cop that could handle any crisis and still get the homework done?" Blair half-laughed, shaking his head.

Still not certain of Blair's tone and confused by his defensive body language, Jim said as dismissively as possible, "The school board assigns teachers to the students that can't go to school, but its hard to get ones who have what it takes to deal with chronically or seriously ill kids. They do the lesson plans, I consult with them if there's a problem, they check in periodically to make sure of progress. You'd be surprised how many of the kids like the lessons."

"Sure, it's something they can succeed at from a bed, and gives them a taste of being just a regular kid," Blair said.

This time Jim thought he understood what was going on with him. "Missing academia yourself, Chief?"

Blair hunched in on himself, reverting back to the diffident, almost fearful persona that was too much his norm these days. "Not exactly; it was just a big piece of my life for a long time, you know?"

Wishing he could call back the question, Jim added quickly, "I don't think I could do the classroom thing, myself. The picture the two teachers I work with paint isn't pretty."

With a flash of relief at the diversion away from himself, Blair asked, "Military school, maybe?"

They discussed possible career choices for Jim all the way back to the apartment, with the suggestions gradually disintegrating into more and more bizarre possibilities, each trying to out-do the other in silliness. From there they moved seamlessly into their usual banter while they ate a sketchy dinner and did the laundry at the Laundromat, a task that made considerably more tolerable by the company. Sharing the chore was at once both familiar and unfamiliar, but comfortable for all that, and it wasn't until they were back at the apartment, chores done and no excuse for Blair to remain, that heavy, miserable silence descended on them.

Rather than sit after putting his clean clothes into a pack, Blair half-turned, and Jim could all but feel the excuse to leave forming on Blair's lips. Without thinking, he caught his hand as he moved, only intending on capturing him long enough to ask him to stay. A surge of sensation, identical to the one that had overwhelmed him the night before, rushed up his arm, taking command of his body. The sensory explosion was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, the closest being the indescribable burst from the first drink of ice-cold beer on a parched throat, or the wash of wonderfulness from a hot shower the second it touched a body chilled through and through.

For once glad for the physical disadvantage the chair put him at, Jim stared up at Blair, unable to speak and barely able to think. To his amazement, Blair smiled, eyes bright with pleasure, and swung around to sit astride his lap, hugging his head to his chest. Hands automatically going to his backside to ease the weight on his stump and pull him closer, Jim couldn't hold in a soft gasp that held a mix of worry, apology - and need.

"It's okay," Blair murmured into the top of Jim's head. "I think you're reacting to me like this because of the sensory trauma you've been through - the cancer treatment, losing the familiarity of your home, your territory. I'm part of what you lost, in a way, and you're just reconnecting with it. And since it's been a while since you had any, the physical proximity can't help but translate into sexual awareness."

It was more than that, Jim knew with the same certainty he knew that Blair could never willingly turn down a person in need or that Simon would die before seeing Darryl harmed. He had a good hunch that Blair didn't want to hear it, for some reason, and as long as he didn't have any complaints about Jim's sudden urgent cravings for as much physical contact with him as possible, he wasn't going to open his own mouth. Taking a deep breath to fill himself with the scent that represented the only real contentment he'd ever known in his life, Jim stopped even pretending to resist the imperative to be close to him.

He supposed that, like this morning, there were questions he should ask, information he should have before he was lost to his senses again. But he already had the answers, or they didn't matter, or he plain just didn't care. All that was truly important was that Blair was comfortable with the latest weirdness the sentinel thing had thrown at them, and that he was apparently getting something good out of it for himself.

Blair shifted slightly, as if to encourage Jim to do more than hold him, and he willingly complied, lips feathering along the hollow of Blair's throat, releasing a soft murmur of appreciation from him. Tendrils of scent and warmth caressed his face as that tiny sound caressed his hearing, and he gently bit the juncture of bone and tendon to provoke more to savor. It gave him the added delight of taste, and he licked and kissed his way up to Blair's jaw, marveling at the minute changes in flavor and texture.

As incredible as it all was, Jim wanted still more, and he brought his hands into play, gliding his fingers over the column of Blair's neck on either side. With tiny petting strokes he sought out the throb of a pulse here, the downiness of an earlobe there, the shape of skull fitting his palm when Blair tilted back his head, keening his arousal. The vibration from that cry tingled against Jim's lips, coaxing his kisses downward to find the source, and Blair stretched up, hand at the back of Jim's head to urge him down even farther. Obligingly, Jim nibbled his way down to the 'v' of Blair's flannel, tugging at the collar of the Henley underneath with his teeth when it blocked his progress.

Groaning Jim's name, Blair wrestled and tore his way out of his shirts, then tackled Jim's, pulling and tugging at him until they were both bare from the waist up. All through the fight with fabric and buttons, Jim sampled whatever bit of him that presented itself - a curve of shoulder into arm, a muscular bicep, the fragile sweep of the cap of his ears, senses reveling in whatever input came his way. But when Blair wrapped himself around him again, his torso brushed enticingly over Jim's chest and face, kicking his sensory craving into sexual necessity. The few furtive, hasty encounters he'd had with other men in the past had not prepared him for the luxurious feel of chest hair on his own bare flesh or the way a wealth of pure Blair scent and warmth clung to it.

Jim pulled Blair tighter into him, looking for and, finding a nipple to latch onto, obeying an instinct to give as much as he was taking. The soft, half-strangled cries of passion and encouragement Blair made, fingers working convulsively at the nape of Jim's neck, drove Jim to the brink of climax, dragging Blair along with him. At the last possible instant, a slender thread of control jerked him back, panting so roughly that it hurt.

"Wha..." Blair mumbled, trying to pull him closer.

Unlocking the wheels of his chair, Jim spun them so that the length of the bed was behind Blair. "Naked," he ground out from clenched teeth, only knowing as he spoke what they both desperately needed. He gently pushed Blair backwards, and, blindly trusting, Blair went, already fumbling with the top snap on his jeans. Jim flowed out to perch over him, peeling off his own pants as he went. Somehow as they struggled to undress, he found Blair's mouth and claimed it, plundering the heated depths of it with his tongue, wringing frenzied, demanding noises from Blair.

Finally kicking free of his pants, Jim paused to get his balance, intending to cover Blair, but abruptly stayed as he was, captured by the wild beauty spread out under him. With his curls spun into a halo of rich browns and auburn browns and his mouth open slightly as if still begging for kisses, Blair looked like every woman's wet dream and was enough to make a fundamental preacher worry just how straight he really was. Though too thin for Jim's peace of mind, the lines of Blair's body were solid and muscular, promising strength and endurance for prolonged use of the seriously erect hardon jutting up from his groin. Even his hands, long-fingered and fluid as Blair sent them over Jim's arms and shoulders, were designed to make a body wonder what they would feel like on the most intimate places they had.

All the while Jim stared, giving sight its chance after his orgy for scent, taste, sound and touch, Blair looked his fill as well. The open admiration in his eyes fed Jim's lust directly, making it hard to hold back from simply taking what he had to have. The same instinct that had ensured Blair's complete arousal moved through Jim again, whispering that maybe it was time for Blair to have the chance to take charge.

To his surprise, the very idea added to Jim's hunger, perversely making it easier to rein himself in and wait for Blair to make the next move. It wasn't long in coming. With a hesitant curiosity that said a great deal about his experience, or lack thereof, with men, Blair reached for Jim's cock to explore it with a single fingertip. Jim knew he was a bit larger than some men and thicker than many, but Blair didn't seem particularly intimidated by it. If anything, he was fascinated, taking his time to examine the prominent vein running the length of Jim's shaft and the rim of the spongy head. When he finally reached the lightly furred sac pulled tight to the base, Jim was shaking, hardly aware of anything but the unintentional torment.

Unable to take any more, Jim whispered warningly, "Blair!"

With a small start, Blair came out of his bemused study. "Sorry, sorry. It's just...I mean, this is... God, Jim!" Either incapable or unwilling to try to say more, Blair shook his head once hard and reached for Jim's hard-on. Carefully tugging it downward, he gathered it and his own erection into his palms, encircling both at the same time and gently stroking.

Immediately caught in an onslaught of pleasure that left him unable to so much as breathe, Jim helplessly watched Blair work their flesh, the ruddy heads appearing and disappearing in the loose confines of his fists. The climax he'd been denying took control of his nerves, paying heed only to the rough, work-worn hands on him, the slippery wetness from two weeping slits, and the marvel of smooth and hard caught so intimately beside his cock.

Jim was so aware of Blair's solid length that he could feel the internal pressure making it harder and longer, and the tiny hum of the signal to send Blair's seed out through it. He wanted that - wanted to see and feel and hear Blair's climax. Wanted it so much that when Blair shouted his name and arched under him, he came himself, consumed by the ecstasy that was as much Blair's as his.

When his senses released him back to normalcy, Jim was on his side by Blair, arm and what was left of his leg thrown over him, and Blair was already asleep. Clumsily tidying them both with a discarded t-shirt that was the only thing within reach, Jim shifted to make them both more comfortable, only to have Blair glue himself to him, as if he were afraid Jim would leave. Like the night before, Blair shivered and stirred restlessly until Jim buried his hand in Blair's hair and covered him completely with himself. It wasn't the best position to spend the night in, and he knew he'd be waking up off and on until morning, but if calmed whatever fear it was that tore at Blair in his sleep, he was more than willing to spend another watchful night. It was still better than being alone, trying not to think about what was or what could never be.

* * *

Hopping out of the cab of the truck, Blair waved a last 'goodbye,' to the driver, resisting the urge to say thank you again for the ride, the over-time, and the extra cash sitting happily in his pocket. Picking up on that, the driver, who was also the foreman for the job Blair had been working on for the past week, half-laughed and waved back before driving off. For a moment, Blair stood in the early twilight, just enjoying the crisp air with the promise of fall in it and anticipating the expression on Jim's face when he suggested they do Chinese take-out for a change.

Or pizza, or Thai, or wait, I think there's enough for steak, if we cook them ourselves. Now how could we manage that on a hot plate? Blair took a last deep sniff, ignoring the bite of traffic fumes in favor of the hint of burning leaves and tomorrow's frost, and started for Jim's place. Be worth it, if we could though. I can't remember the last time I had anything but what you can get at the food kitchens or stretch to make five meals out of. If I'm missing decent tasting food, Jim must be downright starving for it, not that he'd think to mention that to me or anybody else.

Though there were a dozen other more practical uses for the money, as Jim would undoubtedly point out, Blair thought that they deserved the treat. In the two weeks that he'd been working with Jim again, (and living with him, his heart whispered daringly) the only relief they had had from the tedious daily grind to survive was what they found in each other's arms at night. Sometimes it was only sleep, since Blair had quickly fallen back into the habit of being so absorbed in research that he would forget to go to bed. Those evenings Jim would fall asleep in his chair, which he seldom moved from once he'd settled in for the night - a practice that bothered Blair considerably, it was so unlike Jim. Even then, he would wake up from whatever sleep he finally got himself with Jim on top of him, a wonderful, secure weight holding him warmly in place, allowing him to rest peacefully.

Most of the time, though, their day would end with Jim reaching for him, eyes eager and hungry, the only hint he ever gave that he wanted more than companionship. Blair forgave him for the caution. It matched his own and was based on the uncertainty of the future they each faced; most likely it was also behind the fact they never went farther than what satisfaction hands and humping could give. But he could and did worry that the only time he saw the vital, active man who had once relished physical demands on his body was when they made love.

A flicker of motion ahead of him pulled Blair out of his introspection, and he silently cursed himself for not staying alert. He knew better than that, damn it; he'd learned the lesson the painful way when he first started living on the street. Thankfully he had also quickly accumulated a thousand and one tactics for dealing with the kind of trouble that always somehow found the unprotected and friendless. With a show of casualness that he couldn't feel, he crossed to the other side of the street, both to get a better look at who was ahead and to give himself more running room.

Fighting off a wave of panic, Blair recognized the same group of immigrants who had been giving him a hard time about competing for the same off-the book jobs they wanted. The confrontation he'd had with them a few weeks earlier had gone a long way to cooling their animosity, thanks at least in part to Jim's quick thinking in pinpointing and winning over their leader, but frustration was a way of life for the disenfranchised. Those that didn't succumb to apathy and resignation often went looking for victims to take their frustration out on, using any number of excuses to do it.

His first and best defense was to fade out of sight or take off, but they had already seen him. If he ran now, he'd be marked as a coward, destroying the little respect he'd earned with them all individually on the job, and making him an even more obvious target for them as a gang. Stomach hurting and heart racing agonizingly fast, Blair realized he was going to have to face them and try to talk his way out of any serous trouble. At the very least, he was going to be roughed up and his money taken.

Unexpectedly, Blair felt a flash of anger; he'd worked hard for that money and needed it as much, if not more, than they did. I am not just going to take it, he thought, resolve suddenly crystallizing and a strange calm settling over him. Maybe if I put up good enough a fight, they'll be happy with just beating the crap out of me and won't bother robbing me, too.

Not letting his determination show, he put on a friendly, open face and continued toward them at a steady, unhurried pace. To his surprise, when he drew near, the leader moved away from the group, motioning the others to stay put. One man, a skinny, fidgety type, protested, only to be given a curt order in Spanish. He and the rest did as told, not without muttering and resentful glares at Blair.

"Mr. Sandburg," the man said pleasantly, falling into step with Blair. "Lovely evening, is it not?"

"I'm afraid you have the advantage on me, senor," Blair answered as politely, slowing his pace only fractionally and internally debating whether he should continue on toward Jim's or veer toward a shelter rather than bring trouble to his doorstep.

"Hernandez, Juan Hernandez, and my apologies for my forwardness. My countrymen speak of you so often, I feel I have already made your acquaintance."

For a moment Blair wondered if he was expected to smile at the obvious alias - Juan Hernandez being the rough Mexican equivalent to 'John Smith' - but there was a courtly air about the man that said he expected to be taken at face value. Doing precisely that, Blair matched his demeanor and said, "No offense taken. And you're right, it is a lovely evening."

"I've often thought that it adds insult to injury to work long hours, then have to walk home in Cascade's perpetual rain," Hernandez said conversationally, though there was no doubt in Blair's mind that he had other motives than just passing the time. "At least tonight you have a pleasant end to your shift."

Readily answering the unspoken question behind the comment, Blair said, "I don't think I would have cared tonight, even if it had been pouring. Mr. Glaiser - he runs that site on 44th? - was having some serious computer program problems. I'm a geek from way back, so I asked if I could take a look at it in exchange for using the Internet for a while. There are some public assistance programs I wanted to look into without taking a day off from work, and the state maintains a site for them." Glaiser had insisted on paying him, as well, he was so relieved to have the problem fixed, but Blair saw no reason to share that.

Hernandez slanted him a thoughtful look as they stopped to wait for traffic before crossing the street. "Tomas has told me that you are an educated man, and that you do not seem to think that it places you above others. I thought perhaps gratitude was coloring his words; the job you found for his younger brother with the landscapers at one of the completed sites has been of enormous benefit to their family back home. On the other hand, Jesus complains that you will not teach him to run any of the heavy equipment as you have with Tomas."

"Tomas listens to me," Blair said, lifting his hands to express his helplessness in the situation. "Jesus thinks that he all he needs to do is imitate what he has seen others do. He acts as if his pride will be damaged if he is ignorant of something he's never tried before."

"Ah, pride. Where would we be without it? And how much more difficult do we make our own lives because of it?" They resumed their walk, this time at the more leisurely pace that Hernandez set. "I will have a word with him, so that he will at least cease discouraging others that might be more willing students."

"And not insult his self-respect in the process?" Blair asked sharply. The last thing he needed was a man with a personal vendetta out for him.

This time Hernandez stopped and blatantly studied him, as if trying to make up his mind about a great many things. Finally he said, "I do not understand you, Mr. Sandburg, and it is important to me that I do so. I came to be here because of my brother. As much because of a reckless, restless spirit as anything else, he crossed your country's border and lived here as an itinerant worker for several years. When he was hurt badly in an accident that could have been prevented if the foreman had cared about the safety of those working for them, he came home to his family, with many terrible, sad tales of the fate of our people here. He wanted to do something to improve their lot, and in his memory, I do my best for those I can. For that reason, you worry me, senor."

Glancing around to make sure they hadn't been followed, Blair said cautiously, "Worry you?"

"You have education, intelligence, drive - and yet you do the work of a common laborer. Clearly you are not an addict to any of the vices that can reduce a man to fighting for work and begging for shelter, so that is not the cause for living so far below your station." Hernandez paused, then evidently came to a decision about something. "I had thought perhaps you were a criminal 'laying low' as it were, from the authorities, but uniformed police officers give your Mr. Ellison a nod of recognition when they see him, and they often stop to exchange a few words. I do not think you are foolish enough to make friends with a policeman if you were afraid of the law. So I must ask myself, why are you here?"

The question resonated through Blair, and he thought about it hard, choosing his words with care before answering Hernandez, giving him what he hoped was enough honesty to be believed. "A hard truth is that too many people are only one or two paychecks from disaster, and one bad decision or a prolonged illness away from a downward fall and no way to put on the brakes. That's mostly what happened to me."

"Yet as you flounder, you reach out to others in the same circumstance. This is very risky, I think; a drowning man will drag down the very people trying to save his life. You are either a fool or a saint." His voice hardened at the last with suspicion, but not enough for him to sound threatening.

"Not a saint," Blair said, pushing the idea away with a definitive shove of his hands. "And everybody's a fool about some things. This, though, it's just how I'm built, how I see things. For instance, you might see that man as drowning; I see him as floundering in water a little over his head while I'm swimming beside him. If I can encourage him not to panic, or shove him with a piece of flotsam toward shallower water, or whatever, there's no reason for me not to." Blair shrugged as expressively as he knew how. "I *can* see when we're both in too deep. Encouraging Tomas to get his CDL is encouraging a man to swim. Letting Jesus operate a rig just because he thinks he can is risking being pulled under by him."

Hernandez asked skeptically, "Then I am to believe that you are simply altruistic?"

Blair brushed his hair back from his face, tempted to pull it with both fists in frustration that his motives would be questioned when he was in no position to be a threat to anyone. "Look, I'm not saying that I've never been burned by my beliefs, but the benefits have always outweighed the risks. For every person who tried to take advantage of me or blamed me because what I did was no help or made matters worse to their mind, a dozen other people have no complaints. I've met some fascinating people, had more than a few fantastic experiences, and made some damn good friends, so it's definitely worth it to me."

"Like your Mr. Ellison," Hernandez put in smoothly, too smoothly.

Hiding worry that he kept dragging Jim into their conversation and hoping that last year's scandal would be way below Hernandez's informational radar, Blair said, "Met him when I was at the police station doing observations for my degree."

Whatever Hernandez had been expecting from Blair, that bit of personal information clearly wasn't it. "You have worked with the police department?"

"In the past," Blair said dismissively. "I've also driven eighteen wheelers cross-country, been an errand boy in a boxer's camp, and organized a major research expedition. I took advantage of whatever opportunities came my way, just like now."

Relenting his intense scrutiny, Hernandez smiled faintly. "Mr. Sandburg, you may well be the most unique individual of my acquaintance."

"Please tell me that's a good thing."

Hernandez's smile became full blown, and he shook his head slowly in bemusement. "Indeed it is." He looked back the way they had come, smile fading quickly. "My companions are becoming concerned that I have wandered so far away from their protection, and I have kept you from your evening duties with Mr. Ellison. You have been spending a great deal of time there of late; is he not doing well?"

With more acting skill than Blair had ever suspected he possessed, he hid his serious alarm that Hernandez and his people were keeping such close tabs on him. But, to his surprise, he found himself blurting, "No, he's not." The blunt truth seemed to derail Hernandez completely, and going with it for that as much as because he didn't have anyone he could talk to about Jim, Blair added, not bothering to hide his concern, "He's just not physically adjusting the way he should, as if his body can't accept what's happened to it."

Swiping away a lock of hair from his face, Blair looked down at the ground, covertly looking back down the street at a large, dark shadow that could hide several people. "I'm sorry; that's getting way too personal, not to mention Jim'll get pissed for me talking about his business with strangers."

Hesitating, Hernandez said softly, "Your concern is understandable, and I wish I could offer more than this consolation: Mr. Ellison has already done remarkably well for one who has been reduced from a physically powerful man in his prime to cripple at the very edge of the society in which he once held an valuable position. After overcoming so much, I have no doubt that he will have the will and strength to see his way clear of his current difficulties as well."

"Ordinarily I'd be the first to agree with you." Blair sighed, and dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. "Like I said, Jim would not want me going on about this. I'll be saying my goodnights now, before your companions decide there's been too much of a disruption to their plans for the evening."

Blair would have been willing to swear that a flicker of regret chased over Hernandez' face, but with bland civility, he said, "Please do not be too hard on my countrymen, Mr. Sandburg; the order and structure I bring to their lives is very important to them."

Without giving Blair a chance to respond, he turned on his heel and sauntered back toward the others. Tempted to stand and stare after him, as if that would give him some clue as to the convoluted meanings and undercurrents he sensed in his exchange with Hernandez, Blair continued on his way to Jim's. A deeply thoughtful mood overtook him, and he turned various fragments of the conversation this way and that in his mind, almost obsessively shifting through them.

By the time he reached the tiny apartment, he was positive that Hernandez had accidentally hit on something concerning Jim that he needed to take under consideration, but serious fatigue and adrenalin let-down made it impossible to pin down what it was. As distracted as he was, though, Blair noticed immediately that the door to the apartment was ajar, a thin thread of light outlining it. Cautiously, he stepped through, instantly locating Jim in his chair, book in hand and an untouched meal on the end table beside him. Since it was exactly what he should see, Blair let his caution go, only to have worry step into its place. Jim had obviously left the door open for him rather than get up to let him in when he knocked. Nor was the uneaten food a good sign, but he knew better than to say anything to Jim on either point.

Instead he went to the tiny 'kitchen' sink and washed his hands. "Sorry I'm getting in so late, but I had a chance to earn a few extra dollars and some brownie points with Glaiser."

"No problem, Sandburg," Jim said shortly, the use of 'Sandburg' instead of 'Chief' speaking volumes about how much of a problem it really was. To Blair's surprise, though, he added grudgingly, "Thought maybe you decided to hit one of the shelters when it got late instead of trekking back here."

For a moment Blair debated telling him about how much attention Hernandez's men were paying to his whereabouts, and decided abruptly that could wait until he'd settled whatever issue was chewing on Jim. Picking through several pieces of fruit for ones that weren't too bruised, he said as casually as he could, probing delicately at Jim's false composure, "Maybe I should, once in a while, just to give you your space, you know? In the past couple of weeks I haven't slept anywhere else; I'd understand if my company's getting old."

When Jim looked away, jaw-muscle beginning to throb, Blair expected him to stonewall the topic or toss it away as being unimportant, the way he would have in the past. Instead, with the unexpected emotional frankness that came out more and more recently, he said, "It's not, and I hate the idea of you being in a shelter. Even the best of them, and I know you were starving yourself to stay in one that could be called that, are bad places to be."

With a flash of intuition, Blair thought, That maybe be true, but there's a part of you that's convinced I'm going to take off without warning again, isn't there? No wonder; I haven't exactly given you any promises I won't. Time to fix that.

Carrying his improvised dinner with him, he crossed to where Jim was and put his food down next to Jim's. With studied casualness, he climbed onto the chair so that he was astride Jim's lap, sitting on his heels to keep his weight off Jim's bad leg. "I thought at first we could maybe do Chinese or something like that tomorrow with the extra I picked up tonight. Now, I'm thinking maybe we should see if we can pick up a couple of prepaid cell phones instead, so I can let you know when I'm going to be late getting in."

Startled, but with a shy hint of pleasure glinting in his eyes, Jim said, "With the help you've been giving me buying food, I think there's room in the budget to do that without using up your bonus. You should set that aside for necessities, like a winter coat."

Taking a bite out of his apple, Blair nodded. "Can't count on me being able to always chip in, though. Not fair to ask you to do that if I can't carry my own weight, yet."

"You spend most of what little free time you've got either giving me a hand with things that are hard for me to do by myself or doing research to find ways for me to adapt. That's more than carrying your share."

Picking up a slice that Jim had cut for himself, Blair fed it to him, taking advantage of Jim's distraction in countering his arguments. "Useful as it is, it's not going to cover the bills."

They amicably debated the point back and forth while Blair ate and made sure Jim did as well by popping food in his mouth at every opportunity. After a while, Jim got amused by his determination to get a meal inside him, and began reciprocating by feeding Blair from his plate. From there it degenerated into playful goofiness that ended with both of them full, and Blair laughing weakly into the hollow of Jim's shoulder.

That was a good place to be, he decided, drowsy with the good kind of tiredness that came from a busy, fruitful day. It was warm and humid from his own breath, creating a cozy, welcoming space, and he cuddled down into it, content to simply lie there for a while. It didn't hurt that Jim was toying with his hair, sending waves of relaxation into every muscle he had. The silence cradling them both was warm and comfortable, too, and he let it soak in, erasing the troubles of the day.

After a bit Jim began rubbing tiny circles into the area between Blair's shoulder blades, working out small knots that he hadn't realized were there. Concentrating on a particularly stubborn one, Jim asked, "You don't get these from your usual work. Find something different today?"

Mildly startled that Jim could pick up such a minute change in his body, Blair filled him in on his day, but didn't bring up Jim's sentinel abilities, which was the norm these days, out of deference to Jim's own silence about his senses.

When Blair was done, Jim said quietly, "You started doing the pick-up job thing because you were trying to stay off the grid, right? So Simon and I couldn't find you?"

"Considering the connections the both of you have, it seemed like the best option," Blair said. "I stayed in Cascade because I know the turf so well." And because I couldn't stand the thought of being any farther away from you than that, he suddenly realized with a pang to the heart.

"That's not an issue anymore, is it? You could start moving back up again; do something better with you life than scramble for off-the-books jobs at starvation wages."

Though Jim hadn't tensed so much as a finger, Blair knew instinctively that the conversation was important to him, and he said pensively, "I think I'm in the same boat as you are on that. I honestly don't have a clue what I should, let alone, want to do for the rest of my life. Hard labor at least wears me out to the point that I don't have to stress over my life so much, you know?"

"Mmm," Jim agreed, slowly stroking Blair from nape to the curve of his backside. "Nothing appeals at all?"

"At least none that have come to mind so far," Blair said, distracted by the caress. He bestirred himself with a small shake, and asked, "When you made the switch from soldier to cop - how'd you decide?"

"To be truthful, it was an impulse that I didn't have any reason not to obey." Jim went still for a moment, mind obviously far away. "Once I was in, I could see that it was right for me."

"You began teaching on impulse," Blair pointed out, not sure why he was picking on that.

"I wanted to help; teaching was the tool. It wouldn't work for me long run." Jim started playing with Blair's curls with his free hand, idly twirling them around his fingers. "For you teaching *is* helping. Would it be that hard to overcome the diss thing and get back to academics?"

Maybe because he had his head over Jim's heart and could hear the slight kick in it when he brought the subject up, or maybe because he was so at peace it was easy to see clearly past his own anxiety, but Blair understood at once that Jim was looking for reassurance about his place in his life. Once before he had tried in his usual oblique way, and Blair had brushed him off with a comment about a ticket to the rollercoaster ride because he had been just as unsure. This time, with his arms around him, body molded to his, all he could do was answer him honestly. "I'd like to work with you, at least part-time." At Jim's sudden stiffness, he added hastily, "Unless that's too much for you - living *and* working together again."

"No, sounds good to me," Jim said just as hurriedly. "Just caught me by surprise that you'd be up for that."

"Hey, I may have no idea where I want to go, but I definitely know who I want on the trip with me." Afraid to let the conversation get too deep and too happy to risk it, Blair said, "Okay, so the game plan for tomorrow is: new phones, copy the key to this place, move what stuff I have stashed in bus lockers and what not, and have dinner out."

"Sounds good to me, Chief," Jim murmured against his ear. "Call it done."

* * *

I have no idea, Jim thought in exasperation, rolling down the hospital corridor to his next appointment, When or how my nightly visit to Trevor to help him to sleep evolved to seeing most of the kids in the children's oncology ward for the same reason.

Almost every evening under the watchful eyes of parents, he read or talked to a variety of children, almost instinctively varying his tone for each one, while tucking their blankets and pillows around them and massaging their backs or heads or whatever, again using his senses to determine what was best for that child. He supposed the word had spread from parent to parent about the miracle worker who could send a kid to sleep, no matter how much pain he was in, but he didn't say yes *every* time. Did he?

Eventually, the doctors had heard about it, of course, and more than once Jim had looked up to find that he had an audience of one or two physicians. Their verdict, to the relief of some of the parents, was that Jim was gifted at a form of hypnosis, taking advantage of the suggestibility of a youngster's more flexible mind. As he had also showed a few of the kids how to regulate their breathing to help with pain control, he let the explanation stand, since it made what he did easier for everybody to accept.

Only the nurses seemed to feel that there was more. At least Jim thought so, based on how readily they had responded when he told him that he thought one of their patients had an infection, even when their temperature hadn't started to rise enough yet for a thermometer to catch. He could tell though, not only by the change in warmth, but by where they were warm, and by a shift in scent that he had apparently subconsciously associated with viral illness. There were other symptoms, like a difference in pain, that he picked up on, as well, but he hadn't yet learned how to interpret those.

More than once he had wished that he could talk it all over with Blair. But even though he was occasionally with Jim when he did his 'rounds,' Blair never once asked about the how or whys of what Jim did. It could have been because Blair inevitably wound up busy giving his own kind of aid: talking to parents about alternative therapies, family counselors, or simply being a listening ear for them. More likely it was because he was still deliberately turning a blind eye to the senses, except where Jim's health came into play, to hold back the pain they'd caused him.

Mentally shrugging, Jim accepted that. He was amazed and grateful that Blair had been able to get past it to the point that he could be his lover, apparently forgiving him for being the source of nearly a year's misery. If, at times, he missed Blair's enthusiastic pursuit of knowledge about every nuance of his abilities, it was easy enough to dismiss in favor of the full life they had shared for the past month or so.

Usually, anyway, Jim thought, coming to a stop at the juncture of hallways next to Trevor's room. That last little girl - I know something's wrong with her besides the usual things that crop up with chemo. I just have no idea what, or even exactly why I'm so sure. Another point of view could make a real difference in working it out.

Massaging the left hand with the right, then switching, trying to work out the hum in his muscles and nerves, Jim played with the idea of approaching it strictly as a medical problem, since Blair had been doing serious reading on the needs and complications of cancer patients. He tended to veer widely through all aspects, ranging from the physical, to the emotional, to the spiritual, giving him a much wider perspective than even most of the nurses had. It was possible Jim could even find a way to bring up what he'd picked up sense-wise, without actually mentioning how he had the information.

A softly muttered, "What the...!" yanked Jim out of his musings, and without thinking, he pinpointed the source of the words - a man he recognized with some effort as Trevor's father. He was standing a short distance down the other hallway, half-hidden by shadows and the angle of the corridor. His expression was a bizarre mix of anger and relief, as if he were glad for an excuse to be mad. Jim's hackles went up, and he followed Morgan's increasingly furious stare to find Mrs. Morgan and Blair at the other end of it.

To his eye, there was nothing to be upset about. They were sitting sideways on a low bench so they could face each other, knees only a few inches apart, but not touching each other at all. Mrs. Morgan's head was down, and she had her gaze fixed on her hands, where they were torturing what was left of a tissue. Blair was murmuring something so softly that Jim would have had to concentrate to make it out, but the reassurances and consolation in the tone was clear. Only the most jealous and controlling of husbands could possibly find anything in the scene that was suspicious.

Cop experience told Jim that Morgan didn't seem to fit that particular profile - he would have never let his wife come alone to hospital, ever, if he'd been that type. More likely, in Jim's opinion, now that guilt had finally driven him to see his son, he was looking for a way to absolve himself of it. Turning all that turmoil into drummed up suspicion about his wife probably struck his subconscious as a good way to accomplish his goal. Depending on how hard it was for him to face the fact that his son was ill, possibly terminally so, he could even work himself into enough of a state that he might walk away completely. Then he could put all the blame on her to justify his cowardice.

If that's the case, Jim decided, good riddance to him. Trevor deserves better.

To his surprise, sorrow flashed briefly across Morgan's face, then his lips thinned and half-lifted his hands, clenching them into fists. Even as Jim recognized that Morgan was still willing to fight to keep his wife, however screwed up he was now, he was in motion. Jim shot across the hallway to block Morgan against the wall with his chair. Snapping on the brakes and putting his remaining foot solidly against the floor as another anchor, Jim took advantage of Morgan's momentary shock to make as obvious a target of himself as he could.

"Don't even think about it," Jim growled. "She's entitled to a few comforting, encouraging words, and since you obviously can't provide them, don't begrudge her if she finds them from someone who's been in her shoes."

Jim gave Morgan full points for assessing a potential threat with one quick look, and then obviously deciding to take it seriously, despite the chair. "Ellison, right? The teacher," he sneered. "You hoping to take your shot at her next; go for the pity factor, maybe?"

"Seems to me a man obsessed with poaching on his property must not be doing any hunting there himself," Jim shot back, returning sneer for sneer. "What's the matter; conscience bothering you? Or do you think stomping in and acting like a caveman over nothing is going to convince your wife that you aren't the kind of spineless pussy who totally ignores a sick son and anguished wife?"

Face turning a dangerous shade of red, Morgan tried to step forward, but Jim didn't so much as flinch. In the back of his head, he asked himself if he really thought he was doing any good by provoking him. Blair was more than capable of taking care of himself, and could probably diffuse the entire situation with a well-timed observation or odd-ball comment. Despite that, despite the dozen different reasonable explanations he could come up with for interfering, the simple fact of the matter was that Jim *couldn't* stay out of it. The image of the starving, frightened homeless man who collapsed almost in his arms was too close to mind, and he would do whatever he could to shelter Blair while he still had the privilege.

With a muttered curse, Morgan made a move to go around him, and Jim shot out an arm further cage him in. Pulling up just short of it, Morgan brought up a fist to punch, then apparently thought better of it, for the moment at least. Bouncing it as if he couldn't wait to swing, he ground out nastily, "You're not a cop any more, Ellison. This is none of your business."

"They amputated my leg," Jim said baldly, grimly satisfied at Morgan's microscopic flinch. "Not my dick. And even if they had, I still wouldn't just sit on my ass and watch a self-centered prick like you attack two people just because you don't have the balls to deal with the real problem."

The last insult was more than Morgan could take. He swung, but somehow knowing before he moved that he would and exactly how, Jim caught him with the short pipe that he'd carried everywhere since he'd picked it up, pinning Morgan's wrist to the wall with it. Landing squarely on the hollow where all the nerves were, he put enough pressure on it to hurt incredibly, though it wouldn't leave so much as a bruise. With his free hand Jim grabbed Morgan's tie, wrapping it around his fist and pulling hard to both tighten it and jerk him down so they were face-to-face. He moved so quickly that Morgan didn't even have time to shout a protest before he was gasping for air and writhing in pain.

"This isn't about you," Jim hissed into his ear. "This is about a little boy who's trying hard to be brave and strong for his mother's sake, and so his father won't hate him for getting sick. So get your act together and at least pretend you give a shit that your only child might die!"

"Fuck you, I said it's none of your business," Morgan choked out.

Tightening his noose, anger bubbling up through him despite his best efforts to keep his own issues out of their fight, Jim said with deadly softness, "When you brought Blair into it, you made it my business. He's *mine.*"

Why that broke Morgan, he didn't know, but his scent changed from fury and belligerence to pure shame, and Jim could all but see the pain that finally broke through to the surface. His breathing changed subtly, as if he was fighting more than the chokehold Jim had on him. Satisfied that the fight, such as it was, was over, Jim shoved him away with enough force to slam him into the wall. Unlocking his brakes at the almost the same instance, he shot back far enough to be out of swinging range, just in case, and slid the pipe length back down between the cushion and his leg, again moving faster than he would have thought possible only minutes ago.

For a moment they stared at each other while Morgan slowly straightened, but Jim read sullen acceptance in his eyes and relaxed fractionally. It didn't stop Morgan from blustering, "This will cost you. How long do you think the hospital's board of directors will let you work as a tutor once they know you're a queer?"

Before Jim could tell him, 'who gives a damn,' Mrs. Morgan said coldly, "You go to them, and I'll tell them that you're slandering Mr. Ellison out of petty spite. And since they've seen a lot more of me than you around here, I don't think I'll have any trouble convincing them."

Jim spun around to find her and Blair only a few yards away, Blair's fist pressed against his mouth so tightly that Jim could already smell the blood from teeth cutting lips. Though he caught a glimpse of shame and relief from Morgan, and absently admired the new-found resolve in Mrs. Morgan, their problems dropped off his radar completely in face of the pure misery and panic in Blair's expression. Not sure what he should say, Jim half-reached for him, but he whirled on one heel and raced for the stairs.

Giving chase without hesitation, Jim almost caught up to him, thanks to the advantage of wheels on smooth floors over boot-clad feet. Almost wasn't enough, however, and Blair got through the stairwell door and down the first flight before Jim could wrestle the chair over the threshold. Not giving himself time to think about what he was doing, he stood, half-draped himself over the safety railing and let the chair clatter its way down to the landing as he half-slid, half-hopped after it. Noisy as his method of locomotion was, it was also nearly as fast as Blair could run, and he hit the bottom floor only moments behind him.

Once outside on the sidewalk in front of the hospital, Jim had to stop; Blair had already managed to get out of sight. This time he wasn't willing to just let him go, and he brought his other senses to bear, locking onto his scent and fading heat trace almost instantly. Using them to point the way, he listened for and found a racing heartbeat that he was sure was Blair's, though he remained silent to avoid giving him that clue to his whereabouts.

Thankfully he seemed to be staying on the sidewalk, and with a burst of reckless speed, Jim followed his trail, dealing with obstacles without any regard to anything except how to get around them fast. Despite that, he got farther and farther away, and Jim could only hope that Blair would run out of breath before he lost all traces of him. Luck - or whatever - was with him. Blair's harsh panting turned into dry sobs that he tried to muffle, and Jim began to gain ground on him.

Before much longer he stopped, and the quality of the sounds he made changed, as if he had taken cover of some kind. As his sobs turned into barely contained moans of pain, Jim came a halt at the edge of a little-used riverside park tucked between two warehouse complexes and an upscale condo association. Well-lit and constantly patrolled not only by the river patrol but by the security guards of all three of its neighbors, it was one of the safer parks in the city, day or night, though not used much because it was too far away from both downtown and residential areas. Once upon a time it had been one of Jim and Blair's favorite places to take a lunch break or throw a few hoops for just that reason.

That familiarity gave Jim the decided edge he needed to pinpoint Blair's location as being some where inside the park, though he was mystified where he could have found a hiding place so good he wasn't worried security would find him and turn him out. He debated giving Blair the privacy he had sought and just standing guard until he was ready to deal with him, but Jim couldn't stop *hearing* him, driving him half-insane with the imperative to do anything in his power to ease Blair's desolation.

Resigned at being met with righteous anger at the very least, Jim wheeled slowly and silently toward the area where he knew Blair was, trying to spot his hiding place. Eventually his senses led him to the farthest corner of the park away from the street, almost to the edge of the man-made rock point that marked the waterfront. There, amid a pile of boulders leftover from the creation of the point, was a tangle of aged playground equipment that had been replaced with more modern and child-friendly playscapes. Why it had been discarded there, then forgotten for so long it was practically covered by scrub trees and vines, Jim didn't have a clue.

What he did know was that Blair's vitals were mysteriously located in the heart of the jumble of old pipes, timbers, and massive plastic forms. Using the faint outlines of footprints in bent grass as a path, he made his way to the blocked opening of a large-bore pipe of the type kids liked to crawl through, and visually traced it to the remnants of a playhouse that was all but obscured by the other things in the pile. Hard as it was to believe, all the evidence indicated that was where Blair was, and Jim eyed the corrugated metal pinned to the pipe, noticing that only one screw at the top was still intact. It could act as a hinge for the metal, allowing someone to swivel it away and crawl inside the opening.

It was large enough for Jim to use, making it easy access for Blair's smaller form, and he didn't worry about the fact he was going to have to squirm along on his belly to go after him. Standing and leaning on the pipe, he folded his chair and stuck it among the pipes to conceal it, then went in, mildly surprised at how much streetlight made it in from both ends. It was also unexpectedly dry and free of rubbish or vermin, not that it made the ten-foot trip through any easier on his elbows and stomach.

It opened without warning into the cubby made by the cast-off playhouse, which was only child height, though about six feet square, and Jim dropped jarringly the few inches to the mulch covered floor. Blair was huddled into a veritable nest of old coats and ratty blankets piled under a lean-to made by the half collapsed roof and a fragment of a concrete slab, shaking so hard that Jim could feel the vibrations from him through the air. Pausing only long enough to consider the best way to approach him, Jim slid forward on his stomach, softly calling his name. Blair gave no sign of hearing him, and worried that he was totally lost in the morass of his own mind, Jim stretched out an arm to gently pat the ankle closest to him.

Blair exploded into kicks, scrabbling deeper into his refuge and mumbling 'no' over and over in increasingly frantic and determined tones. Caught by surprise at the extreme reaction, Jim took a kick to the jaw that snapped his head back, but ducked or blocked the rest, wondering desperately what in the hell had happened to Blair in that lost year that had left him with such deep-seated terrors. Not knowing what else to do, he talked to him, not paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was saying but trying to keep his voice calm and loving in hopes that it would eventually soak through.

After a while Blair either grew too exhausted to keep up the fight or Jim's words began to sink in because he gradually stopped trying to get away, falling silent except for the odd gulp for air. Taking it as a cue, Jim inched forward, still nonsensically telling him everything was going to be okay, he was safe, no one was there to hurt him, until he was near enough to wrap himself around Blair if he started struggling again. Wanting very badly to simply go ahead and do that, he forced himself to settle for another fast pat to Blair's ankle, telling him before hand that he was going to touch him, just to make sure he was okay.

Blair tolerated the contact, then relaxed marginally under the next careful stroke, and the next, heartbeat quieting more and more as Jim petted and massaged first one calf, then the other. Easing closer bit by bit, he finally was able to lay his head on Blair's upper thigh, cuddling him as much as possible, given how tightly he was curled in on himself. With Blair's panic gone, Jim could relax a little himself, at least enough that he could take a few deep breaths and let go of a portion of his worry for him.

His dick picked that moment to notice how close to Blair's crotch his face was, and how, now that the fear had faded, his natural aroma was teasing at Jim's nose and libido. Stifling a groan because this was *not* the time or place for a sensory feast, especially one that was likely to end in sex, Jim tried to distract himself by reading the tension in the rest of Blair's body so he could work it out for him. It was a mistake - a big one.

Like him, Blair had become aware, on some level at least, that a willing lover was beside him. While not aroused, a part of him obviously thought making love was a good antidote to his general wretchedness. His temperature rose, centering in his groin, and he unfolded from his defensive crunch, muscles slackening to pliability under Jim's hands.

Despite his best intentions, Jim's touch became a caress that lingered over all the sensitive places on Blair's legs, winding its way up to the curve of his bottom to cup it. Soft murmurs of appreciation spilled from Blair's lips, flogging Jim's growing desire, and he helplessly stropped his cheek over the mound of Blair's manhood, thrilled when it stirred lazily. Kneading the full globes of Blair's ass, Jim nibbled at the lengthening cock, zipper and jeans no barrier to finding a hint of the pungent flavor of it. He'd longed for that taste from the beginning, never daring to take it for fear of not being able to stop until he'd loved Blair in every way possible.

Blair's near innocence with men and the odd fragility that Jim had thankfully seen less and less of had been powerful arguments from going farther than hand jobs, but now they were no more of a hindrance to his need than the jeans were to his mouth. With deft teeth and lips, he undid the top snap of Blair's pants and pulled the zipper tab down, humming his approval of the wash of humid warmth and Blair's sharp cry of pleasure. To Jim's delight, Blair was commando underneath, and he wasted no time in lapping at the exposed flesh. When Blair's hips were rocking restlessly, Jim covered the rosy crown with his mouth, his groans matching Blair's as Blair worked himself in deeper and deeper until Jim's nose was brushing pubic hair with every thrust.

Even his first kiss with Blair had not been as incendiary as Blair's frantic fucking of his mouth, and Jim's cock throbbed dangerously, as if to come from just that. Much as he loved the idea, he wanted, no, *lusted* for hours of the incredible erotic charge he got from servicing Blair. He wanted to drain him dry with his sucking, then tongue fuck his pucker until Blair was hard again and begging to be taken, which Jim would, slow and steady at first, then ever faster and harder. The image of Blair's body opening to him, taking him all in with a single shove, almost did in Jim's restraint. He slid his hands under Blair's jeans both to pull him deeper into his throat and to tease along his cleft in promise of the possession they both craved.

Fingers clutching the sides of Jim's head, pulling it down as if he lunged up, Blair whimpered Jim's name and came, sending his seed out in hard spurts that pulsed and flexed through his shaft, teasing Jim's lips and tongue. He drank it eagerly, savoring the taste and the hum of Blair's joy from every place their skin met. When a microscopic twinge told Jim that his lover was becoming post coital sensitive, he eased away with a few last, tiny cat-licks and pulled himself up until they were face-to-face.

The dazed joy and naked vulnerability in Blair's expression cooled Jim's ardor, at least enough that common sense could kick in. No way was he going to go for full-blown intercourse with no lube and no true privacy, and he growled his frustration before ferociously kissing Blair and grinding against him as best he could. Blair accepted and worked with Jim's urgency, but he finally had to gasp, "What do you need?"

"Everything," Jim muttered, "You want to give me, and a few you probably don't. For now...." A thousand and one lewd images flashed through his mind and he almost randomly picked one that he thought Blair might be willing to try.

"Suck me," he said, not quite demanding but not exactly asking, either. "Let me see your lips wrapped around my cock."

If Blair had any qualms, they didn't show as he sensuously dragged his torso down Jim's, nipping as he went. Apparently understanding that foreplay was the last thing Jim needed, he quickly undid Jim's slacks and freed his hard-on to the cool night air. Hissing at the unexpected chill, Jim fought with himself not to grab Blair's head and force him down onto his cock. The spark of renewed interest from Blair's scent and face didn't help.

"A lick first," Jim whispered, surprising himself with the order. "Just at the tip. Yeah! Like that."

Sighing with the promise of relief, he added, "Now the whole head. God! That's good, so good...." Unbidden Jim's hands crept into Blair's curls, clinging to them without pulling. "You know what to do next...slow...slow...unh! Damn, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life."

Blair made a noise that was a mix of revelation and satisfaction, and he sucked enthusiastically, if inexpertly, and that was all that Jim needed. Biting his lip to keep from shouting, he shot so hard that it almost hurt, allowing himself one hard thrust just to have the sight of his cock taking Blair's mouth. Lost to everything but the ecstasy Blair had gifted on him, Jim came back to himself to find Blair sprinkling wild kisses over his face and half-humping against him.

A stab of desire twisted in Jim's guts, despite the powerful release he'd just had, and he laughingly caught Blair's head between his hands and bestowed a long, long kiss on him. Finally breaking away, he went nose-to-nose with him. "I'm all for more, but maybe we could move to a better place?"

Blair froze, then sighed deeply and drew away a few inches, fingers fidgeting with Jim's shirt buttons and gaze firmly fixed on them. "I.... Maybe I shouldn't go home with you, Jim."

"Because of Morgan's threat?"

When Blair didn't answer, except to drop his chin down almost to his chest Jim knew that it was now or never to clear the past from between them. "I get that you took off to protect me, both now and the last time," Jim said, tilting his head back up and brushing along the lines of Blair's cheekbones with his thumbs, "But don't you think I should have some say in the matter?"

Eyelids fluttering down to cover tear-bright eyes, Blair said weakly, "It'd be all too easy for you to talk me out of it. I *never* wanted to go, but...."

"You don't think I didn't know the risks?" Jim interrupted. "Or that maybe I had the same worries about the ones you took because of me, and accepted that it was your right to take them? Complaining and griping every step of the way, maybe, but I stood clear for you to do what you had to do."

Blair managed a watery smile. "See? What can I say to that except I honestly didn't think I had any choice? The need, no, the *compulsion* to protect you was so strong that I couldn't not do something, and leaving was the only thing that I could think of to do." His tone grew reflective, and he confessed, seemingly as much to him as to Jim, "I knew it was wrong, too, though I made myself not think about that." Shuddering, he nestled into Jim, hiding from memories in the curve of his shoulder. "It ripped at me all the time, making it almost impossible sometimes to do anything but hurt."

"That's why you sleep better when I'm on top of you," Jim murmured, winding his arms around him to hold him as close as skin would allow. "So you know even in your dreams that you're back where you belong." At Blair's little start of surprise, he added roughly, "Whatever conceits I had on that score, about how I could do it on my own, that I didn't need you, died a nasty, ugly death when the doctor gave me diagnosis, and all I could do was silently scream your name."

"No," Blair whimpered, trying to pull away again. "Dear God, nooooo...."

Not letting him get away, though Blair didn't really put up much of a fight, Jim broke in, "Stop tearing yourself up like this! It's over! You weren't there, but the hope of finding you gave me something to hang onto while I was going through it all. Damnit, Sandburg. You know how much I hate outdoor cafes? Why do you think I was eating at one? In hope that I'd catch some sense of you - sight, sound, scent. It's why I never took the bus or used the truck after the doc gave me the okay to learn to drive again. Why I spent my free time just wandering the streets in my chair."

That silenced Blair as nothing else had, and he went still, though not relaxing against Jim again. Sensing that he was listening, really listening, Jim went on. "Maybe physically you weren't there, but in a way, you were: in my head, reminding me to breathe through the sensory spikes, to find my dials, all of it. I couldn't have survived without it."

At Blair's sharp intake of breath at the mention of his abilities, Jim swore once, then plowed on. "I can't even imagine what you went through on the streets, but Blair, the sentinel thing *wasn't* for nothing. Even though saving my sorry excuse for a life isn't much, think of all the other lives you saved because of what you gave me. What you did for the Chopec alone has to be worth at least some of it. And now that my life as a sentinel is over, you can reclaim everything you lost, if you want. Maybe that's why the senses have hung on so long when they're so useless; so I can do that much for you, at least."

If Jim had thought Blair was still before, it was nothing compare to the utter immobility in him now. Hardly breathing, every muscle so tense that Jim feared what would happen next, he frantically searched for something else to say, some way to staunch the psychic bleeding that had robbed Blair of his mental strength and resiliency. "Please. Please stop killing yourself with guilt and regret. I'm not worth it, and you were only doing what you thought was right and good, every step of the way. Please." Jim kissed Blair's temple, the corner of Blair's eye, astonished to realize that he was close to crying.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Blair turned to capture Jim's lips with his own, fingers trailing along the side of Jim's face in silent benediction. When he pulled away, he met Jim's eyes and smiled tremulously. "You asshole. I could have stood hearing that last part once or twice before now."

Trying to match Blair's smile and tone, aware that he was failing miserably, Jim said, "What can I say? The whole macho stoic asshole cop thing is hard not to live up to, and shit load easier than conversations like this."

That won him a bark of hard laughter that had as much aggravation in it as humor, but he could take it as promising. With a solid punch to his upper chest, Blair said, "Good thing for you that I knew what was behind all that from the start." Suddenly he turned very serious and punched him harder. "You idiot. I never, ever *once* thought that working with you wasn't worth it. You being a damned good cop, sentinel or not, was what I hung onto when it all went to hell in a hand basket."

"But, you said..."

"I meant for *you.* You struggled so long and so hard to accept your sentinel abilities, you have to deal with so much from them every day...." Blair broke off in mid-sentence, and to Jim's relief and delight, got the distracted, distant look that said his mind was working at full speed.

Fingers drumming on Jim's shoulders, Blair mumbled, "Macho, pride, status, protect and provide, all of it basic, almost hard-wired in, emotional castration added on top. Primitive cultures have to fight for survival." Blair focused on him abruptly, mouth grim. "No wonder your body hasn't been able to adjust to the amputation."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Jim demanded, baffled at the turn in their conversation."

"Everything, if you mean what you say about us staying together," Blair snapped. "I've had the feeling for weeks that you weren't making it, and I couldn't figure out why."

Trying to be gentle, Jim said, "You have to know that cancer isn't usually considered cured, especially when there hasn't been full treatment. It could come back."

Waving off the comment irritably, Blair said, "Of course I know that; I covered it in depth with your doctor the first time I met with him. I meant all the pain beyond the phantom kind he said was possible, the exhaustion, even the resignation in your attitude, as if there wasn't anything left to fight about."

"There wasn't," Jim said, trying to shrug it off. "Except for you. The rest was to be expected, more or less."

That made Blair stop and think some more. Oddly content to let him, Jim tucked him close and waited until he was done. Finally Blair hesitantly said, as if worried about his reaction, "Jim, in primitive societies, a warrior that is injured too severely to remain a useful, productive member of his tribe sometimes isn't allowed to live, especially if times are hard and they can't afford a drain on their resources. In some cases, the warrior himself takes steps to make sure he doesn't survive."

"Makes sense in some ways," Jim agreed. "Among the Chopec, there's a custom that grants great honor to elders who know their time is close and choose to go into the forest alone rather than become a burden to their families. I always thought I'd rather go that way myself if I had Alzheimer's or something."

"It's possible that's sort of what's happening to you," Blair said quietly, pain underlying the words. "In terms of your sentinel abilities. I think they're killing you rather than let you jeopardize others by being unable to do your share."

Like seeing all the bits and pieces of evidence come together to solve a case, Jim felt the rightness of that click inside him, bringing his entire illness into focus in a new way. Unwillingly, he nodded his agreement, but said, "I don't want to go, so I'm fighting myself. Again."

"You better not go," Blair muttered angrily, but Jim knew it wasn't anger at him.

Only one factor remained unresolved, and he asked curiously, "Is that why my senses changed?"

"Changed?"

Ignoring the sharpness in the tone and his own knee-jerk reaction to pass it off as nothing, Jim admitted, "It's like they've become fine-tuned or the range is increased." He scrubbed at his eyes, frustrated because neither description fit and nothing else came to mind.

"Can you give me an example?" Blair asked cautiously, when the silence stretched too much.

"Like knowing by touch that your muscles were tired from being used in a way you weren't accustomed to," Jim said, giving him the first thing that came to mind.

"When did it start? Like, right after surgery?"

It didn't take any effort to remember when he'd noticed, and for the first time, it occurred to him that it might be important. "The first time you slept in my bed. You were so tired, I thought it was a good idea to sleep yourself out, and I adjusted your position until I thought you were as comfortable as you could get. I could tell by the tone in your muscles or something like that what worked."

Blair squirmed free enough to be able to turn him on his back and roll on top of him, grabbing onto both his ears as if to make sure that he wouldn't look away from him. "Is that what you've been doing for all those kids? Literally feeling the messages being sent through their nerves and interpreting them for your own uses? Picking up on where to touch, how to touch to relieve their pain, ease their suffering? Like you're hooked right into their nervous system?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

Ignoring him, Blair said, "And you did it the first time with me, like I was the catalyst or something you needed." His mouth dropped open, then he shut it with a snap. "Of course. If the impulse to self-sacrifice is sentinel-based, the only way to derail it would be if your abilities were re-directed to other uses by someone you trusted. You've must have always had the possibility in the back of your mind to turn your senses into medical venues; that's why you became a medic in the army and kept your skills up while you were a cop. When I came back into the picture, your will to survive must have kicked in enough to snatch after the chance I represented."

At the new flush of guilt he could see beginning to build, Jim lost all interest in explanations, and stretched up so he could kiss him, not relinquishing his mouth until it was obvious the only thing he was thinking about was their growing hard-ons. Groaning, he tore himself away before they got to the point of forgetting where they were. "Can we take this home? Now? That twin bed maybe small, but it's at least warm, and I want to have you bare under me."

Reaching down to adjust them both, Blair said, "On one condition."

Letting his playful tone kill a thread of wariness, Jim said instantly, "You name it."

"I get to have you bare under me."

He went to aching readiness, and hurriedly began pulling Blair's clothes together before he could convince himself that it wasn't that cold where they were. "Deal. We can toss a coin to see who gets to go first." Blair kissed him again while he did up his own pants, and when he unwillingly released him, Jim mumbled, "Or who begs for it first. Or something."

"Beg, beg," Blair whispered against his lips.

"God! Blair Sandburg, I love you, but if you don't shut up right now and work on getting out of here, I'm going..." Another voracious kiss stopped the threat cold, and Jim cooperated with it, tugging Blair with him as he backed his way out of their hiding place.

Without warning Blair broke away, wiggling past Jim, only pausing long enough to cop a good feel before diving into the tunnel to the outside. "Love you, too,' he called back over his shoulder, laughter mixing with the lust. "Now hurry up before I change my mind about who'll be doing the begging."

Broad grin breaking out, Jim said to himself, "We'll see about that. If I can stop pain, I might be able to increase pleasure, too. Let's see how much you like being on the receiving end of an experiment, Chief." Aware that his grin had turned devilish and not caring a shred, Jim chased after the good he'd been looking for his entire life.

EPILOGUE

Studying the recliner's position at the tail of his pickup truck, Jim shifted easily on his crutches and nodded at his partner. "I think that if I can get a good grip on the base, I can boost it high enough for you to guide into the truck bed, using a crutch to steady myself."

"Maybe," Blair said doubtfully, placing the last box from the apartment in the place he'd left for it on the shortest stack. "Lifting it enough to tilt it onto its back might be better; there's enough room to leave it like that, and that blanket will protect the leather. Are you sure you don't want to take the bed, or at least the mattress in case we have company in the new place?"

Turning his attention away from the chair, Jim smiled. "Had a lot of good times on that bed in the past three months, haven't we?"

Snorting, Blair shot back, "Not so many that I'm willing to give up that new queen-size we just bought. Let's just say I have a renewed appreciation for recycling and conserving."

His tone was too happy to allow Jim to cloud up at the reminder of his homeless days, and he said in the same vein, "It won't go to waste. The landlord said he could rent it faster if it were semi-furnished."

"Some furnishings: a mattress, bed frame, hot plate and mini-fridge."

Before Jim could point out that to some it was all that was needed, a voice behind him sent his alarms ringing, and he swung around to see who was coming. Taking Jim's change in stance as warning, Blair jumped down out of the truck, one arm draped casually over the edge to have his baseball bat within reach. Considering his crutch to be enough of a weapon if he needed one, Jim half sat on the tailgate and waited for the three men to come around the corner, already sure their business was with them. He quickly recognized them as part of the group who had harassed Blair over construction pickup jobs not that long ago, and tensed, ready for battle.

To his surprise, Blair deliberately relaxed, though he kept his hand near the bat. "Mr. Hernandez," he called out in greeting.

"Mr. Sandburg," the leader of the trio called back. "Ah, it is true then. You are moving."

"I went back to school part-time," Blair said in ready explanation that made Jim revise his opinion of how well Blair knew the man. "Working part-time at the hospital too, in the patient services department. Couldn't swing a new place by myself, and since Jim is going back to school, too, it made sense to share expenses."

With a nod to his companions, Hernandez said something in Spanish that apparently translated to help them move the chair. To Jim he said, "I had wondered why we had seen him only briefly in recent weeks."

"Been dropping by in the mornings long enough to say hello to Tomas and some of the others," Blair explained, motioning Jim to his side so the men could work. "See how they're doing."

"Very well, thanks in part to you," Hernandez confirmed. "Though I thought it was very much a risk to return home in promise of a job to allow him to cross back legally with a green card."

"Glaiser is one of the good ones. It made sense to him to sponsor him in exchange for a reliable part-time operator," Blair said earnestly. "It's not as good as he'd hoped, but at least it's a decent toehold."

"Agreed. And your new job is a 'decent toehold,' as well?"

In Jim's opinion, the question was far too personal and probing, but before he could speak up, Blair said, "Alternative therapies and grief counseling for patients is becoming an acceptable part of medicine - or at least tolerated when it doesn't interfere with traditional practices. I'm getting paid for something I've been doing all along on my own; the degree in psychology is more to give the board confidence in me than because I need it."

To Jim's surprise, Hernandez smiled briefly. "Still encouraging the floundering swimmers, then. Perhaps then, you would agree to attempt to save one on my behalf?" He faced Jim directly, though it was clear his words were meant for both of them. "I understand you occasionally assist the police on cases that are not yielding to traditional methods."

"I work at the hospital," Jim said shortly, deciding that Hernandez didn't need to know that he was studying for his license as massage therapist. It had been a surprising suggestion from Trevor the day he'd been released, and was good cover for what Jim did as a sentinel. That, however, was no one's business except his and Blair's. "Teaching some of those alternative therapies."

"But we have friends in the department," Blair put in, ignoring Jim's warning glare. "Cops are always cops, even after they quit carrying a badge. We get together, they talk shop, sometimes Jim has an insight they can use."

In a genial voice that did not hide harsh undertones, Hernandez said, "Then perhaps you could mention to one of your friends that the man they arrested for the Cera murder is innocent. It was another in our community, and we have the evidence to prove it."

"And you haven't gone to the primary on the case because?" Jim said sharply.

"He is known to have a certain lack of... tolerance for my people. As he already has one in custody that he is convinced is guilty, he has not been amenable to listening to any statements that contradict his position," Hernandez said dryly.

Against his will, Jim nodded in agreement. He knew the primary and had had his own run-ins with the man's unwillingness to listen to reason once he'd made up his mind. "You'd turn the guilty party in?"

"If we can be assured of his fair treatment. There were what I believe you call 'extenuating circumstances' in the matter. I would rather not make an enemy of the officer by going to the Public Defender first, but I will if I must."

Jim turned to watch as the other two men finished lashing down the chair to the truck. Thinking it over, he avoided the blatantly pleading look Blair was giving him. In the end he couldn't ignore the possibility of the wrong man being punished, and said shortly, "I need the details before I go to the department."

"Perhaps you and Mr. Sandburg could join me for dinner this evening, as my guests?" Hernandez was back to harmless and congenial, but there was an element of honesty in his attitude that caught Jim's interest.

Deliberately letting Blair catch his eye to accept his approval, Jim nodded. "It'll take us a few hours to unload and freshen up."

They quickly negotiated time and place - a far more upscale place than Jim would have expected - and exchanged brief goodbyes before Jim and Blair climbed into the truck to leave. Glancing back at Hernandez as he drove away, Jim said, "Have you given any thought to what we might be getting ourselves into?"

Blair didn't answer him, but stared out the side window, expression pensive. After a bit he said, "Do you remember once I said that riding with you was riding the roller coaster, and I didn't want to go back to the merry-go-round? Well, now it's like one of those fun-house rides where you don't know what's going to happen next, but you're pretty sure it's going to be interesting. Scary as hell, maybe, but definitely interesting." He turned and looked at him, energy bouncing out in mad, merry pulses. "Would you really have it any other way?"

Taking the hand he held out to him, Jim caught it and kissed the palm, reveling in the life and love simmering in it. "Not a chance, Chief, as long as the ride's with you."

finis


AUTHOR'S NOTES

As a general rule, I seldom feel it's necessary to explain or define words that I use in my work, since my opinion is that the average level of comprehension for the fanfiction audience is significantly higher than the fifth grade reading ability assumed by many publishers for their readers. In this case, however, I felt I should make an exception because the word 'denatured' is seldom used, except by certain technical/medical professionals. While it can be taken as "dehumanized," (i.e. deprived of human qualities, personality or spirit) it can also mean to deprive of natural qualities, or to change the nature of, without impairing usefulness for other purposes (such as denatured alcohol, which has been made unfit for drinking by the use of additives).

It seemed to me, where Jim and Blair are concerned, that the second definition could be applied to create a very interesting story which might not seem to fit 'canon,' at first. I wanted to take away very nearly everything about them that defined them as the men we came to know and love (and obsess over *G*), but leave Jim his senses and Blair his intuitive, creative mind because those are as much a part of them as their blue eyes. 'Depriving' them of those traits, in my mind, would do more than 'denature' them; it would distort them beyond recognition. What was left could be considered the fundamental Jim and Blair, and their relationship one they might have as two men coming together for mutual support and comfort in a world hostile for both of them.

It will be, I hope, a story of love, courage, and strength that will still reflect the unique universe of The Sentinel and the aspects we all love about it. It will also be, in an odd way, a companion piece to "Elemental Man" and "Pure Spirit," both of which were based on the deconstruction/reconstruction of either Jim or Blair and the journey back to their partner and their true selves. This time, they will journey together to a future different than they (or we) might have expected, but one that is hopefully still true to the heart and soul of our Sentinel and Shaman.