Notes: The ending of this story has an interesting history. Originally I finished it with Blair speaking one word, and I personally found that version very satisfying. But my first beta - Thank You Wolfling - said, no, you need more. So I took a part that I had written in the middle then pulled cause it didn't really fit (the reader will have *no* problem spotting where) and retooled it, you should pardon the expression, to be the new ending. My next beta to report back - Thank You, Vickie - preferred the one word ending. So I played around with the idea of posting the revised ending as a PWP. My third, and last - Thank You, Bron - liked it better with the new ending.

::::sigh::: two for and two against.

So I decided to do something different with this story. It is posted with my first ending, *but* the revised one is being posted as well, tomorrow, separate from the rest of the story. You can decide for yourself which was better. Either way, I hope you enjoy!!!!

WARNING - MAJOR STORY SPOILERS - WARNING

Lammas Night is a hauntingly beautiful song written by Mercedes Lackey, and found, among other places, on her Magic, Moondust, and Meloncholy CD. In this ballad, a lady mage is asked by villagers to stay and make her home with them, and is offered the dwelling of their recently departed male mage with all its books and furnishings as part of the bargain. She accepts, and finds that her new home is being haunted by the young mage - who is courting her.

In his books, she finds a spell that he was working that accidentally trapped him between worlds, neither dead nor alive. In the same book is a spell that can free him to go on to the next life - and one that can summon him back to this one. The spell differs only by one word, and the last words of the song ask plaintively, if the mage courted her for herself or because she could bring him back. Should she bid him go - or bid him stay?

So evocative is the song, that a whole *book* of stories has been written based on it. While I by no means class myself with those authors, I have to admit, I had to write my own version of it, as well. I simply could not stop hearing Jim ask himself over and over:

BID HIM COME OR BID HIM STAY

Leaning heavily on his cane but trying not to show it, Lt. Colonel James Ellison, retired, glared at the real estate agent fumbling with her keys and bit back a sharp remark. If the woman had just shown him the kinds of places that he'd asked about when they'd started today, instead of what *she* thought he'd like better, they wouldn't both be short-tempered and frustrated now.

Carol Corday had looked slightly rumpled this morning when she picked him up. After showing him so many properties that Jim couldn't remember any individual one, she was now positively dishelved and very skittish as she finally fit the key in the lock for 852 Prospect St, #307.

Resolving this would be the *last* condo this matronly woman showed him whether he liked it or not, he stepped back in vague hopes of it calming her enough to get the damned door open. It - or the prayers she was mumbling worked - the door swung open and she hurried through. Not wanting her to start her spiel immediately, Jim hesitated himself, then was caught by a soft curl of fragrance emanting from the rooms beyond. Spicy but subtle, it hooked itself directly into his brain and coaxed him inside, wrapping around him comfortably.

His first reaction was 'this is more like it' as he visually swept the loft apartment, talking in its balcony, high ceilings, and many usable escape routes. His second was 'who the devil decorated this place; a museum curator?' It had sparse but pleasant furniture and was filled from hallway to kitchen to living room with shelves stocked with what appeared to be artifacts from dozens of different cultures.

As if she had heard the question, Mrs. Corday burbled, "Owned by an archaeologist, or was that anthropologist. Linguist? Anyway, Dr. Sandburg worked at Rainier University until his death last year. Well, his presumed death. Vanished from his expedition in the middle of some God-forsaken jungle. Mother inherited everything, but she's refusing to believe he's gone. Couldn't even get her to come in and take away his personal things. A friend came in and moved most of it into there." She turned and pointed to a set of French doors with a lock on them. "If you want to look inside, it was his office, I have the key, but my orders are to return it to the bank's lawyers. It's in foreclosure you know. Ms. Sandburg hasn't paid on the mortgage for whatever reason, and they had no choice but to take it back, I hope you don't have a problem with that."

Jim had barely heard the realtor's words, mainly picking up on key phrases as he'd been taught in Black Ops. Not trusting his hip at the moment, he didn't move very far from the middle of the living room, but truthfully, he didn't need to. The more he looked around the better he liked this place, clutter not withstanding. "You said it was in foreclosure? Do the furnishings come with it?"

That stopped the agent mid-praise of the rooms. "Er, actually, yes, they could in this case since it's an absentee foreclosure. Only the more personal belongings are exempt, and of course, a great deal of this is on loan from the university where Dr. Sandburg worked. They have to come in to catalogue and retrieve their pieces, but it being summer break and all, they haven't been able to get anybody in here."

"So when could I move in, if I sign the contract now?" he asked.

Again it seemed to be an unexpected question. "Um, I don't really know; no one else I've shown it to has been, er, interested enough to ask. Would you mind if I called the office?"

At Jim's curt nod, she stepped to one side and pulled out her cell. "You're the first one who hasn't hated it on sight, or worse yet, refused to even come inside, saying it feels funny in here," she muttered, not aware that her words were carrying easily to the soldier. "Hate the place, myself."

For the life of him, Jim couldn't see why. The view from the balcony was the epitome of serene: boats on the water, wheeling birds and city lights. Local sounds were equally soothing; traffic, yes, but not obnoxiously loud, and the water could be clearly heard even from here. And the smell of the place!! Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, feeling those same hooks that had brought him inside burrowing farther into his body. Definitely homey smelling. Previous owner liked to cook, if the scents of it were still lingering was any indication; there was woodsmoke, herbs of some kind, and underneath it all that spicy, tantalizing, evocative...

"Colonel Ellison! Colonel Ellison! Are you all right? Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear! Should I call an ambulance? Colonel Ellison!"

Mrs. Corday's panicked voice cut through the hold scent had on him, and Jim came back to himself with a start. "Lt. Colonel," he corrected automatically, absently. Resisting the urge to scrub at his face, the officer turned slowly to face her, thinking, //Oh, god, not again! Not again!//

"I didn't mean to alarm you," Jim said politely and with more charm than he'd bothered to use in a while. "Part of the injury." He lied, tapping with his cane once, to recall her attention to it.

"I'm *so* sorry," she said, voice contrite and filled with the syrupy sympathy that Jim had loathed from the first time anybody had directed it toward him. "It must be very painful." Somehow the words were hopeful, as if she wanted him to share with her how it had happened.

Keeping his face neutral, Jim agreed blandly. "At times." He took a tentative step, glad that his injury had held up to his fugue. "Now, what did they say about me moving in?"

"Oh!" Definitely looking disappointed at his reticence, she visibly set herself back on track. "We already have the paper work in order. If you wished, you could take residence in a few days before even officially closing, as long as you didn't mind being held responsible for the artifacts and promising cooperation with the museum on their return."

//Must really be desperate to get rid of this place,// Jim interpreted inwardly. "As long as there is an inventory in place so that there is absolutely no question as to what's here, and as long as it's all insured, it would be very convenient for me to move in quickly. As you know, I'm staying in a hotel, and the sooner I have a place of my own, the sooner I can begin to settle down again. And I have business to take care of; having a permanent base to work out of would be enormously helpful."

"Excellent then!" She cheered up immensely and immediately began to dig in her purse for her car keys. "We can go back to my office and get things started." Finding the keys, her head shot up and she said worriedly, "Unless you'd like to look around some more. You haven't been near the bathroom or seen the loft bedroom upstairs."

"I don't need to; a full report on the plumbing, wiring, or anything else of significance will be part of the inspections. We can discuss any findings before we close." Cautiously Jim put himself into motion, escorting Mrs. Corday out. As the door shut behind them, he took a last sniff, relieved that some of the marvelous fragrance was lingering on him.

Three days later he again opened the door, this time to early morning sun, and shuffled inside, balancing his burdens carefully. Behind him the cab driver who had picked him up earlier, and who had been willingly hauling him all over Cascade, also entered, following his fare patiently. "Joel, just put the grocery bags in the kitchen," Jim told him, putting his luggage down under the hooks by the door and casually tossing the manilla envelope from his father's lawyer onto the table. "Anything else, where ever you see a blank spot will do."

"Man," the driver said on the way past, eyes bouncing around the room as if not sure where to settle first, "This place looks like a museum storeroom."

"Tell me about it. But someone will be here soon to get this stuff." Jim looked around, finding the mess oddly appealing even as his military training began grumbling. Or maybe that *was* why he liked it; he'd had enough of the army to last him a good long time. "Talk about bringing your work home with you!"

That surprised a laugh out of the dour cabby, brightening his dark-skinned, mournful face considerably. "Can't imagine the man's briefcase, I tell you. What do you think this stuff is worth?" He picked up what looked like an African mask, stubby fingers stroking it longingly.

"More than you or I make in a year," Jim said dryly. "The Rainier rep shouted and fussed for hours before agreeing to let me move in." In fact, if it hadn't been for his Ellison name and the shark toothed lawyer he had inherited along with it, Jim might not have made it in at all, despite the bank's blatant desire to unload the loft.

"Guess it was that uniform that turned the tide," Joel said wistfully, face turning sorrowful.

Jim blinked at that comment, but didn't correct the driver one way or the other. "That or they were fairly sure I couldn't run away from them." He didn't know why he joked, but he found he preferred the glimpsed good humor on the pudgy man.

Laughing again, Joel offered his hand. "You gonna be needing rides for a while, I guess. Be a honor if you'd ask for me by name; work most days from 6 to 6."

Taking it for an honest shake, Jim smiled. "Sure about that, Joel? Most likely you'll be sick of hauling my sorry ass around before I get around to getting some wheels. Among other things I gotta get some civies for myself before I start thinking I was born in uniform."

"Positive, man. Just call the dispatcher about an hour ahead, or even when you know you're going to need it a few days in advance. You be good, now. Or at least have fun being bad." He took the tip Jim dug out of his pocket with more grace than the soldier had managed giving it, gave a last small grin, and left.

Locking the door behind him, Jim hobbled to the kitchen and set about moving into his new home. Never one for many possessions, it didn't take him long to get things put away; he hadn't been joking when he said he needed to shop. Mentally thanking Dr. Sandburg, wherever he was, for the well-equipped kitchen - it looked like he'd been right when he theorized the former owner had liked to cook - Jim was grateful he had been spared the kind of massive foray into the world of retail furnishing a home would entail. Deciding that listing what had come with the place was a good idea, and reminding himself that if the mother ever asked, he would return *anything* she wanted, he murmured aloud, "I hope you had a peaceful and merciful death, Blair Sandburg. And that you don't object too badly to me using your things. I'll take care of them."

He made his way through the small loft, room by room, opening cupboards and closets, making notes on what was found and what he needed. As he worked, the instinct that had always served him so well in the Rangers began to poke at him, spinning his alertness up to painful levels. Keeping that from his face and movements, he thought about what he was feeling and tentatively identified it as 'being watched.'

Nonplused - what reason would anybody have to keep an eye on him anymore? - he did the small, hidden things that let prey identify predator. And came up empty. No odd sounds, no flicker of shadow or movement, no betraying markers anywhere. Just a sureness born of too many years fighting for his life that he was under observation. Mulling the sensation over, he added a tentative qualifier to it: being watched by someone who was innocently curious. There was simply no feeling of threat raising his hackles or his heart rate.

Finally dismissing it as a nosy neighbor, he went back to his list, this time beginning on the artifacts to separate out Dr. Sandburg's from the University's. Fortunately there were labels on the backs of the later, but the former presented a problem. Helpless to identify the majority of them, he created his own system based on location and short description, sure that it would be enough for him to pinpoint any one object if necessary. //Interesting// he thought as he looked over the third or fourth piece. //Whoever it is, is worried now. Afraid I'm going to steal? Or break something?//

Moving with exaggerated care, he handled each item reverently, which they deserved and which he would have done even if there hadn't been an audience. It took half of the inventory, but eventually his observer must have decided he was harmless. The intensity of the stare aimed at his shoulder blades diminished, and the feeling subsided until it was only like someone was idly standing there. Inured to that by a lifetime of dormitories and barracks, Jim went on with his task, limiting himself to only the top and middle shelves for now because bending and kneeling were problematic for him.

The evening darkness was beginning to creep into the loft when Jim stretched cautiously, mindful of his injury, and picked up one last item. Recognizing it, //For once,// he grinned to himself, he took a second to admire the work that had gone into the Kachincha doll. Running his fingertips over the edge of the mask, he absently said aloud, "Machine tooled! Huh, hope he didn't think this was authentic." Zeroing in, he looked where he had felt the evenly spaced marks that told him something mechanically precise had been used in making this fetish. His vision blurred, zoomed in and out like he was looking at binoculars, then *saw* the fine scratches.

"No," he mumbled, hastily putting the doll down. "No, no, no." Stumbling away, forgetting to use his cane for support, he half fell toward the bathroom door and leaned on it, breathing heavily, eyes tightly closed.

//You didn't see that, Ellison,// he lectured himself harshly. //Nobody can see things like that. It's only another nasty little hallucination, like all the ones you had when you were in that hell hole the enemy called solitary confinement. Left over delirium from the fever you had when the gunshot wound became infected. Get over it! Look around! Everything looks just the way it should, right?// Despite the convincing arguments, he couldn't make himself look, then he yelled silently at himself, //RIGHT!!??//

The tone, a mix of particularly viscious commanding officer and his father, snapped his eyes open, and he looked around the perfectly ordinary - well, for a storeroom - apartment. As he had told himself, there was nothing weird, nothing freaky to see. Wiping the sweat off his face, he straightened. //Time to get cleaned up, maybe have some chow. This place had enough dust to create its own desert; I'm filthy.// Knowing that one trip up the stairs was all he was good for, Jim went in and washed up enough to cook, all the while totally oblivious that it was past time to turn on the lights for the night.

When he went into the kitchen, he automatically flicked the switch, wincing in pain at the brightness, but dismissing it as needing to adjust the overhead. His meal was simple and eaten while he read, his unknown and unseen companion not too far away the entire time. The company wasn't completely unpleasant, no matter how strange, but he found himself wondering more than once if his observer was yet another symptom of whatever was wrong with his mind.

In the end, he trusted his instincts too much to believe that. More than likely Rainier University wasn't taking any chances and had hired a private investigator to make sure he didn't sell off any choice pieces. He was only mentally placing the man inside the loft to keep the annoyance from being watched down to a minimum.

Dinner done and the dishes washed, he showered, coming back out to stand uncertainly at the bottom of the stairs to the bedroom, suitcase in hand, dressed in his towel. Maybe he should have asked Joel... No, better to do it himself. Mentally making a note to keep a change of clothes down here in case he couldn't make it up the stairs some nights, Jim put the bag as high up on the steps as he could. Jaw tight, he climbed until he could move it up again, leaning heavily on the wall and his cane as he did. By the time he reached the top, he was exhausted, frustrated, and naked, having lost his towel part way up.

But he made it up, and he let himself topple onto the bed, braced for the impact. Instead of a bounce, he got a splosh! and a series of sickening waves from the water bed. //Damn, damn, damn!!! *How* am I going to get out of this thing!?" He lay on his back, waiting for the ripples to die out, and checking out the bed itself. With nightstands on either side built in, as well as a shelved headboard, it thankfully also had a broad bench type footboard. He could use his good leg to scoot down and sit up there before trying to stand. Tomorrow he'd have to call about having it taken away.

//Then again, maybe not,// he thought a moment later. The water for the bed was heated to nearly the perfect temperature for one person, and it seeped into his stiff and healing muscles, making them relax. Even the bone in his damaged hip shut up for a change, letting him mellow out even more. //Have to see how hard it is to get up from here, before getting rid of it for sure,// he decided drowsily.

Rolling, he reached to turn out the light - and stopped in mid gesture. He hadn't turned it on. Nor obviously had he turned on the heater for the water bed. The puzzle woke his muzzy mind, but seconds later he realized that Dr. Sandburg's mother had probably left on both when she'd been here last. Pleased with his solution, he lay back again, looking around the room again.

Not much up here. The kingsized bedframe with it's built in nightstands took up most of the space, though there was a chest of drawers in one corner and a small table on the wall opposite the stairs. Unlike the rest of the place, this room was devoid of any of the personality of the lost anthropologist.

Curious now about the more private life of Dr. Sandburg, Jim idly opened the nightstand drawer nearest him and shifted through it. It held only the kinds of odds and ends you'd expect to be left behind. Some hair ties - Dr. Sandburg had had long, curly brown/auburn hair apparently, that or his girlfriend did. Some pens and paper, box of tissues. Pulling out a box of condoms and several tubes of astrolube, Jim grinned. //Well, well. Blair Sandburg and I have at least one thing in common. A taste for variety in partners.//

The rest of the drawers were empty, and he was sure the others in the room would be too. Most likely all traces of Sandburg had been banished from here to the locked room downstairs. And, now that Jim thought of it, those possessions weren't the only things *not* up here.

His sense of a hidden guest told him that he was alone now. //Good! At least I can sleep without waking up every five minutes.// Paying close attention to the rest of the apartment, he detected what he was beginning to think of as his silent roomie downstairs by the balcony doors. //Must like the view; that's the second thing in common// The thought was half nonsensical, half sleep-filled. Whimsically he called out, "Good night," and was asleep before the echoes of the words had time to bounce back to him.

****

That first day at 852 Prospect set the pattern of his life for the next week. Up early to call for Joel, eat while he waited for the cabbie, take care of whatever outside errands needed to be done, then home. More often than not he persuaded Joel to eat lunch with him; the man knew just about everything and everybody in Cascade. Jim learned a few things about Joel himself that surprised him, such as that he had been a bomb expert working for the Cascade PD. Joel didn't go into details of why he was driving a hack, now, and Jim respected his privacy too much to pry.

Afterwards Jim would tackle the loft, patiently bringing it up his standards of organization and cleanliness. Always his unseen roomie hung around, becoming an almost tangible person as he grew acquainted with i him. He was a very restless person, Jim decided, unable to stay in one place for very long, to judge by how often he felt the other person's focus shift. Yet, almost in total contradiction, he was capable of being motionless for long periods of time. Once when Jim was re-reading the list he had made, taking time to double check the museum pieces he'd found before moving them to basement storage, the observer had felt close by, almost as if reading over his shoulder.

He would watch sports with Jimm on the tube, apparently liking most of them but having a major soft spot for Cascade's home basketball team, the Jaguars. Which showed good taste, at least, Jim decided. On the other hand, if he watched CNN too long, his house guest would take off, leaving behind a air of dismay and distress that confused Jim.

In time, he actually took the presence for granted, his opinion of what it was mutating slowly from the practical and concrete, to the more, well, hypothetical possibilities. His visitor was simply too *there* to be watching him through a telephoto lens. Jim was too well traveled, seen too many things to think that everything was as neatly explained and categorized as scientists wished. And at least if he had to share his living quarters again, it was with someone who didn't leave wet towels on the floor or play music until 3am.

By the time he had cleaned and rearranged to please himself and put the majority of Sandburg's artifacts safely in storage under a high tech security system he installed himself, Jim was feeling the most normal he had since before being captured. The hallucinations had stopped almost entirely, and he hadn't had a single black-out at all. Most importantly, he was stronger, much stronger, climbing to and from the bedroom with a minimum of trouble. He was even getting out of the waterbed with something resembling grace. Okay, maybe only vaguely resembling it, but it beat the hell out of the barely controlled plop to the floor he'd made that first morning.

His self-confidence led him to his second mistake. His first had been thinking that maybe the physical therapy ordered by the doctors wasn't all that necessary; that going to a gym would be enough. The second was standing in the middle of the living room, like he had when the realtor had shown him the place, and taking a moment to look around, feeling smug.

//Lot of work, but definitely worth it. This is going to be a good place to live.// A surprisingly sunny day had lit the loft up, making it cheery even in Jim's jaundiced opinion. The few things of Sandburg's he left out gave the place the feel of a real home, and not a barracks or a Bachelor Officers Quarters. Studying the pattern of the light and shadows falling from the balcony doors to paint the floor, Jim uncharacteristically dropped all his warrior watchfulness and let himself completely relax.

It wasn't until the last bar of shadow had slipped back outside into the dying day that Jim came back to himself, eyes burning from staring so long. As self-awareness filtered back into Jim's mind, rage and self-hatred mixed with fear came with it, leaving him shaking in reaction. Wanting only to punch a wall or get drunk, or maybe both, he swung around intending to head for the door. His hip, held motionless for too long, gave way, his abused, scarred tendons and nerves screaming.

He managed to take the fall correctly, body going limp, one hand slapping the floor to expend some of the force. But there was no chance he was going to be able to get up any time soon, either, even if he had been able to move through the pain. Every muscle in his leg knotted up, cramps stabbing into him, and he pounded on his good thigh, trying to literally beat down some of the agony.

**Breathe**

The soft whisper didn't make any sense, he *was* breathing, damn it, when he could force air past the lump of stiffled screams in his throat.

**Breathe**

In was an insistent suggestion, threading its way past the obstacles between it and Jim's attention. "I *am* breathing," he ground out, unthinkingly.

**No, like this.** The unseen speaker sucked in a huge draft of air through his nose, then let it go in a long, slow blow through his mouth.

"How... uh.. the helll...'m I ... sposed...." Jim argued, more for something to deal with than his abused body than because he really wanted to argue with an unseen something.

**Try. Innnnnnnn. Hold it....outtttttt.** For lack of any other idea, distantly admiring the interesting form his insanity was taking, Jim did as he was told. **Focus only on the breathing. See your body expand and contract with it, feel the oxygen flood through it, the CO2 rush out. Breathe.........** With the help of his invisible coach, Jim concentrated and to his amazement, the worst of the knots began to loosen on their own.

Awkwardly he levered himself up and massaged where he could, bringing his level of discomfort down to the point that he could feel something besides his leg. Like that the floor was very cold and very hard. Wistfully he looked up at the bedroom; no way was he going to be able to get up there tonight. Best he could do was get to the couch. Maybe in a few hours he'd try to walk again.

Laboriously he moved himself, hip protesting and out right refusing to work at times, collapsing at last on the cushions with a groan that was perilously close to a scream.

**Breathe.** he heard again.

Well it had been good advice last time. Again imitating the soft whooshes in and out, Jim closed his eyes and tried not to think of anything at all. Gradually he slipped away into slumber, never noticing the afghan that was tugged down on top of him.

He slept through the night, surprising himself by opening his eyes to morning without remembering falling asleep. Though his stomach was growling at so many missed meals, he stayed where he was. Partly because he wasn't looking forward to the pain when he did move, and partly because, for the life of him, he couldn't think of a single reason to do so.

Up until today he had pretty much been operating on automatic pilot. His mission, such as it had been, was to get out of that damned hospital before the doctors found an excuse to lock him away forever. Then it had been to get himself situated so he could make decisions about what to do with the rest of his life. The disability pension, his investments, and the damned hush money described as a service bonus were more than enough to keep a roof over his head and to feed him, plus have a little left over for small luxuries. Very small luxuries, maybe, but he'd always lived simply, which was why he'd had money to invest in the first place.

Which left him with no money worries, no hobby left that he could still reasonably pursue, and nothing to do with his time except lose it to these damned blank spells. For the first time in his life he had no goals, no ambitions. He couldn't even plot ways to annoy the old man. Without thinking Jim glanced over at the envelope filled inheritance documents from the lawyer that he'd left on the table by the door a week ago, not caring if he ever touched it again. William Ellison's death at the hands of a copy cat killer duplicating murders from nearly 30 years ago had forever put that particular pleasure out of reach.

Stomach gurgling louder, Jim put his forearm over his eyes and ignored the complaints with the ease of long practice. //How many people find themselves in a position to do what they please - and don't have a clue as to what pleases them?// he grumbled to himself. //Which is a starting point, I guess. What do I like to do just because I like it?// Shifting fractionally, his hip put in its own reminder, he amended, //That doesn't require fully functioning legs?//

The only thing that came to mind quickly was sex, but the incongruous image of him becoming a pimp or hustler was enough to give him his first real smile in a while. Though he'd had a buddy or two over his lifetime that did nothing but obey orders or look for a piece of ass, he couldn't really see himself arranging his entire life so that he could endlessly chase skirt. Or pants as the case might be.

Besides, outside of opening a strip joint, about the only way that could be done would be to run a bar. Partially grimacing, Jim dismissed the idea. Too noisy, too smelly, and he didn't like drunks. Besides, the kind of chase he enjoyed didn't usually hang out in bars. Bookstores, coffeehouses, even the gym, yes. Bars, no.

That was a thought; he could open a gym. Save him from finding one to work out in, at the very least. And even if he couldn't do much with the leg, he had *no* intention of letting the rest of himself go soft. Of course, not many women ventured into the kind of sweaty, punching bag filled kind of gym he had in mind. Maybe open a bookstore near the university for hunting female company, and frequent a gym to find male?

Absently he reached down to adjust himself in his pants and stopped mid-scratch as he realized that he had more than half a hard-on. Sighing with relief, he ran his fingertips over it lightly, shivering a little at how *nice* it felt, even through the fabric. It was the first since he'd been hurt that he'd had the slightest quiver from the thing, and he'd started to worry that the nerve damage elsewhere was affecting it.

Under his careless ministrations his cock stretched to it's full length, blood filling it to the point it began to ache slightly. //Oh, what the hell. Might as well take a test run and see just how much of a problem I'm going to have with sex.// Freeing himself, he sighed pleasurably and began to stroke. His nerves sang in delighted anticipation, and then spread the wonderful sensation throughout his body in sweet jolts.

Cautiously he began to pump from the hips, only moving as much as it took to compliment the action of his hand. "God!" he grunted aloud, surprised at how good, how intense it felt. The pure physical act was going to be enough to get him over the edge, no fantasies required, just cock into fist, scent of his own arousal, and his unseen audience staring at him in approval and envy.

The last concept barely formed in his mind before he shouted, spilling over himself in fantastic release. Shaking from the unexpected power of it, he milked the last few drops from himself to prolong his pleasure. Panting, he peeked from under his arm when the last of his climax finally faded to leave his mind clear, somewhat reluctantly trying to pinpoint the whereabouts of his invisible roomie. To his relief, he was completely alone, though he had no idea what had happened to the now familiar presence.

//Maybe it's a prude,// he reflected, remotely disturbed that he had begun to take it's existence for fact. //And my obscene behavior exorcised it. If that's the case, it'd be one for the books.// Half smiling, he stretched, paying close attention to the limberness of his leg, then grimaced. //Okay, time to clean up.// Taking some tissues from a box he'd found in an end table drawer, he tidied up enough to close his pants, the braced himself to stand.

It didn't hurt as much as he'd expected; on the other hand, he was probably going to have to spend the night on the couch again. No way was he going to be able to climb stairs today. Storing that away for later worry, he retrieved his cane from where he'd left it the day before, and hobbled toward the bath. Halfway there, he stopped, absolutely certain he could hear foot steps coming toward his door. Checking the time, he wondered if he'd had an appointment that he'd forgotten and if Joel was coming upstairs to see what was keeping him. Or maybe the big man had simply decided to drop by, as he'd been threatening to do for a while.

But the steps didn't sound like those of a heavy, older man; they were quick and light. And whoever it was was nervous. The stink of it preceded him, as did the barely muttered, "Okay, be cool now, be cool. Okay, okay." Taking his gun from where it hung hidden under a jacket on a hook, Jim tucked it into the back of his pants, dropped his shirt over it, and waited for the knock to come.

He opened the door onto a young black man whose gangly limbs screamed that he'd only just stopped growing up, but whose big hands said there was a lot of filling out left to do. The teen had a smile plastered onto his face, a clipboard in his hand, and a racing heartbeat that a deaf man could have picked up on by vibrations alone.

"Hi, Mr, um," he glanced down at the clipboard and tried to smile wider, "Ellison. I'm Alex Carver. From Rainier University, you know? Dr. Sheldon sent me to begin packing up the artifacts that were in Dr. Sandburg's care?"

Not believing it for a second, Jim stepped back to let the imposter in, wanting to know how the kid had gotten so much information. "I've been waiting to hear from them; expected a phone call first."

"Oh, uh, well, you know how bureaucrats work. Make you hang around waiting forever, then suddenly blow in without any warning to do whatever it is they gotta do. It shouldn't take long; I have a list right here." He all but shoved the paper work into Jim's hand.

Giving it a cursory once over, seeing that it was an actual Rainer form with a computer generated list of identified items, Jim gave the kid another once over. Though his clothes were fashionably tattered and old, they were also of good quality, and his teeth were clean and healthy. Maybe a former student assistant for Dr. Sandburg, deputized because he was familiar with what he needed to be looking for?

Then why so nervous? And this list could have come from anyone with a computer and the form itself. On impulse Jim went to his own inventory and randomly checked one against the other. Bingo. ID numbers didn't match.

"Hey, man, whacha doing?" the young man asked cooly enough, but his heartrate picked up to the point where Jim could see the pulse in his throat hammering at the skin covering it.

"Confirming that what you want are things that are here," Jim lied. "I was told that there were others stored in his office." He knew that everything belonging to the university had already been claimed and the remainder of Sandburg's belongings moved here.

"Oh, no need to worry about that; anything not here I'll go looking for there. All you have to do is sign off on what I do take," the self proclaimed Alex assured him nonchalantly.

"I'd better call and confirm with Dr. Sheldon. Last thing I want is to have to pay for a missing whatever because they weren't sure where it was to start with." Jim said, picking up the phone. Hum, no reaction, in fact an almost palpable relaxation. The number he was about to dial was from the business card attached to the rest of the paper work; those were easy to make, too.

Punching in directory assistance, he watched from the corner of his eye as he asked, "The number for Dr. Anton Sheldon, Anthropoloyg Department, Rainier, please."

"Hey, number's right there!" 'Alex' protested.

"Sorry, son, I'm not wearing my glasses. I'll let the operator connect me." Deliberately leaning heavily on his cane, for once wanting to give an impression of infirmity, Jim waited for the thief's reaction.

It wasn't long in coming. Without warning the young man darted toward the shelf closest, snatched up two items, and ran for the door. Without thinking Jim whipped out his cane, catching the boy between the legs and tumbling him to the floor. The kid twisted as he fell, already kicking out violently at the ex-soldier. Wisely Jim didn't try to deal with that, instead he *threw* the cane, knocking the door shut with it, and lurching back to hit 9-1-1 on the phone he still held.

Hearing the tones, or maybe panicking at being shut in with someone who wasn't as helpless as he'd thought, the thief abandoned one prize, scrambled to his feet and backed into the door to clutch at the handle while keeping a worried eye on his supposed victim. Taking out his gun, Jim told him calmly, "May as well put that down, son. If you do, it'll be my word against yours when the cops get here."

"Yeah, like they won't listen to you over me!" the kid shouted, fighting with the door to unlock it without looking. Abruptly his tone changed to one of deep fear and need, "I *can't* go back empty handed! I *can't*!!!"

"Tough!" The receiver in his hand spoke, and Jim barked, "Break in at 852 Pr.." The dial tone cut through his words, then he heard a soft, **No. Please?**

Startled, Jim redialed, only to have it disconnect before the first ring. **No. Please! Let Daryl have that. It's okay, it was mine."

The thief finally got the lock undone and was gone before Jim could respond to the barely audible murmur. Distantly he could hear the pound of the kids' steps beyond the still opened front door. Then, with absolutely no trace of breeze to be the cause for it, it swung shut.

At a complete loss for what to say or do, Jim stood staring at it blankly until a gentle nudge at his cane made him jerk. Swallowing hard, giving the room a once over that Sherlock Holmes would have been impressed with, Jim leaned back onto the wall and muttered, "I don't believe in ghosts."

The sound was large in the suddenly small room, and he hit the speed dial on the phone without thinking. "Yellow Cab? Yeah, could you send Joel Taggert to 852 Prospect as soon as possible? That's right, tell him Jim will be waiting upstairs for him." At that, resolutely pushing the past 24 hours into a box labeled 'not now,' Jim stubbornly put himself back into his morning routine.

The only variation was to be careful to dress completely before leaving the bathroom after his shower.

***

Too exhausted to care if Slimer from the Ghostbusters was having a party with his fellow ectoplasmic entities, Jim literally stumbled back into his apartment late that day, draped over Joel's sturdy arm. Leg threatening to give out any second, he stood weaving for a second, before nodding to the cabbie where to place him. Their progress across the room was uncertain, but they made it to the couch more or less intact, and Jim was lowered carefully to the cushions.

"Man, was it *that* bad?" Joel asked worriedly.

"Ever do time in boot camp?" Jim groaned.

"Yeah, regular army."

"Well, remember that we used to think that the brass deliberately looked for the worse sadists they could find for drill sargeants? I've discovered what happens to the ones rejected for being *too* sadistical; they become physical therapists." With Joel's assistance, Jim got himself stretched out, shoes off, cane nearby for when he needed it.

With a snort of laughter, Joel agreed, "Yeah, I heard that about PT. But you should be grateful. Greg is the best, and I've driven enough of his clients to know that for sure. You're lucky he had a cancellation this evening."

"For some reason, Joel," Jim said tiredly, "I don't feel particularly lucky right now. I thought it was bad when I was hurt to start with." He leaned up enough to glare at the other man. "And don't think I don't know you asked him special to make room for me. I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't need any favors."

"Hey, just trying to earn all those generous tips you give, man," Joel answered defensively. "How'd you find out about that anyway?"

Jim's reply was a groan and change of subject. "Want a beer before you go? I was your last fare, right?"

"Yeah, and thank you, I will. Want one too?"

"Yes, please. I would very much like to have the one beer our dear Greg Allison has so graciously permitted me to have while in therapy." Jim bitched.

Wisely Joel didn't rise to that particular bait, but fetched two bottles from the fridge and made himself at home in the chair closest the couch. They drank companionably silent for a while, then Joel asked casually. "So if it was so bad today, is it going to get much better?"

Idly tracing patterns through the dew on the beer, Jim debated not answering at all, but he liked the husky man and didn't want to snub him. "Well, the Olympics are straight out." That came out much more angry and frustrated than Jim wanted, and he tried to mellow it out. "I'll be able to walk without the cane, with a limp, but, well anything as extreme as running is probably not possible." Eyes on the bottle he directly faced the scope of his loss for the first time. "No more surfing, though I could probably swim without trouble. No more horseback riding, or serious backpacking. Handling the extra weight of a backpack over long distances wouldn't be wise. Dance? I don't know; I didn't do much before I was hurt. Basketball is limited to just shooting hoops from now on, or pitching cages for baseball."

Shrugging with his expression, Jim finished. "I did the angry thing when I first got back to the States, but it still pisses me off sometimes. Usually when I'm not expecting it. And I *am* glad to have the leg; that was iffy for a while."

"Lotta loss," the cabbie said sympathetically in exactly the right tone for Jim to hear without flinching.

"Compared to others, not so much. By the way, Joel, I hate to ask, but could you do a favor for me?" Jim didn't bother to try to make the change of topic smooth.

"If I can," he answered calmly.

"I had an unexpected visitor today," Jim started, and quickly filled him in on the thief's try at conning him out of the artifacts.

"Why didn't you just call the cops?" Joel asked when he was finished.

Hesitating, Jim tried to formulate an explanation that was close to the truth. He might be willing to think that something... extra ordinary... was happening here in the loft. But it was a safe bet that no one else not *living* with it would believe him easily. "Call it a hunch that something was up besides a simple robbery, and I want to know what. The kid was nervous, but not strung out or anything like that. But he *was*desperate. Not to mention his little operation was too well put together. If I hadn't known what the University's inventory code looked like, I would have been fooled, the list read that accurately."

"You think it might be one of Dr. Sandburg's students in some kinda trouble?"

"Maybe. Or one of his colleagues at the U up to no good. Either way all the cops would tell me is that they're investigating it and that'd be the last I'd hear until they either called me to make an id or there was another try. If you could check with your contacts about a kid named 'Daryl' connected with Dr. Sandburg, or maybe the Anthropology department, I'd appreciate it." Jim put aside the empty bottle, startled at the pained look on the other man's face. "Joel?"

"Jim, you didn't describe the kid to me. Was he black, long limbed and lanky, small scar here and here?" Joel touched below his left ear and back of right hand.

Calling up an image of his early morning guest, Jim nodded a confirmation, and the cabbie heaved a sigh that seemed deep enough to come from Mother Earth herself. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out a well-used wallet, and opened it to a photograph taken of a small group of men, along with a single young boy sandwiched between Joel and another very tall male. "This him?"

It was, though undoubtedly several years younger. "Yeah, yeah it is. You know him, Joel?" Anger rising, Jim half sat, propping himself up on his elbow. "That how he knew so much about what was in here!?"

Standing, holding his hand up placatingly, Joel stuttered, "No! No, nothing like that! I swear! I haven't seen Daryl since his daddy died a little while after that photo was taken!"

The other man's dismay was so real, Jim flopped back down, though his expression was stony. "How do you know him?"

Convinced that Jim was going to listen, for a minute anyway, Joel dragged his hand over his mouth then admitted. "I worked with his father, Captain Simon Banks of the Major Crimes Police Department. He was a good man, one of the best I've ever had to pleasure to serve with. Daryl... Daryl's a good kid, really, but he got so angry when his parents divorced. Then Simon got taken out during a Deliverance style shootout with between survivalists and an escaped psycho using him as a hostage, and angry didn't begin to cover that boy's feelings. He was one walking rage for a while.

"Heard his mother forced him into a Big Brother's kinda thing, and he hit it off with the guy. Last news I had Daryl was pulling up his grades and doing some part time work. Want me to talk to his mother and see if she knows what's going on with him?"

Joel's hang-dog face was so mournful Jim couldn't hang onto the shreds of his anger. Besides he was too tired. "Would you? If he makes another try, someone could get hurt. And Joel," Jim met the other man's eyes with a hard glare. "It won't be me. You've never asked what I did in the army, and believe me, you don't want to know. But I will not be the one who goes down if things get ugly." He grimaced, thinking of his current condition, "Or at least, not alone."

"Maybe I should talk with Daryl, too," Taggart said reflectively. Picking up his empty and Jim's he took them to the kitchen, then came back to stand by the couch uncertainly. "I need to get going; better not to wait too long to talk to Joan. Is there, uh..."

"I'm fine, fine," Jim put in hastily. "Going to spend the night down here, just to be on the safe side, but the phone's a stretch away if I have problems."

"Not that you'd use it if you did," Joel said dryly.

Acknowledging the hit with a half smile, Jim waved toward the door. "Get outta here, Mother Joel. I'll be a good boy, I promise."

That loosened a laugh from the big man, and he left with an lift of his hand in salute to the quip.

When he was gone, Jim sagged completely into the support of the couch, feeling like his spine was so much wet spaghetti, the exhaustion from the physical therapist's comprehensive assessment weighing him down into rest. To the watchful silence emanating from near the balcony doors he said sleepily, "I was right to talk to Taggart about it; the kid *is* heading for trouble, big time. This way, there's a chance he can get some help before he finds more of it than he can handle." Not really expecting an answer, and not willing to look toward the doors and not *see* the person he *knew* was there, Jim mumbled, nearly asleep, "I'll keep the law out of it if I can."

He wasn't sure if he heard a soft, "Thank you," or not before he lost his battle with fatigue.

***

Though that was the last time Jim heard his unseen roommate, it was not the last time the entity made its presence felt. In fact, much of what it started doing was what the ex-Ranger could only call 'courtship' behavior. He would wake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, or come out of his morning shower to find the bread he'd left ready to go just popping up in the toaster. Once when a cabbie had refused to pull up closer to 852 before Jim had to get out in the rain, he had come through the door of the loft to find warm towels waiting on the table. But his favorite was never having to wipe off the mirror before or during shaving. He probably had the only one on the planet that didn't mist in the first place.

If he was honest with himself, the visible demonstrations did more to un-nerve Jim than the feeling of watchfulness had. Not because it made him accept that he wasn't alone in the place, but because he didn't know how to react to the kindness. Murmuring "Thank you," felt awkward and it wasn't as if there was something he could do in exchange, his preferred method of handling courtesies.

For that reason he made sure that his discussions with Joel on the attempted robbery were always done upstairs, where his roommate could over hear it. It turned out Jim's guesses were fairly accurate, as were Taggart's: Dr. Sandburg had been the Big Brother assigned to Daryl Banks, and the two of them had hit it off after a rocky start. And the professor had gotten the teen a job working for the Anthropology department as a sort of all-around boy Friday.

But according to the cabbie, Daryl hadn't wanted to believe that his mentor wasn't coming back from his last expedition. There had been a major scene in the department head's office when Sandburg's position was officially posted to be refilled, then young Banks stormed out, not even coming back for his last paycheck. His mother reported that he had become more and more uncontrollable, to the point she wasn't willing to put anything past the boy. To date, Taggart hadn't been able to find Daryl himself; he rarely came home and wasn't often seen as his usual haunts.

The pain that had flowed from his invisible companion on hearing that had been so real to Jim, that he had had the most absurd urge to turn around and hug him. It also confirmed his growing conviction that he was sharing his home with its previous owner. Its *late* previous owner.

Discrete inquiries of his own had told him a lot about the young Professor. At 30 Blair Sandburg had had an outstanding reputation in his field and was one its most published and sought-after lecturers. Personally everyone had spoken of him as being energetic, enthusiastic and genuinely likeable. But Jim noticed one thing that seemed off to him: while Sandburg was missed, he wasn't mourned.

It was as if Sandburg, like himself, had no real ties to his life, or even to the people inhabiting it with him. Why then was the scientist condemned to remain at the loft? Or was that of his own choosing? There was no way to answer that short of asking the spook himself, and Jim was reluctant to do that because if he got an answer, it would mean that he'd had a real, honest conversation with a ghost. He was *not* ready to face that just yet.

So he tried to be a considerate roommate himself, paying attention to what he could of his unseen roommate's likes and dislikes. And trying to at least think about taking the suggestions Sandburg occasionally put his way about.

Mostly the suggestions were good. A few days afer Greg had given Jim the okay to start driving again, for instance, the soldier had found a newspaper turned to the classifieds next to his morning coffee. One of the ads, Classic Truck for Sale, had been circled in red. The description had been brief: blue and white '69 Ford F6 truck, working condition. He'd called, set an appointment, and after an hour of looking it over from top to bottom, bought it.

From Joel he got the name of a garage that would rent out a repair bay and tools and put his new truck there so he could work on it. That evening he made a point of cruising through the channels slowly, stopping any time he thought his roomie seemed particularly interested in what was on. It figured it would be National Geographic, but he owed big time for the truck. It was only needed a little TLC and some fresh paint.

He settled into a comfortable, if odd around the edges, life in Cascade. Physical therapy, restoring his truck, looking for a new occupation, all took him away from the loft during much of the day. He would return every evening to its peace for study or research on possible jobs, or just to fall into the deep slumber so necessary for his body's continued healing. Discovering to his immense relief that if he started to blank out his roomie would do something to startle him out of it, he was better able to control the occasional threat of loosing it on the outside. The loft became a much needed and appreciated safety zone, making coming home something he actually looked forward to for the first time in longer than he could remember. All in all, it was a solitary existence, but it was his and no one else's and that alone made it good for him.

Quiet became such an intrinsic part of his home that an unexpected knock on his door one evening sent him for his gun, prompted by vague thoughts of another robbery attempt. When he opened up, he'd almost wished it had been another thief. At least Daryl had been straightforward about stealing. Stanley Garland, his father's lawyer and by default his own, did the same thing but called it 'billing for services rendered.' The man even looked like the stereotypical slick legal counselor with his Armani suit and Aspen tan. Reluctantly Jim showed him in, making the expected offer of a beer or coffee.

"No, thank you, Jim," the tall, older man said, calmly, seating himself at one end of the couch. "Normally, I wouldn't have dropped unexpected, but you never returned any of my calls or stopped by the office as I asked."

"Didn't see any reason to," Jim answered shortly, going to stand by the balcony doors.

"Well, we really need to take care of that packet I gave you last time we met. Some decisions have to be made about fund dispersment, if nothing else." Garland adjusted his cuff, as if bored and wanting to get out as quickly as possible. "If you'll just sign where I indicated, I can get to work on arranging things so that the business can continue to run smoothly until you're ready to step in."

"Step in?" Jim asked suspiciously. "As in run the company in the old man's place? No, no way. That's Steven's job; if he can't get away from wherever he's working now, then he'll just have to do double duty."

There was an uneasy silence, and the lawyer gave Jim a look that locked the soldier's spine into a poker straight ridge in preparation. "Jimmy - I know you spent a lot of time overseas on missions, but surely you heard at least some of what happened here in Cascade over the last year or so."

Rubbing at his eyes, refusing to sit down or lean on his cane, Jim said sharply, "Spit it out Garland. What kind of trouble did Stevie get himself into with Dad, and what difference does it make now that he's gone? My brother was always Dad's first choice; no reason to change that because the old man's nose got out of joint."

"It was only because you refused to even think about business school! You had a fighting chance and didn't even try!" the lawyer shot back as sharply. With a visible effort he reined himself in and put a sort of a smile on his face. "It's a moot point, now, anyway. Steven can't run the business because he's in prison, sentenced to15-20 years for embezzlement, reckless endangerment and a dozen other charges. The stadium at a horsetrack he helped build and run collapsed killing four and injuring dozens of others. I'm not going to lie to you, he was probably the scapegoat for a bigger operation, but William was so disappointed that he changed his will completely shortly after the verdict was in. He didn't give Steven a thing, Jim; it's all yours."

The last words didn't make it past the 'Steven's in jail' sentence that was banging around in his head. It didn't make sense to Jim. The little brother that he remembered wouldn't have hurt a soul; even the ruthless man he'd grown into was ruthless only in business. He wasn't a murderer, and that's what it would have taken to build a complex doomed to self-destruct. Cut a few edges, get a few paybacks, yes. Endanger innocents, no.

Staring straight ahead, trying to get his mind around Steven being in prison, Jim didn't notice that his hearing was narrowing down to the inaudible beat of the words in his mind. Before he could black out, he heard a soft, "Jim" whispered in his ear, yanking him back from the verge in time to hear Garland begin to wind up what had apparently been a long monologue on Jim's duties as his father's heir.

"I don't want it," he cut in harshly.

That ground the lawyer down to a dead stop, mouth gaping. "I.. I beg your pardon," he sputtered.

"I don't want it," Jim repeated harshly, anger rising. "I didn't want it when Steven was the golden boy, and I damned well don't want it as the consolation prize. Give it to whoever is next in line. Sally Choi, maybe. God knows she earned it after putting up with him all those years as his housekeeper. I'm sure that if he thought to leave her anything at all, it was no where near enough."

"Actually," Garland said absently, still coming to grips with Jim's refusal, "he left her a very generous bequeathal originally." At Jim's snort of disgust, he added, surprisingly gently, "but she didn't survive him, Jimmy. Sally died of breast cancer two years ago. We thought at first she was going to beat it, but then Danny died in the line of duty, and, well, it seemed to take the fight out of her."

Jim's anger ground down to a complete halt then, blew up, ripping like shrapnel through him. Despite not wanting to look weak in front of the other man, he swayed a bit, and had to put some of his weight on his cane to steady himself. "Sally.. Sally's dead? And Danny? God in heaven, why didn't somebody at least *try* to tell me? It wasn't that hard to get in touch with me!"

"Why didn't you stay in touch with her yourself!" Garland said bluntly, pouring salt over Jim's raw grief.

"I *did*!!" Jim denied hotly, determinedly keeping his face professionally neutral. "She always knew where I was posted, and I sent her cards, gifts, always called when I got back from a mission so she'd know I was okay. None of the stuff came back, and when she never returned calls, I thought she was simply not getting through to me before I was reassigned again." Jim was talking more to himself than to Garland, trying to understand how he could have not known, not even that she was ill.

Standing, Garland got close enough to Jim for the stink of his aftershave to turn his stomach. "Look, Jim this is obviously all a shock to you, and I can understand that. Give yourself a few days to think about it all, let it soak in, before you make any major decisions about what to do with your inheritance. The board of directors has kept things limping along this long; they can manage a while longer, I'm sure. But at least sign the power of attorney documents for me so that we can pay the bills!!"

About to nod, Jim heard softly, almost inside his ear, "No, don't sign. You may not want the money, but you sure as hell don't want him to have control over it, do you?"

That pulled him up short. "Not without reading it, no," he told the lawyer.

For a brief second Garland looked furious, then he smoothed it out skillfully. "Well, that's good common sense, but I doubt you'd understand all the legalese. It's pretty much a standard agreement."

"Then I'll get someone to translate it for me," Jim answered, nearly at the end of his patience - and strength. "Tell the board to take company expenses out of their gargantuan, over inflated salaries and I'll get to the paperwork as soon as I can. Good night, Garland." The last was a dismissal, and not trying to conceal his fury at it, the other man turned on his heel and let himself out.

Slowly Jim made his way over to the door to lock behind him, then slowly, feeling as if he were dissolving into a vacuum, he went to the couch and laid down. For a few, rare, precious seconds his mind and heart was numb, then that failed under the weight of all the grief he had acquired in such a short time. Rolling he turned to press into the back of the couch, digging into it until the fibers felt like sandpaper on his skin.

Intellectually he knew he needed to do *something,* *anything,* to express the raw mixture of grief, pain and anger, but he was too tormented to be able to pinpoint any single thing that could work. Killing would be good, too bad he wasn't a soldier any more, destroying would be okay, too, and, what the hell, now he could even pay the damages. But all he could do was shudder as if he were being beaten, chest burning with contained screams.

Into this maelstrom came an odd sensation, one so strange that it pulled him out of his misery long enough to identify it. His hair was timidly being stroked, and a sturdy body was spooned up behind him, a mass that radiated no heat. Sandburg then, trying to comfort him.

Why that should be the blow that shattered his control, Jim didn't know. He only knew that the tears were forcing themselves out past all his barriers, one tedious acid drop at a time, being pushed out by the surfeit of all the others contained within his walls. His sobs were more like the choked gasps of a suffocating man as they, too, had to batter their way to the surface.

And still he tried to contain them, mumbling nearly incoherently to himself, "Crying doesn't fix anything, crying doesn't help anything, it's a waste of time, a waste of perfectly good energy."

"When the body is hurt," the soft, tiny voice murmured in his ear, "it bleeds. When the soul is hurt, it bleeds tears. Both are necessary to clean the wounds for healing."

Small as the words were they allowed him to stop fighting and give into the feelings racking through him. He lost track of time, thinking of his brother, the woman who like a mother to him, even his father though he'd never thought he would grieve for the man who had always been so disgusted with him. When at last his torn body could spare no more strength for the force of his crying, Jim quieted, hiccoughing a tiny bit as the residuals of it worked their way out.

Finally, wanting the ritual cleansing of a shower, he mustered the will to move, doing it slowly enough to warn the presence behind him of his intention to stand. Sandburg moved away carefully, too, but Jim's skin complained at his absence anyway. Not acknowledging that, he kept his head down shame-faced as he got to his feet.

A barely heard 'snick' sped through the room; automatically Jim looked up to the source. The lock on Sandburg's room was undone and the door itself was slightly ajar. As he watched, it swung open wider, and he couldn't have ignored the unspoken invitation if his sanity depended on it. He limped to the door, peered around the edges, unsurprised to find the desk light on.

It wasn't much of a room. More of large closet, if he wanted to be honest about it. And if he had thought the loft had been cluttered, that was only because he hadn't had a chance to see this office! To be sure, there were boxes of clothing, shoes and other similar items stacked here and there, obviously the finds of whoever cleared out Sandburg's drawers and things. But the vast majority of it was paper: books, magazines, journals, note pads, and simply loose sheets of paper, all piled haphazardly on the desk, the futon, the shelves and the floor. Only the desk chair was clean, and Jim sank down onto it gingerly, half-afraid that merely moving would be enough to cause one of the mounds to topple.

"Christ, Sandburg," Jim muttered looking around, "what kind of filing system did you use? A stack for every thing and every thing in its stack?"

**Hey, just because you put away your socks alphabetically by color doesn't mean that other methods of organizing don't work. I can find whatever I'm looking for and faster than if I used some arbitrary alpha-numeric designation.** Sandburg protested, sounding for all the world as if he were sitting on the bed in the midst of his paperwork.

"Arbitrary?" Jim asked, not feeling the least bit weird at having a conversation with someone he couldn't see. He was too damned worn out to engage his skepticism.

**Arbitrary. Do you file an article on Shoshoni warrior spears under S for Shoshoni, for the last name of the author, or maybe w for weapon? Arbitrary.** Sandburg insisted.

"Hey, don't get your feathers up there, Chief," Jim retorted mildly, "What ever works for you, all right?" Noticing that the scent that he'd always associated with the loft was very strong in here, he sucked in a deep breath and looked more closely at some of the private items out in plain view. One was a picture of a curly-haired young man, against a tropical beach backdrop, laughing, and one arm around an older woman who was smiling at him fondly. "This you?" Jim asked, instantly intrigued by the remarkable sapphire eyes shown in the picture.

**Yeah, and my mom, Naomi, on St. Vincent's Island,** Blair told him, voice heavy with love for his mother.

Another photo was of Sandburg and a grinning group of teens, standing in the midst of a dig of somesort, holding up a shovel as if to bang him over the head of it. **Last year's freshman dig. I went along to help supervise.** Jim picked up a couple of others, amused at the wide variety of locations and types of people his roommate had associated himself with.

"No other family?" he asked, noticing that was what was different about the pictures and thinking Sandburg had probably kept those upstairs.

**No. Some cousins and uncles. There's an album if you're really curious.** Blair said warily. **No dad, if that's what you're looking for. Mom never told me who he was; for the most part, it never seemed to matter to me.**

"Maybe you were better off, Chief," Jim said heavily.

**Maybe,** the other person agreed, **There's no way for anybody to know whether they'd be better off this way or that way or if they'd done this thing or that thing, you know. What you get is what you work with.**

Jim smiled, feeling the edge of his mouth curl stiffly, as if it didn't remember exactly what a smile was. "Are all ghosts this philosophical?"

Instead of answering him directly, Sandburg asked back, **Is that what I am? A ghost?**

That brought Jim up short, and he answered thoughtfully, "How am I supposed to know? It's not as if I've met one before. You mean you don't know either?"

**I don't remember dying, Jim. All I remember is a woman screaming 'no, no you don't belong here,' the feeling of falling, then I was here, like I am now.** Blair sounded very tired, and Jim struggled to his feet.

"Does it wear you out or something, talking to me? I'll go, let you rest or whatever." he offered, hoping that Blair didn't want him to leave yet.

**Yeah, I kinda gray out, but it's easier in here. This room was always kind of my center, you know? That's why there's a bed in here, too. I'd work or study or just read here lots of nights and then stretch out to rest before I had to teach. Upstairs was um,**

"More recreational?" Jim asked dryly.

**Something like that.** And Jim could swear he heard the other man grin. **Anyway, I don't want to keep you, but since there wasn't anything much I can do about invading your privacy, I thought I'd balance the scales a little by sharing mine.**

A large part of Jim, the portion that had built the walls and gave backbone to the soldier, wanted to simply wave it off as nothing, or snarl as if there had been something Sandburg could have done. But his lingering guilt at moving in uninvited, plus his honest desire to do something for the man made him say quietly, "Thank you. Not just for, well, earlier, but for trying to so hard to make living with me workable."

Blair laughed, a full-bodied one that did much for melting away the last of Jim's concerns. **The burden of that, man,** Sandburg gasped out, **was all yours. I mean, it's not like you've got a history of dealing with ghosts, right? To be truthful, every other person, including my *mom* couldn't wait to get out of here once I came 'back'. Surprised the hell out of me when you told Corday you'd take the place.**

"Really? Wonder why? You've never been... unpleasant," Jim asked, leaning on the doorframe, honestly curious.

**I don't even have a theory, and let me tell you, I've had lots of time to think about it.**

"Huh. Joel's never complained about being up here."

**Send him up alone some time when you're not here as a buffer.** Blair suggested.

"I take it you'd like to get more of a handle on what's going on with you?" Jim asked, glad that an opportunity was presenting itself to make a little restitution.

There was a long, long silence and Jim began to wonder if he had tired out his companion to the point he could no longer respond. Fidgeting at the door, he nearly left when he heard, **I'm afraid to learn too much, Jim. From what I know about haunting phenomna, a ghost either has no idea that it's dead, or it has something that it feels it left undone. Either way, once it either accepts its death or accomplishes its task, it moves on.

**I may *be* dead for all I know, but even if I had seen my body, I don't know if I could believe it. It's not like I ever had a chance to deny it: no white light, no making a choice, no heavenly voice calling me on. Nor do I have any unfinished business that I can think of.

**And I am not ready to move on, no way. This may not be much of a life, but it's mine and I'm not willing to give it up without a damned good reason.**

His companion sounded mule stubborn, and Jim hid a smile. "Hey, this was your home before it was mine, Sandburg. I'm not planning on looking for a priest to exorcise you or anything. And if there's something from the outside you'd like me to get for you, let me know. I'll see what I can do."

**Really?** The eagerness in Blair's voice was that of a nine year old's and Jim's hidden smile stretched harder to get out.

"Within reason, Chief. I'm not bringing in a dancing girl or going to try to set you up with a psychic!" Jim warned laughingly.

**Aww, come on, Jim! It's not like I can go out and scope out my own dates, you know! You have *any* idea how long it's been since I got a whiff of sweet, honest, lickable girl?**

"Just lickable girls?" The words popped out before Jim knew they were on his tongue, and he finally released his grin so that Blair would think he was being ranked on.

**I'll take whatever you can find as long as it's legal and doesn't howl when the moon comes up!**

"Sandburg, that is *horny*! And just how am I supposed to explain that my roomie is optically challenged?"

**Easy; if you act like you can see me, my date will think she's having trouble with her eyes! Emperor's new clothes time!**

Out and out laughing, shaking his head, Jim admitted, "You know, the scary thing is, that might work! Which is too much for me. Good night, Chief."

**Night, Jim. And Jim... thanks for putting up with me. All joking aside, this has *got* to be freaky as hell.**

Thinking of his fugues and the bizarre way he could see, hear, feel, smell, hell, even *taste* things that nobody else could, Jim didn't say anything, just gave a single wave of his hand and headed for the shower and his own bed. "You don't know the half of it, Sandburg," he muttered to himself, forgetting that his roomie could be right beside him without him knowing.

***

On the way home with Joel from therapy a few days later, Jim was feeling pretty satisfied with himself for making it through the session without wanting to throw up or black out once. Not that he was up to driving himself home by any stretch of the imagination; he was *way* too wiped. So wiped in fact that he didn't notice how wound up his friend was until Taggart spoke.

"Jim," the cabbie began uncertainly, "I finally tracked down Daryl. I have to tell you, attempted robbery aside, I'm worried about the boy; all he could talk about was that Dr. Sandburg."

Head snapping up from where it was lolling against the door glass, Jim fixed his attention on the other man. "Why would that worry you?"

"Cause it isn't healthy for him to be going on and on about Sandburg, remembering down to the tiniest detail what they did together, all the places they went and the people he met. Damn, when did the man find time to work? To hear Daryl, the professor was always traveling, hanging out with prizefighters and famous writers and God knows who else. He's completely and totally obsessed with Sandburg, *still* insisting he isn't dead."

"Sandburg's mother doesn't believe it, either," Jim said thoughtfully. At the fast glance in the rear view from the cabbie he added, "Realtor told me when I bought the loft."

"What *is* it about him that people don't want to let him go?" Joel asked in exasperation.

Jim shrugged. "From everything I've heard about him, he had a real love of life and people. It's hard to deal with it when someone like that dies." //And it must be hell on Blair to be trapped in one place with a silent hermit,// he thought to himself. //Is that why he's here? Punishment? I can't imagine him doing anything horrible enough to deserve it.//

"Thing is, I'm afraid Daryl's going to act on his fantasy," Taggart told him worriedly. "When I tracked him down to the library, of all places, he was on the Internet, calling up information on the area where Sandburg was lost. Local politics, attitudes on Americans and foreigners, customs - hardly took his eyes off the screen entire time I was there."

"So the kid thinks his teacher is being held incognitio for some reason by the locals? Wouldn't be the first time," and Jim startled himself by not being bitter about his own sojourn as an 'unidentified' prisoner. "You might suggest he get in touch with Amnesty International. They've got good contacts; if Sandburg is being held they're the best bet to find him."

This time Joel didn't glance; he glared at Jim, risking a crash for the cab. "You want me to play into Daryl's fantasy! Jim! That's..."

"Being there for him while he comes to terms with the loss of another father," Jim cut in. "How long after Simon Banks died did his son lose the one person who kept caring for him when he was 'one walking rage,' as you put it?"

"Not quite a year," Taggart admitted reluctantly.

"I'm no shrink, Joel, but I know a coping mechanism when I see one. Let him research; help him do it if it gets him to let you in, then hang in there. Sooner or later he'll have to face reality; it'd be really good if there was someone there to pick up the pieces when it hits him. Unless you're not up to that kind of commitment." Having said more than he ever thought he could, Jim slumped back into his seat and slammed his mouth shut. Who the hell was he to be giving advice anyway?

Taking the hint to be quiet, Joel concentrated on driving, but Jim could tell that the hack was thinking, too. Thinking hard. Glad for the silence, Jim went back to staring sightlessly out of the window, mind running around and around several facts. The two people that had been closest to Sandburg at the time of his disappearance didn't believe he was dead. *Sandburg* didn't believe he was dead. He had heard, "you don't belong here," just before whatever happened had happened. There had been no body and no reason for the anthropologist to have left the rest of his party. And last, but not least, American dollars were very popular south of the border; Americans weren't.

Try as he might he couldn't dismiss the possibility himself that Blair might be alive. The question was what, if anything could he do about it? Or should he do anything at all?

The resounding 'yes' that boiled out of him caught Jim totally off guard, and he shoved the implications of his answer to the back of his mind. To distract himself, he actually *looked* at the street they were driving down and suddenly said, "Joel. That store, can you pull in front of it? I want to get something."

Automatically the cabbie did as he was told, then asked, "A computer shop? You're into that, too?"

"No, but never too late to learn, is it?"

Hours later Jim cautiously let himself into the loft, glad he had persuaded the salesman to let him take the laptop out of the box to carry it home in its case. Of course, the man had been more than happy to indulge a customer that had just bought his top of the line model, with all the bells and whistles, and signed up for a premium provider without once wincing or trying to bargain. Of course, Jim had to assume that the machine was as good as the salesman had made it out to be. Though he had worked with laptops more than once as part of cov op training, this was like driving a Jaguar after a life of army jeeps.

As casually as he could manage, he put the laptop on the kitchen counter, got a glass of fruit juice, and leaned his good hip onto the counter to chug it. A moment's concentration told Jim that his friend was standing in his favorite place by the balcony, a past time he could well understand since he liked the same spot himself. "Evening, Sandburg," he said aloud, noticing that it no longer struck him as bizarre that he was talking to someone he couldn't see.

He hadn't really expected an answer, but Blair drifted closer, and he heard, **Hard workout?**

"Yeah, but I'm getting through them better. Greg says I'll be able to get rid of the cane in another month or so."

**Cool!**

"Better than cool," Jim laughed. "It's out and out great. I *hate* that thing. So I decided to celebrate. See what I bought?" He waved the glass in the general direction of the computer, trying to look pleased - and not gleeful. "Been meaning to learn the internet thing for a while; be a heck of a lot easier carrying that instead of stacks of books when I'm checking out business prospects. Don't know much about them; hope the salesman didn't screw me too badly."

**Wow,** Blair breathed reverently and the laptop shifted gently as the case flipped open. It was turned on, and he breathed, "Wow" again as it ran its self-check.

"He told me I would need a second line, so I wouldn't tie up my phone with a busy signal when I was using the modem. There's already one in the loft, right?"

**My office,** Blair told him, a bit distractedly. Keys were clicking at top speed, and it seemed everytime Jim blinked, something new popped up on the screen. **Wow.**

Yes! Jim thought triumphantly, not letting it show on his face. He'd guessed that was the most likely place for it, along with a logical assumption that since he hadn't seen a desk top PC when he'd been in there, Sandburg had used a lap top at home and probably had taken it with him on his expedition. Trying to sound as if he were asking a huge favor that would be denied, Jim said tentatively, "Your office. Oh. Uh, I don't suppose - I mean, I know it's your private space and everything, but... Nevermind. I'll take it back; it was a spur of the moment buy anyway." He turned away to get more juice, wanting to hide his expression because he wasn't sure he wouldn't give himself away.

**Take it back? Why? Hey, if you're uncomfortable working in there I can make myself scarce.**

"That wouldn't be right," Jim said honestly, straightening up. "Beside I'm too old a dog to be teaching myself new tricks. I'll take it back and use the ones at the library; there's someone there who gets paid to help the hopelessly cyber-impaired."

A few more screens zipped by, and the laptop made a couple of interesting sounds. **Jim,** Blair said slowly, **I'm pretty good with one of these. And it's not that hard to use, especially the way this one's been set up. If you wanted, I could show you how. And at first, especially, you wouldn't be online long enough for tying up the phone to be that much of a problem.**

Pretending to consider it, Jim rinsed out his glass and began to pull together the makings for his dinner. "Tell you what," he said after taken enough time for the pause to be realistic, "since the line's in your room anyway, why don't we do a trade off? You let me keep it in there, show me enough to get started, and when I'm not using it, you can. I could pick you up some games or whatever. And the best buy was for unlimited time with the server, so you could go online, too, if you wanted." A sudden thought struck Jim and he added worriedly, "That is, if you *can*."

**I don't know,** Blair said excitedly, *Let's find out. Move it for me? It's too heavy.**

"Hey, I"m in the middle of my dinner here, Sandburg."

**Aww, come on, how long can it take to cross the room and plug in the line?** the young man wheedled.

"More time than I want to spend going hungry, waiting for my food. You can hang on a few."

**A few what? A few seconds? A few minutes? A few hours?** Blair tried again. "How about if you get started, then come plug it in while the food is cooking?**

"I was going to turn on the tube and catch some scores," Jim argued, beginning to grate cheese for an omelet.

**Hey, I can get you any scores on any teams you want online. Faster than wading through all that depressing news, too.** Blair's tone was practically begging, and Jim couldn't hold out any longer.

"I'm not going to get a minute's peace til I move that thing, am I?" he mock groused, wiping off his hands.

**No, not a bit," Blair shot back unrepentantly.

"Okay, Sandburg, okay." Scooping up the laptop, Jim limped for the office, carefully examining the back of the case for ports.

**Jim,** Blair asked from right at his elbow, **How much did this baby cost anyway? I can't believe the speed and amount of memory crammed into it.**

"Enough," Jim replied, deliberately evasive, knowing there was no way he'd confess that the last of his cash savings had gone into it.

**In fact, even if you got a sweet deal on it, it had to cost a ton. Pretty expensive impulse buy.** Blair went on half to himself, suspiciously.

"Whoa, Chief. Who said anything about impulse? Been thinking all along about getting one. You practically *have* to be computer literate these days to get a job, and if I open my own business, I'll need one. The only impulse about it was buying one now, instead of waiting until I had to have it." The explanation sounded so reasonable, even to Jim, that he was able to deliver it in a perfectly level, slightly disinterested voice.

The other man didn't have anything to say to that, and Jim quickly placed the laptop on the desk in Blair's room. "I'm going to go eat; why don't you run this thing through its paces and make sure everything's working okay?"

**Great. Give me a chance to think about how to structure your lessons so you'll be able to pick up what you need as fast as you can.**

"No hurry. Haven't even found a job I want yet," Jim shrugged off the suggestion. He left, but stuck his head back in as a thought hit him. "Maybe you can see if there's a person or company that locates parts without charging you an arm and leg? The truck is going to need an alternator, and I don't want to jury-rig something that important if I don't have to."

**Sure thing, man,** Blair told him happily and turned the laptop on.

Once was sure he was far enough a way, Jim grinned hugely and pumped his arm once. "YES!"

Hours later, meal long gone and hip for once totally forgotten, Jim decided that everything he'd heard about Sandburg being a good teacher was true. That or this Internet stuff was easier than it had looked when the salesman had demonstrated it. "I can't believe someone would give me that much money for my truck," he muttered, making a note on the paper beside him.

**Why not? You've done a fantastic job of restoring it. It looked like a survivor from a police shoot out when you bought it.** Blair argued mildly.

"Only needed some body work, and few gaskets," Jim corrected. Eyes on the paper, he hit the next item that had come up on his search. "Frame and engine were sound. Even with my labor that's nearly 50% mark up of what I put into it." A quick glance told him that the screen had been changed, and he hit the link to get past it without paying attention to what it said. Absorbed in his figures, he kept his head down, pencil flying. "And with shipping this is the best price so far for that alternator. This beats the hell out of clambering around a junkyard."

Laughing softly, Blair said, "Too messy for you huh?"

"And smelly and noisy and about a dozen other things I could point out." Jim waited for his companion's rebuttal, already completely addicted to the way Sandburg could come up with a thousand obscure facts to dispute any statement anybody might make. Instead there was dead silence, and Jim's head shot up to look at where his friend's voice had been coming from. Startled all over again by the sight of no one there, he focused on his other senses, trying to pick up on Blair's presence. "Chief. You okay? If I've been in here too long, I'll get out."

With a choked moan, Blair agreed thickly, "Might be a good idea, yeah." He came closer, and Jim felt him reach over him to close down the computer at the same time Jim had automatically started to do the same thing. Accidentally brushing the unseen hand to one side, he got a good look at the screen and understood both the other man's discomfort and sudden need for privacy.

Instead of a picture of a car that would be a 'Mechanic's Dream,' there was one of two men having sex. And apparently enjoying themselves immensely. A big, well- muscled man dressed in a ripped T-shirt and tight, grease-stained jeans was bending over the hood of a cherry red '69 Mustang convertible, ass thrust out invitingly. Standing in profile to the camera, he was pushing down his pants with one hand and was bracing on the car himself with the other, erection stabbing out of his pants.

Behind him a shorter man dressed in what any trucker in the country might wear on any given day, including the boots, had his own impressive hard-on out, holding it in one hand to aim it at the tight rear in front of him. The other hand was flat on the back of his partner, holding him possessively, digging at a hole in the T-shirt. He had his tongue *just* touching his upper lip, as if savoring a taste that had been left behind and his face was intent on what he wanted.

He also looked enough like Blair to have been his twin. It was the same curly hair worn loose and windblown around a face graced by the eyes of an angel and the 5 o'clock shadow of a scoundrel. Even the body type was the same; compact and sturdy, like a wrestler. Tearing his eyes away from the trucker, he noted in passing that he had a passing resemblance to the mechanic.

A powerful bolt of desire surged through Jim, but long practice at hiding his thoughts kept his features neutral. Blair apparently didn't have the same skill in covering his reactions; he moaned softly, and Jim felt a solid male ridge pressed against his shoulder from where the other man was still leaning over him fumbling turn off the laptop. Jim did it for him, catching and holding the trembling fingers.

**Looks just like you,** Blair said thickly, tugging free.

"I'm cut," Jim told him matter-of-factly. "Sorry about that, Sandburg. I wasn't paying attention to what I was connecting to. I'll get out of here so you can, uh..." At the thought of what Blair might do in here by himself, Jim lost his composure and struggled to his feet, wanting to get away from the seductive feel of the other man. "... take care.. or whatever."

**I CAN'T!!** Blair wailed disparingly. **I can't see myself or hear myself or *touch* myself. My mind and heart knows I'm here, but I can't *feel* it!!!"

Without thinking Jim gathered him into a hug, shutting his eyes and concentrating only on holding the shaking man. Never any good with words, he simply hung on through the tremors, idly rubbing small circles into the back under his palms. Ignoring not only the maleness prodding at his thigh, but his own rampant need, he rested his cheek along side Blair's temple, enjoying the slight tickle from the curls there. Thankfully the sexual part faded quickly, and by the time Blair calmed down, their hug was pure comfort, though it was hard to say which of them was taking more from it.

**I keep thinking that I'm lying in a coma somewhere, and this is all a delusion created by a dying mind to explain what happened to its body. Or that I'm totally insane and drugged into oblivion, being kept in restraints so I won't hurt anyone. Either way, what right do I have to keep hanging on, stay here where I *should* move on?** Blair whispered at last, terror making his voice quiver.

"The same right any person has to live, Chief," Jim murmured, petting the firm lines of his friend's back. "And if you're delusional, then I'm your partner in insanity, because you're more *real* to me than I am to myself sometimes. You have a scent that is stronger when you're close and which I can pick up on my things when I'm not in the loft. Your voice is so distinctive that if I heard a recording of it, I could identify it with no problem. Think about that - identify a sound I've never heard in my life. There might not be any body heat, but you are *here*, a three dimensional person who has hair," and he stroked a strand nearest his face, "and shoulders," he cupped them carefully, not sure if he could hurt the other man, "and all the rest." Not trying to be sensual, he quickly mapped out the contours that he could reach with fast sweeps of his fingertips.

As he spoke, Blair grew heavier against him, as if soaking up Jim's reality in substitution for his own. **Why can you do all that? When Naomi was here, I tried as hard as I could to get her to hear me, to feel me when I touched her. She never so much as blinked.**

A short, unpleasant laugh forced its way out of Jim, hurting his ears. "Sorry." he apologized quickly, not wanting Sandburg to think he was being made fun of. "I'm laughing at myself. I wasn't joking when I said we were partners in madness, Chief." Pausing, he took a breath and then ground out what he'd kept hidden. "Ever since I was rescued, I've been seeing, hearing, smelling, hell even *tasting* things that I shouldn't be able to. For all I know, I'm the one locked away somewhere, hallucinating." He said the last wryly, expecting Sandburg to complain about his lack of imagination if he couldn't dream up a suitable body for his 'ghost.'

Instead the other man eased away, hands reluctant to go and lingering even as Blair stepped back. **Oh, my God. I mean, I saw you do a couple of out-there things, but I thought it was the whole Rangers training, combat background thing.** he murmured. There was a pause, then he asked hesitantly, **Jim, there's one sense you didn't mention; are you, um, extra touchy feely, too?**

Jim looked away, the muscle in his jaw beginning to beat an annoying tatoo, upset with himself for his body's betrayal and at Sandburg for noticing it. Not that his companion had had much of a chance, given how tightly Jim had been clinging to him. "What of it!" he snapped, anyway.

**Nothing,** Blair said mildly, deflating part of Jim's irritation. **Just theorizing, that's all. Part of what I do as an anthropologist.**

"Great. I tell you I'm going crazy and you make like a scientist with a lab rat!"

"I thought you said we were going crazy together. *Partner*," Blair pointed out, and not for the first time Jim swore he could hear the man grinning. "If I can help you identify your psychosis, maybe you can help me identify mine!"

"Well, while you're doing that, I'm going up to bed," Jim grumped, absolutely not willing to be told he was a psychic of some sort. Or something even harder to believe.

**Night, Jim,** Blair told him absently. Surprisingly he shut down the laptop and pushed it to one side, then began to rifle through one of the many stacks of books and papers.

"Night," Jim replied automatically, wondering when things had gotten so off-kilter. With a last sharp look at where he knew Sandburg stood, he hesitated at the doorway, oddly unwilling to leave.

With a stubborn shake of his head to dismiss both that and the whole conversation, he started to leave, only to be stopped by a mischievous question. "By the way, Jim? Do you bottom?"

A shiver of lust chased over him, but Jim answered in the same vein. "I've been known to. For the right man. You?"

For a spilt second Jim could swear he *saw* the other man, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly. Before Sandburg could recover, Jim beat a strategic retreat, making it almost to the bath before hearing, **I love to. For the right man.**

He wasn't surprised when sleep was non-existent for him that night, and he was strangely content to lie in the middle of the big waterbed, cradled by the warm water and thinking about nothing in particular. Erotic images and ideas, all featuring Blair, chased through his mind, occasionally inspiring his body to remind him that he was a man after all. From the office below, he could make out the subtle hiss of paper over paper as pages were turned, and he wondered if Blair was reminded too. And if he wanted to do something about it with Jim. Or if he *could* do something about it. Though he said he couldn't touch himself, he had responded to being in Jim's arms: first with excitement, then by relaxing. Even if he couldn't actually feel it, most of sex was between the ears, anyway. It was possible witnessing the act or merely *wanting* it could be enough for satisfaction for Blair under the right circumstances.

Of course, he could just go downstairs and ask all that, but he liked being up here thinking about it and anticipating the possibilities. There'd be plenty of time later to deal with the problems, assuming that his partner was willing. He wasn't stupid enough to take 'screw anything with a hole' horniness as necessarily a real interest in him personally. Nor did he want to take advantage of Blair's neediness; another reason for staying snug in his bed. Besides it was so nice to lie there, half-hard and warm inside from being wanted.

Dozing, he was jolted completely awake by whispers from under the firescape to the loft.

"I'm telling you, man," a man insisted as emphatically as he could without going above a whisper, "there's hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of artifacts in that room. I got a buyer all lined up, a crooked prof at the U. And it's locked from the rest of the place. Don't even have to worry about the owner busting in on us. All we got to do is get up this ladder and jimmy the window."

Wearily Jim identified Daryl Banks voice. He must not know about the storage downstairs that came with the apartment, and was thinking that all of the stuff from the University had been moved into the office with Blair's other things.

Pulling himself out of bed as cautiously as he could, he debated on what to do. If he called the cops, it might stop the teen - or his accomplices - from doing something truly stupid when they discovered only books and the like in the small room. It could also give Taggart a chance to get a secure grip on Daryl if he provided bail and took custody. On the other hand, B&E charges closed doors, lots of doors that could be opened by a young man with as much potential as Joel and Blair saw.

Resignedly, Jim stole down to the living room, gliding through the shadows, gun in hand and holding back the agony from abusing his hip. One chance was all he was going to give them, he decided. The door to Blair's office was standing ajar; he'd turn on the kitchen light and make noise to let them know he was up, and that the office *was* opened to the rest of the loft now. He'd stay out of sight so they'd not be able to get a clear shot, but the news that he was up and around could scare them off if they were smart. Or at least let them see the artifacts were gone now and there was no reason to break in.

Betrayed by the metallic clunks and bangs, subdued as they were, they climbed up to the fire escape landing outside the office, mentally followed by Jim. Waiting until they started on the window frame, Jim used a broom to turn on a light and shoved around the kitchen chairs so that they clattered on the hardwood floor. He threw an apple at the cold water handle in the sink, turning it on enough that the water ran noisily.

Unfortunately, all his activity did was slow them down; when he didn't go into Blair's office they went back to forcing the window lock. "He's got company this time, Sandburg." he mumbled to the presence at his back.

**I know. They're not armed; put the gun where they can't see it and go inside my room and turn on the lights there. They're looking for an easy smash and run. Chances are good they won't want to deal with facing a potential witness.**

Hesitating, listening to Daryl bully the others into ignoring the signs of life from inside their target, Jim nodded. "Okay, but if they decided three of them are enough to deal with me, you put us in the dark to even things out. Got it?"

There was no answer, but as Jim was slipping his gun into the pocket of his robe, Blair whispered, **Maybe we should call the cops this time.**

"I won't hurt any one more than necessary, I swear, Sandburg." Yawning and stretching deliberately, and trying to look sleepy, Jim strolled through the door and headed for the desk. Scrubbing at his hair to disguise it, he glanced quickly outside, confirming what his ears had already told him. Daryl with two other boys about his own age: one black, small and wiry, the other white and skinny to the point of being sick looking. Junky? He seemed jittery enough. Either way the unknowns were halfway off the landing, arguing in hushed tones about trying again later.

Leaning on the desk and picking up his figures from earlier, Jim waited for the outcome of the fight, bracing himself on the desk as unobtrusively as possible. There were a couple of emphatic clatters, and then two people went down the fire escape, leaving one outside the window. Betting with himself that it was Blair's friend, Jim snuck another peek. Yep; crouched just below line of sight and staring at him as if he were dressed in the robes of the KKK.

**Oh, man,** Sandburg whispered. **He didn't look this bad when I first met him. He's really hurting.**

Not able to answer, Jim kept up his pose, warily keeping track of the others. Once he heard the vehicle parked under the escape leave, Jim said loudly if conversationally, "I moved all the museum's stuff out, Daryl. Want to come in and tell me why you're willing to get mixed up with garbage like those two to steal it?" He looked up and pinned the teen with a sharp glare. "I can't believe a man like Blair Sandburg would befriend you if you weren't a hell of lot more than a common thief."

**Jim, what...**

Ignoring Blair, he stretched out and unlocked the window, undoing the secondary latch hidden in the frame that he'd put on all the doors and windows. Pretending vast indifference, he went back to scanning the sheet in his hand, deciding that he'd order that alternator. Several long minutes later the window came up and Daryl climbed in slowly, looking much like a 5-year- old caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"What do you know about him?" the teen muttered sullenly, staring at the floor.

Hovering anxiously beside him, though only Jim seemed to know that, Blair murmured, **Trust him, Daryl. Please trust him. Please.**

Jim waved his hand at the office in general, hoping that on some level Daryl heard his Big Brother. "His whole life is pretty much crammed into here. Personal journals, photos, research - I haven't tried to pry, but between this and what I've been told about him, I think I've got a pretty good picture." Gently he added, "And Joel Taggart's told me about you. Now you want to tell me why you want those artifacts so bad? For the money?"

Daryl didn't answer, and after a patient wait Jim stifled a sigh. Radiating unhappiness, Blair said sadly, **Daryl, man!" and left, his presence simply fading from the room in a way that worried Jim for no reason he could put a finger on.

"You know where the phone is." Jim said shortly, trying to set aside his concern for his roommate. "Call your mom to come and get you."

"No way!" Daryl exploded. "She'd give me nothing but grief, then ship me off to her brother on the East Coast!"

"Well, you can't spend what's left of the night here. Got a friend you can stay with?"

"Oh, what do you care. Just let me out of here!"

"I'm not keeping you," Jim said reasonably. He thought, then carefully suggested, "We could call Taggart."

That brought the dark brown eyes up for the first time, and they had a glimmer of something in them. "He wouldn't come," Daryl denied, though it was clear to Jim that the kid hoped he would.

"Yes, he would. And I think that if you talked to him, he might have a few ideas on how to look for Dr. Sandburg."

That clearly shocked the young man, and he backed away from Jim, pressing his back against the window frame. "Wh.. what makes you think I'd be interested in that?" he asked nervously.

"Because that's what I'd do," Jim said simply, "if it were my friend missing."

With alarming suddenness, Daryl crumpled, falling in on himself, tears already streaming down his face. Lurching forward to catch him, Jim bit down a shout as something in his hip gave way, but he managed to ease both of them to the floor, hanging on to the weeping teen. Daryl cried hard, his whole body shuddering with the effort, and the older man knew that it was for more than his missing mentor. Not sure what else he could do, he held on, letting the would-be robber cry himself out.

Hours later he settled the young man on the couch, both of them too exhausted to deal with getting Daryl home or any place else. At Jim's insistence the teen had called his mother to let her know where he was, then called Joel to arrange for the cabbie to pick him up later that morning. Asleep before he was completely stretched out, Daryl curled on his side and snored softly into the pillow he'd been given. Dropping the blanket over him, thinking that he looked a lot younger than his 18 years, Jim leaned on his cane, and wondered where *he* was going to spend the rest of what was left of the night.

The only two options were to try to sleep on that torture device in the office Blair had called a bed, or get himself upstairs to the waterbed. Gingerly he put weight on his hip, trying to assess how much damage had been done. The moan didn't make it out of his chest, but he felt the color fade from his face. Enough apparently; Greg was going to tear him a new one.

It was the thought of how much the heat from the bed would help that decided him. Checking Daryl one more time to make sure he was out, Jim went to the stairs and started his way up. Midway he was reduced sitting down and dragging himself the rest of the way, using his upper arms to carry the burden of his now useless leg. An agonized eternity later he was in the bed, scrabbling off the top to the bottle of muscle relaxants that he'd been given. Dry swallowing a dose, he considered taking painkillers, too, despite the way he could never predict how he would react to them.

In the end, he couldn't convince himself it was safe enough to risk being semi-unconscious, and tried the breathing thing that Sandburg had shown him. It helped, and, oddly, seemed to summon his unseen friend.

**Jim? What happened?** Blair hesitated at the edge of the bedroom, as if not willing to enter without a specific invitation.

Well, he could fix that, Jim thought muzzily. "Come on in," he muttered. "It's your home, too."

**Are you okay?** Sounding very worried, Blair came closer, bringing a waft of his spicy scent with him.

//Nice.// Jim went back to breathing in pattern, not intentionally ignoring the other man, but getting caught up in fragrance that came with him.

**JIM!!**

The shout jarred him most of the way back, making him jump and renewing the pain in his body. A moan worked its way out despite Jim's best efforts to hold in down, and he clutched at where a white-hot poker was stabbing at his hip.

**You hurt your leg again?**

//No shit, Sherlock,// Jim growled behind his clenched teeth, glad the mean words couldn't actually get out.

**Hang on, I think I can help. Be still and try not to move.**

"Not much choice there, Chief," Jim bit out.

A second later the bed shifted, but the water in the mattress allowed Jim to literally flow with the movement, then timid fingers were circling his ankle. **I'm going to massage your leg as best I can. I don't know if I can apply enough pressure to do any good, but at the very least, it'll provide a distraction, okay?**

"Your scent does that," Jim told him without thinking, then he back-peddled hastily so Blair wouldn't be offended. "It's a good smell, Sandburg. And I've learned to associate it with being in the loft, relaxed and mellow, so it helps."

**Uh, thanks.** The other man sounded as if he weren't sure how to take the comment, and if he'd been alone, Jim would have smacked himself for his stupidity. Strong hands went to work on his lower calf, kneading and drumming at the angry knots buried in the flesh. It hurt, but in a different way and then the knots began to give way to the attention.

"God! You're good at that!" Jim moved his good leg away to give his friend room to work, and sighed in relief. The other man straddled the bad one and knee walked up it's length as he loosened the constricted muscles, effectively reducing the soldier to so much quivering protoplasm as he worked. When the rubdown reached the tops of his thighs, Jim squirmed out of his boxers without being asked, anxious to keep that marvelous, soothing touch on his skin. Seemingly undeterred by having a nude patient, Blair didn't hesitate, not even at the criss cross of scars marring the otherwise perfect body. He did slow, however, using his fingertips in a gentle digging style to avoid putting pressure on the newly healed tissue.

Unexpectedly Jim's psyche decided that the change was more than relaxing; it was down right lacisvious, and would be *great* on more intimate portions of the big man's anatomy. The portion most inclined to react did exactly that, and began to stand straight and tall, tip rosy and damp. Wrapped a veil of aroma from Blair, the warmth of the bed, and vagueness from the drug, Jim didn't notice his condition until Blair, seemingly lost in his own thoughts as he worked, was poked by it when he shifted position to start back down toward the ankle.

"OH!" Eyes he didn't remember shutting popped open, and Jim instinctively arched into the fleeting contact.

**OH!** Blair froze in place, and Jim could feel a surge of ... sensation... from where the unseen man's crotch straddled his leg.

They stayed like that a split second, then what he felt from his partner resolved itself into something Jim knew quite well: a dick stretching lazily as it filled. Willfully Jim closed his eyes, conjuring Blair's face hovering over him, and the image was so real, right down to the mixture of confusion, fear and desire, that he couldn't stop the lust that boiled through him, forcing a small plea from his lips. "Please! Touch me!"

Groaning, Blair shifted so that he was sprawled over Jim's good side, burying his face in the curve of the big man's neck. **I'm sorry, I'm sorry,** he mumbled, but he took the straining shaft into a square-fingered hand and began stroking in time with the urgent rocking of his own hips.

Blindly Jim groped for the head nestled into him, plunging his fingers into thick curls. "Can you feel us, babe?" he panted, wishing he dared risk his hip and could meet his new lover's thrusts. "Is this good for you at all?"

"Ah... ah! Yes, but it's like humping through a quilt!" Blair bit at the tender skin just over the collarbone, then licked it.

Absently thinking that it was weird to get licked and not get wet - weird but sexy, too - Jim tried a nip of his own at a nearby ear. No taste, and he moaned his disappointment over that, but didn't stop him from peppering tiny kisses over the stubbled cheek and jaw. With his free hand he reached down to cup a hard rear, encouraging Blair in his movements. Hoping to help, he purred, "What do you like, lover? What can I give you?"

His answer was a whimper and a frantic increase in the way his thigh was being ridden. Pressing one long finger over the back seam of Blair's jeans, Jim trailed up to the waist band to borrow under the fabric, wanting to repeat the caress back down, on bare skin this time. But the shirt was tucked firmly into the pants and defied any attempt the sentinel made to pull it free or make room for his hand, and he was forced to give up.

It didn't matter; breathing ragged and painful, Blair gasped, "I.. Jim ... I'm... I'm gonna..."

The warning was a spur to his need; it raced for the finish, dragging Jim with it, making it impossible for him to do anything but fuck the hand holding him. "Just.. just a little more... God!"

"OHHhhhhhh!" The soul-deep relief in Blair's voice as he shot was all Jim needed to come himself, and he convulsed, silently shouting.

The shudders faded into tremors, then into sleep, and he painfully turned to his side, unconsciously accommodating the lover still clinging to him.

****

A soldier doesn't live to be as old as Jim Ellison without learning to fall asleep when he can and to wake up instantly when he does. Nevertheless, when he crept out of sleep that morning, it was a leisurely climb toward awareness, punctuated with occasional rational thoughts.

//There's someone in the loft. It's okay, it's Daryl and he's just using the facilities.// He snuggled into the chest he was using as a pillow, and drifted around the idea of falling back to sleep. //Someone is at the door. Oh, Joel. Picking up Daryl.// The arms around him tightened as he squirmed to get closer to his bedmate, and he heard the conversation between the two people downstairs without bothering to understand the words. It went on a while, the buzz a pleasant backdrop to the normal morning sounds of his home. In time the front door opened again and Jim's consciousness stirred enough to identify people leaving.

That was good; he was perfectly willing to let the rest of the world go about its business while he took his own sweet time getting ready to join it. For the first time since he was a child, he felt secure and safe, watched over by someone he trusted. //Watched over?// The thought was strange enough that Jim shoved away from his cozy position. //Watched over?//

Looking at where he knew Blair was sitting up against the headboard of the bed, he asked softly, "You don't need to sleep?"

**No, I don't," Blair admitted sadly. With a small laugh, **Would you believe that I used to be on the hyper side? Always had work to do, things to take care of, people to meet. Had to set an alarm clock to remind myself to go to bed instead of working all night! Now... now I miss it. Miss dreaming especially.**

Shaking his head, trying to imagine what kind of existence the other man led, Jim told him, "I'm not sure I'd miss mine if I were in your shoes. On the other hand, I can't imagine anything more boring that sitting up all night watching me sleep. You shouldn't have let me get away with trapping you here to use you for a body pillow."

**Trust me on this, it was no problem. Spending a night with you wrapped around me made me feel normal for a change. Like if I laid there cuddling you long enough, I'd drift off to sleep, too.**

"Good," Jim said in honest relief. "If you want, you can, you know..." He waved at the room in general, not sure what the best way was to let Blair know he could come up any time.

Thankfully he understood and accepted the offer with a soft laugh. "Thanks, man. Beats the hell out of staring out the window all night, with nothing but your own thoughts for company, wondering if things are always going to be like this."

"What *is* it like for you?" Jim couldn't help asking. "You said you can't feel yourself or anything, but you move things around here, and *I* can feel *you*. You need a shave, got a heavy five o'clock shadow, and two hoop earrings in your left ear. You're wearing jeans with a small rip near the knee, a flannel shirt tucked into it with the top two buttons undone, and hiking boots."

**Wow, I didn't know it was that detailed for you. I thought it was the same as how I feel you; just kinda there, like touching through heavy gloves. I can't feel anybody or anything else at all. As for moving things, you know when you're doing something you don't really have to think about, like answering the phone? You don't have to tell your hand exactly what to do to pick it up; you just do it. If I don't think about it too much, I can do it, long as it's small.**

"Is it like that outside the loft, too?"

Blair sighed and shifted on the bed, obviously reluctant to answer that question. **For me, there's nothing outside the loft. I can see out the windows and what's happening on the street, look out the door when it's open, but if I cross the threshold or stand on the balcony, there's nothing there. Not even darkness; just *nothing*, and it hurts me to be there. Once or twice, when I first got here, I tried anchoring myself to the door and walking through it anyway, but I never really moved. I just thought I was walking, I guess.**

Jim couldn't help the shiver that creeped up just under his skin, making the small hairs on his body stand up. What Blair was describing was a hell he didn't ever want to be consigned to, yet the smaller man was talking about it as if he were merely giving Jim a tourist's highlights of another country. And his own morbid fascination with it made him ask one last question. "Is that where you went last night when you couldn't help Daryl?"

**I already hurt so badly.... Jim is it wise to let him think he can find me? I heard him and Joel talking earlier about Amnesty International and Joel using his old police connections to get a copy of the reports on the search for me. About my mom seeing every psychic and clairvoyant with even a half a reputation for being right once in a while. Daryl has to accept I'm gone before the grief does too much damage.**

"Like I told Taggart, if he truly believes you're alive, we can't change his mind," Jim argued. "Or stop him from looking for you and maybe doing something extreme in the process. But if he has a friend to support him, then when he does finally admit it, he won't be alone. In the meantime there will be someone to keep him from getting drastic."

Taking a deep breath, Jim added, "Besides, he's right, Naomi's right. You're not gone and maybe he senses that on some level." Dragging his hand over his face, he muttered under his breath. "I don't believe I just said that."

**Oh, my God. Jim, tell me you're not thinking of helping him,** Blair begged.

"All I'm saying is that maybe your body *is* somewhere out there badly hurt. The rest of you - the soul, or life force or whatever- got separated from it and came back here, back home. What harm can it do to check out the possibility? If we find it, we'll at least know that much, and if we don't, we're no worse off."

Jumping off the bed to pace, Blair asked angrily, **And if you find a corpse? What if my belief that I'm alive is the only thing keeping me here? Prove that I'm really dead, and then I *have* to move on to whatever's next.**

Unprepared for the twist of pain that came at that, Jim flinched, but he made himself be honest. "You're right; that could be the case. And I guess I don't have the right to make that decision. It's your life."

**Damn right it is!** Blair paced some more, then muttered, **Such as it is. God, what if this is the only time I get to choose? I mean, what if I go on like this forever? What if I can never simply say, okay, it's been 250 years so there's probably a good chance if my body is out there, it's so much dust, time to move on and see what happens next, but for me there is no next, the door closed because I wouldn't take the opportunity while I had it?**

The sound of walking stopped directly in front of Jim, and Blair went on. **What if that's why *you're* here? What are the odds that the only person who's been able to sense me would decide to move back to his hometown and buy a condo? Not only that, but of the million places in Cascade to buy, what man with a bad hip buys one where he has to climb stairs to go to bed?**

Jim shrugged. "A pig-headed one that doesn't want to admit that he's never going to be whole again? One who was thinking how good the place smelled and not how hard it was going to be to get up those stairs? Someone who has been slowly going crazy anyway, which you have to admit is a very real possibility, given some of the other things that have been happening to me lately."

**You mean your zones.**

"Zones?"

**When you loose track of yourself while you're looking or listening or whatever.**

"Huh. I've been thinking I was blacking out."

"No, just over-focusing on one thing. Everybody does that to one extent or another. Ever been working on something so hard that you look up and you've missed dinner and your ass is numb because you've literally been sitting motionless for hours?**

"I choose to do that! These, these *zones* just sneak up on me, and it's a very real possiblility I'm going to get myself killed if it happens at the wrong time!" Jim protested.

**Hey, I didn't say it was a good thing. Only that it's not that freaky. Look, Jim, I've got a theory about these zones of yours that I've been wanting to talk to you about, but I haven't really known how to get into it. And I'm more than a little worried about how you'll react. Could you do me a favor? I know you need to call Greg and have him check out your hip - and don't bother trying to dismiss it, it doesn't take a genius to realize that you haven't moved an inch more than necessary since you woke up. And I need to spend time doing some *major* processing. Downstairs on my desk is an opened book, with a pen lying in the middle of it. Would you read it for me and tell me what you think?**

Grimacing because Sandburg was right, a dull ache in his hip was warning him that getting up was going to be... interesting, Jim grumbled, "You're going to be trying to decide on whether or not to risk dying, and you want me to *read!*"

**Trust me, this is one book you *need* to read.**

****

Three days later, Jim closed the cover to "A Multicultural Approach to Sentinel Myths, Legends, and Folklore as Applied to Twentieth Century Norms" by one Dr. Blair Sandburg, and carefully set it on the coffee table as if expecting it to explode. Or vanish into thin air like its author.

Said author was currently in his office, cruising the internet at a speed Jim found alarming, nobody should be able to think that fast, hitting webpages on everything he could find on astral projection, hauntings, and anything remotely related to his own condition. So far Sandburg's general conclusion was that there were fascinating implications of a culture's beliefs on the after life and how they perceived ghosts.

Fascinating, maybe, but certainly not very useful. Not that his sources had been any better. Between him and Joel, they had read everything official on Dr. Sandburg's disappearance in Mexico and talked to practically everybody legally involved. And to more than a few who weren't. But neither Jim's intelligence contacts nor Taggart's more prosaic 'good buddy cop' network had turned up anything suspicious about the missing anthropologist. His expedition had camped for the night, he had turned in for the evening, and that was the last anybody had seen of him. The tent and its contents had been undisturbed, his bunk slept in, and the only thing gone, besides the man himself, had been a backpack he routinely carried.

Questioning Blair about it privately hadn't been much more enlightening. According to him he had been too excited to sleep, they had been so close to their destination, and had gotten up early to do a little advanced scouting. He defended going out alone without telling anyone by saying that he was hardly inexperienced in the jungle, and that he had clearly marked a trail. Which nobody had seen, along with the so- called Temple of the Sentinels that Blair had declared was less than a mile from where they had camped.

So far that slender piece of evidence was all that had to prove that foul play could be involved. And Jim was hardly in a position to give it to anybody in authority. Most of those had laughed off the possibility that there was a temple to start with, let alone that someone might try to stop Sandburg from finding it.

Staring at the book again, Jim couldn't help wonder if, ghost or not, both he and Blair *were* crazy. "A primitive throw back to early man, with five heightened senses that allow him to see what others can not." Jim quoted sourly. "So I'm some sort of cave man, huh, Sandburg. Thanks a lot!"

**That's harsh, Jim.** Blair sat beside him, taking advantage of Jim's tacit permission to be as close as he wished to be whenever he wanted. **It just means that you were born with a genetic advantage that used to be more common in the early days of man's evolution.**

"Well, I sure as hell don't see any advantage to it! So far all it's been good for is to give me headaches and zones. Where the hell was it when I was a soldier and could have used it? Why is it cropping up now?"

**Are you sure you never used any of your senses before? By accident maybe?** Blair prodded gently.

Deep, deep inside him where he kept what he didn't want to think about, what he *couldn't* think about, unknown things stirred and rumbled, making his head suddenly pound, eyes burning. Reaching up to rub at them, he saw in his mind's eye a man he'd nearly forgotten, a man he'd once considered more than a friend. "Incacha."

**Jim?**

"What?" he barked, wondering why the Chopec shaman would come to mind now, of all times. The jungles of Peru and the Chopec village were a lifetime away.

The phone rang shrilly before Blair could answer him, and he reached out to snag the phone, letting his frustration spill onto it. "Ellison!"

"Well at least you answered the phone this time," Garland said acidly, "However impolitely. How are you doing today, Jim?"

"You didn't call me to get a report on my health," Jim snapped. "Say whatever you have to say and get it over with. On second thought, I know what you want, and I'm not signing those papers. I've given them to another attorney so he can enlighten me on how badly you're trying to screw me, and the best charity to give the whole damn bundle to. Talk to the board about how much money they can come up with for a buy out, if you feel you have to pretend you're earning your retainer!"

"Young man you are seriously over-reacting! Now I've made allowance.." Garland sputtered.

"I am *not* a young man, I'm an old, scarred soldier and I damn well know my mind. And if you're thinking on having me declared incompetent, I suggest you reconsider telling Uncle Sam that he gave a gun and an officer's commission to a lunatic! My guess is any judge will have trouble finding in your favor because of that, no matter how many times you've played golf with him." Jim was biting out each word with cold precision, making each one a weapon.

"Jim, I never meant..." The lawyer tried frantically to back pedal, using a placating tone that a four year old would have found patronizing.

"I do. Stock, ownership, properties, all of it is going to be sold and the funds put into a trust. And what kind of trust is nobody's business but mine! Good bye, Garland!" Jim hit the disconnect button and threw the phone down on the floor with enough force to shatter it.

The crash echoed for a few minutes through the suddenly still loft, and the silenced that followed it was even more deafening. Then Blair laid his palm in the middle of Jim's chest, twisting sideways to half face him. **Guess that decided the issue on whether or not you're insane. Are you so sure that Garland is trying to take advantage of you?**

With a bark of laughter that was very unpleasant sounding, Jim leaned into the touch, head dropping back. "Good point. Guess I should look over the damned things first. I'm kinda jumping to conclusions, but, believe me, Sandburg, I've heard more than enough about him from Pops to have a good idea of what he'll do in any given situation. If he's not trying to pry me loose of every penny, however painlessly, I'll eat my shoes."

**If you are jumping to conclusions, it's not much of a one I'd say from the way he's reacting to you. Are you really going to give your inheritance to charity?**

"Why not? You've never had wealth, right?" Not waiting for his roomie's answer, Jim pushed on. "You either have to commit to taking care of it or it gets taken from you by people like Garland. You try to do the first, and before long you get trapped up in the games needed to protect it and you. If the latter happens, a shark gets fatter from the pain and sweat of the people it was wrung from so that he can eat those same people up. It's a no win situation."

**Sounds like you've seen this up close and personal,** Blair said neutrally. **I guess like most people I only see what money can do to make life easier or better. To me it's what I need to pull together an expedition or to help a friend. Not a burden to be protected.**

"I'm not knocking it, and I'm not so blind I don't know how important it is to have it," Jim defended himself, suddenly weary of the conversation. "But I have what I need, Chief. Let the excess go to people who don't."

Blair was silent for a second, then dropped his hand so he could wrap an arm around Jim's waist, scooting closer, almost into the big man's lap. **In that case, can I drop a few hints about starving grad students and under-funded anthropology departments?** His voice was deliberately sickly sweet and coy, making the suggestion a joke.

Willing to let his mood be turned, Jim made an effort to answer in kind, hauling the weight of his friend the rest of the way into his lap, enjoying the chance hold him again after three days of making do with pats and casual brushes. "Hint away, but you know, bribes are usually much more effective. How much are you willing to put up for my favors?"

**I thought I was the one doing the selling here. Using my poor, insubstantial assets to sway a cold, heartless money monger into subsidizing higher education.** Laying his head on Jim's broad shoulder, Blair hooked his free hand lazily around the big man's neck, fingers teasing the short strands of hair on the back of it.

Burrowing his nose into the softness underneath where Blair's ear should be, Jim whispered, "Your assets feel pretty substantial to me, Chief. Is this a fantasy of yours, being a whore with a heart of gold who turns the wealthy business man to his love slave?"

Shuddering in pleasure, Blair gave a bare shake no of his head. **Not until now, anyway. Seems like any fantasy that features you is a button for me.**

"Tell me number one on your hit parade? And I'll consider that funding you're willing to offer up your sweet ass for." Jim coaxed, only half teasing.

"If I'm the one doing the selling, shouldn't you be telling me what *your* fantasy is?" Blair shot back archly, wiggling provocatively.

Instantly the thought of what he wanted screeched through him, and Jim moaned, "To taste you, lover, to taste *all* of you, nothing between us to get in the way."

"JIM!" Arching, digging into Jim almost visciously, Blair begged, "How did you know? My God, how did you know?"

"You mean... you... OH, GOD!!" Instinctively he sought out his companion's mouth, intending to ravish it with a punishing kiss, only to find nothing. Even as he perceived full, ripe lips waiting for him, the reality of his lover dissolved away, leaving only faint air currents to tease his own. He still held a living weight in his arms, still had a thousand unruly strands of silk darting over his throat, face and arm, but where his mouth should touch another's there was nothing.

He jerked back, shocked and frustrated. "What the..!"

**Damn, damn, damn,** Blair muttered, suddenly struggling to get free.

"Wait, Blair. Wait!" Taking a deep breath, Jim reined in his responses and dove back toward his lover, this time gently landing a tiny peck on the end of an upturned nose. Quieting, though he was panting as if finishing a marathon, Blair let him carefully trace out his features with small kisses. He was all there, even his lips, until Jim tried to breach that barrier and know his lover more intimately. Then that part of him would bleed away.

Experimentally, telling the other man what he intended with reassuring murmurs, Jim explored the sturdy body with one hand, hugging Blair to him tightly with a powerful arm. To his intense aggravation, every time he would tackle a button to undo it or slide a finger into an open collar, the same thing would happen. That part of his companion would simply go away.

**Oh, man,** Blair groaned theatrically. **You mean I'm doomed to blue balls or dry humping for the rest of eternity? That is absolutely not fair!**

"Can you undo them, babe? Take off your clothes?" Jim asked, trying not to grind up into the firm bottom resting on his crotch. The frustration of not being able to properly caress his partner hadn't diminished his lust, unfortunately, but had only inflamed it to the point he was willing to do nearly anything for satisfaction.

There were several strange jolts and bumps, then Blair said with disappointment dripping off every word. **No, no I can't. It's like my hands are filled with novocaine and can't find the buttons or edges of the fabric.**

"You want to stop?" Jim offered reluctantly, not wanting to cause him any more discomfort.

**Hell, No!** Blair slumped against him, face burrowing into the curve of his neck. **I just don't know what to do!**

"Like being 16 again, huh, Chief?"

**Worse! I knew I had a chance when I was 16, or that I could take care of things myself later.**

That was an idea, and Jim worked down a hand to gently knead the impressive package he knew was waiting for him. With a hoarse yelp, Blair surged into the contact, using the full strength of his body to do it. "Remember you told me that if you didn't think about it, you could just do things?" Jim told him. "I'm going to pet you and see if I can't drive you to the point where you *have* to jack off and see if that works."

**Man, I don't think I can get more turned on than this. I feel like going into a leather bar, dropping my pants and bending over!"

Moaning, Jim surrendered to the need to begin a cautious thrusting. "That is *not* an image I want right now, Sandburg! Cause I'd punch anybody that got between me and this." He used the strength of his hands to push down hard on Blair's thighs, driving the hidden cleft of that firm back side right onto his own leaking dick.

Whimpering, Blair hastily rearranged himself so that he was straddling Jim, both arms draped around his neck. He started rocking frenetically, no rhythm to it at all. Wanting only to help him along, Jim bit at the covered chest in front of him, instinctively looking for nipples to torment. They were there, little points poking through the flannel of the shirt Blair wore, already as hard and needy as the cock rubbing erratically on his stomach. Latching onto one, he sucked at it through the fabric, dismissing the lack of either taste or texture, and concentrating on driving Blair wild.

Some how his lover managed to pick up pace, wailing his pleasure, writhing onto Jim with insane desire and enough desperation to leave bruises. //Close,// Jim judged distantly, his own needs swamping most of his reason. //A little bit more and he'll come and I'll get to fuck him raw.// That sounded so good to him, he mumbled it out loud, switching to the other waiting bud. "Going to fuck you raw, lover. Going to bury myself deep inside you."

With a huge shiver that threatened to tear Blair apart, he came, too far lost in ecstasy to even cry out. There was a momentary wash of heat from him, and, nearly roaring from hunger, Jim yanked at the back of the jeans that kept him from his completion. They didn't budge, and as if terrified that release was going to be totally denied, the coil of fire inside him shattered, shoving his seed out of him in hard spurts.

Groaning his partner's name over and over, Jim quaked at each spurt, rapidly skittering away from consciousness as he did. At the verge of it, teetering toward sleep, he slithered to a stop, worried about how Blair was dealing with their failure. Forcing heavy lids up, he blinked, a half smile forming as he blew a wisp of long hair from the corner of his mouth. "You know," he said calmly, ignoring the fact he was slightly panting from their love making, "If we ever actually succeed in getting naked together, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to survive it!"

Dreamily Blair nuzzled at Jim's sweaty hairline, just behind his ear. **Want to tell me how you make it the best I've ever had without doing anything more than heavy petting?**

"Well if hunger is the best spice, then abstinence is the best aphrodisiac," Jim replied automatically.

**You must have gone without a *long* time," Blair teased, giving one of those strange dry licks to where he'd just nuzzled.

Starting to say that he'd gone a lot longer and it hadn't been anywhere near *this* good, Jim snapped his jaw shut on the words. How often had the very handsome anthropologist had to go without sex, let alone without the comfort of human contact? Vaguely guilty, wondering if he was using Blair or if he was the one being used, Jim muttered, "I guess that makes two of us, Chief."

**Guess,** he murmured disinterestedly, burrowing into Jim as much as possible. **Thanks, lover. I needed that. And I was supposed to be seducing you into giving starving grad students well deserved funding. Now I'll have to go out and rob the Treasury to pay you what you're worth.**

Glancing over to where Garland's packet sat on the table by the door, Jim stroked down the length of a curl. "Isn't it traditional for grad students to starve?" he asked distractedly.

**True. Wouldn't want to mess with tradition, after all. Let's see, how about giving all your dad's money to a shelter to Procrastinator's Anonymous? You could tell them to use it to sponsor a scholarship, and they'd never get around to choosing any candidates, if they ever had any that got around to submitting applications!!**

Chuckling, finally allowing himself to enjoy the afterglow, Jim told him. "Not annoying enough to Garland. How about we fund a sports scholarship - for surfing?"

**Might be hard to find a school that has a team.** Blair argued, getting into the spirit of the debate. "What about..** Listening to him with one ear, Jim knew what he wanted to use at least some of the money for, and while he bantered with his lover verbally, mentally he turned over plans for what needed to be done.

****

Screwdriver in hand, kitchen table sensibly covered with a drop cloth, repair manual opened to one side, Jim gingerly jiggled the screw holding the rusted out bracket in place on the alternator. //If this is all that is wrong with this one,// he thought to himself, //I could hang onto it for a spare or sell it to somebody else. Pity I didn't look at it more closely before putting in the new one. Have to remember that next time.// Content with his plans and the fact that there was going to be a next time for working on his own truck, Jim popped the screw free at last. "Gotcha!"

**You know, for someone who's practically Mr. Clean himself,** Blair observed from his usual spot by the balcony doors, **You take a lot of delight in a very dirty job.**

"Engines don't have to be that dirty," Jim argued, mind on the alternator. "And it's the way everything has to fit together exactly so to work that I like. You could say an engine is the ultimate in being organized, Chief."

He started to argue, but Jim held up a hand. With Sandburg's help over the past week or so, he'd been unwillingly learning to focus his senses properly, mostly because the anthropologist would jump on the slightest clue that he was picking up on something. Now tuning into Daryl's frantic, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," as he ran up the stairs toward the loft was effortless, and he automatically told his roomie what he heard.

**He's afraid?"

"I think," Jim confirmed, quickly cleaning up the table and retrieving his gun. "Not being chased though. Damn, I thought Taggart had a handle on him!"

**He does,** Blair insisted firmly. He was quiet a second, then he asked worriedly, **You and Joel have been talking with some less than trustworthy people about what happened to me in Mexico. You don't think...**

"No, I don't," Jim said shortly. "Taggart wouldn't do anything without backup, or at least telling me about it first. He was a *good* cop, Sandburg; he hasn't been taking any chances and he wouldn't do anything reckless."

Standing by the door, instinctively putting a hand on Blair's hip and guiding him into a position behind him, Jim listened at the door, tracking Daryl. Even expecting it, the hurried knocks were ear shattering, and he flung the door open and yanked the teen inside. Rapidly relocking the door, he steadied the young man as he nearly stumbled. Daryl looked bewildered, then abruptly took Jim by the shoulders and shook him hard.

"You have to help!" he demanded. "Those idiots are hurting him! You have to help!"

"Help who?" Jim asked calmly, hardly budged by the shaking despite his leg. "With what?"

"Joel, man! Joel! You have to help him! You're his friend, and you said that you'd help a friend, and you're a soldier so you can!" Pulling on him now, urging him toward the door, Daryl all but babbled his answer.

"Whoa, whoa. Yes I'm a soldier, but if you're looking for gun power you should be calling the cops," Jim insisted, refusing to move. "Now tell me what's wrong!" He sharpened his voice with command steel, and it cut through Daryl incipient panic.

Swallowing hard, looking ready to puke, he stammered out. "Lukey and Rods weren't happy about not getting any of the stuff I promised them for helping. I told them, I *told* them that you'd moved it all, and I couldn't find out where, and I thought that'd be enough. That they'd leave you alone. And I, ah..." He trailed off, looking even more frightened and ashamed. "I kinda built up what a great soldier you were and all. I mean, look at you man! You *look* like you know a thousand ways to kill a man with your bare hands and how to hide the bodies so they'd never be found."

"What were you doing hanging out with them again, anyway!" Jim shouted.

"Look, ream me out later for being as asshole. I deserve it!" Daryl shouted back. "But right now they have Joel because they know that he's your friend and must have helped you move everything. Or at least know where it is! They're going to hurt him until he tells, and they need a fix so damned bad, I don't think they'll believe him when he tells them he doesn't!!"

"Shit!!" Jim grabbed a phone. "You have to tell the police!"

"They'll never believe me! Not without telling them everything. And by the time I could convince someone that I'm not some punk kid off the street, that I know what I'm talking about, Joel could be dead!"

That stopped Jim where he stood, but he kept thinking furiously. **Simon Banks was a captain in one of the departments,** Blair reminded him in his ear. **And Joel worked with him more than once. Daryl has to know a cop who will listen to him because of that.**

With a half nod to let Blair know that he'd been understood, Jim asked, "Daryl, is there anyone in Joel's old department, a friend of your dad's maybe, that you could talk to directly? Go in like for a visit and come clean to him?"

Recoiling away from Jim, backing into the door like he had the first time, Daryl stuttered, "I can't, man. I can't! I could get busted, too, friend of my dad's or not!"

"So to stay out of jail you'll let a friend get seriously injured, maybe die!?" He barked the words in the most scathing way he knew, wishing he could literally flay the kid with them.

"What About Blair!!!!" Daryl screamed. "If I'm in jail I can't help him! You have to go help Joel!! I can't!! I Can't!!"

"DAMN!" Jim considered, then asked flatly. "Where'd your junkie friends take him, thief? Where's *my* friend?"

Miserably Daryl gave the address, slowly collapsing into a ball on one side of the door. Shoving the phone at him, Jim ordered, "Give me enough time to get there, then call in an anonymous fire alarm to 911. They have to at least check it out; maybe the fire engine sirens will be enough to scare them off, with some luck." He headed for the door, making himself stride instead of limp. "One last thing," he added bitterly. "You tell me how Dr. Sandburg is going to feel that you traded an innocent life for his."

Furious, rage held in place by discipline that the army had forced on him, Jim left, coming to an abrupt halt three steps away from the threshold. Two ghostly hands were hanging onto the back of his belt, not slowing him down, but making him agonizingly aware that Blair had followed him out. "Chief?" he whispered, not sure despite everything if he weren't imagining things.

**Jim, I told *you*! You read it in my book! Sentinels don't work by themselves because of the zone out factor. You have to have someone to watch your back!**

"There isn't anyone!" he snapped. "Except that kid, and right at the moment I would trust him to hold my jacket while I pissed! Now get inside before you hurt yourself!"

**You are not,** Blair hissed stubbornly, **going into a life threatening situation without a guide! You don't have enough control yet, thanks to the fact you fight my every attempt at teaching it to you! Now while we're standing here arguing, Joel could be dying! Move; I'll be okay.**

Putting himself into motion, unable to think of a way to fight and win fast enough, Jim muttered sullenly, "Like you'll tell me."

**I'm not stupid. If there's a problem, you'll know it as soon as I do. Otherwise how much good can I do watching out for you?** Blair muttered back.

While a part of his mind concentrated on getting them down to the truck and driving to the address Daryl had given him, the majority of it focused on the increasingly tenuous presence of his partner. Blair never complained, though Jim was sure once or twice that he heard a soft pained cry from the other man.

In the late afternoon light, the house sitting on the corner by itself didn't look that dangerous, but Jim knew better than to take it at face value. It was older, not wearing its years or fading yellow paint all that well. The lawn looked neglected and straggly, and there were a few flowers trying heroically to grow in the weeds nearest the house. For all that, it was like half the homes on the street, and Jim wondered how many dark secrets they held as well.

Thankfully he hadn't painted over the primer on the truck yet to restore it to its orginal blue and white gleam. It blended in well with the neighborhood, and he was able to cruise around his target, looking for all the likely exits and entrances, deciding on the best way to approach it. Parking, he studied it, looking for some trace of movement through the shuttered windows.

**Try hearing, first,** Blair advised him in a strained voice. **If you know where they are by picking up on their voices or movement, you'll have a better idea of where to look. Sorta Piggy back the sight onto the sound.**

With a grunt of acknowledgement, still angry that Sandburg was risking himself, Jim did as suggested, almost instantly finding three people in a back bedroom, the one farthest from the street, hidden from the neighbors by overgrown hedges. Two of the heartbeats he could pick up were dangerously high, almost at an overload level. Through a crack in the curtains, he could make out the same two young men who had visited his fire escape not so long ago, staring wildly at a banged up and beaten Joel Taggart who was eyeing them back blandly.

"And I'm telling you," the cabbie said evenly, "that I don't know where Ellison put all that junk. He bitched about it nonstop for a couple of days, then it was gone. Maybe he sold it himself; he bought a new truck about the same time."

**What do you hear?** Blair's voice insinuated itself into his mind so smoothly, Jim told him without thinking. A moment later, his partner asked, **Does Joel know?**

"Carried half of it down for me," Jim mumbled, looking for the best way into the house. "He's buying time for himself. Knows that he's dead whether he tells them or not. He talks, he's a witness and they're stupid and strung out enough to be think that's the only way to deal with one. As if B&E charges are worse than murder! He doesn't talk, stalls them out, they could kill him out of pure stressed out nerves, but he might find a way to get loose or help could arrive before that happens."

**Man! What are we going to do? We can't just bust in like we're cops!**

With a last check of the set up, Jim reached behind the seat and pulled out a baseball cap. "No, but breaking a door down isn't the only way to get through it." Putting the cap on, bill pulled low over his face, Jim got out of the truck, stripping off his outer shirt as he did. Tieing that around his waist inside out, he took a dirty and a clean rag from the back, thankful that he'd been under the hood today and was wearing old stained jeans and his boots. He rubbed motor oil and dirt from the first rag into his T-shirt, tearing a hole or two as he did, then into his face, hopefully obscuring his features more. Jim had no way to know if the thieves had seen him clearly from the window during their first robbery attempt.

With no more than a quick murmur to Blair to hang on tight, he went up on the porch and banged loudly on the door. "BECKY!! I know you're in there, you whore! Max couldn't wait to tell me that you'd taken off with that kid! Get your ass out here now!!!" Inside the house he could hear the terrified squeaks of both thieves and could practically see them jumping out of their skin in terror. As the meaning in his shouts penetrated their fear, they whispered hurriedly between themselves about how to deal with the asshole at their door.

All the while Jim kept up his racket, being as loud and abusive as he could, wanting to disturb the neighbors enough that someone would call in a domestic violence call. "Becky, you bitch!! If you don't open this door right now I'm going to break it in and kill that scum with you! I'm going to kill both of you, you faithless bitch!! Open this door!!!"

He heard the thieves decide one of them would answer the door and convince the crazy man pounding on it to go away while the other stayed with Taggart to keep him quiet. That suited Jim fine. Bracing himself, he flung the screen door open at the same time the person inside opened the interior one. Not giving him a chance to say anything, Jim snatched him up by the collar, grabbing the wrist holding the knife the kid had held behind him and slammed him into the wall hard enough to knock him out.

"That's what you get for screwing my wife!!!" he bellowed, and threw the unconscious man out onto his lawn. Across the street he saw flickers of motion at several windows, and unintentionally tuned in to listen on the people behind them. Good, several were picking up the phone, yeah the cops were...

**JIM! Down!!**

The warning came with a rush of motion from one side; the other junkie had slipped out the back and was coming at him with a knife. Even as he saw that, he was on his way to the ground, sweeping out with his good leg to knock the man off his feet. Without hesitation he drove in with his heel to the other's face, feeling the shock of breaking cartilage travel up his leg. The angle was wrong for that to be a killing blow; Jim spun on his backside and followed up his kick with a hard punch to the gut that did the rest of the job of knocking the thug out. Taking a split second to turn the guy's head to one side so he wouldn't drown in the blood from his own broken nose, Jim struggled to his feet, frantically reaching out with his senses to locate his partner.

Despite the yell to drop, Blair had lost contact with Jim on the way down, and now there was no trace of him that could be picked up by the sentinel's frantic search. From inside he heard a low groan of pain, forcing him to abandon looking for his ghostly companion. As quickly as he could, he lumbered toward where Joel was tied up, feeling the abuse his hip had taken beginning to add up.

Conscious, but with a rag stuffed into his mouth to keep him silent, Joel's eyes widened almost comically when he saw Jim limp into the room.

"You're looking pretty shaky there," Jim told him blandly, yanking out the gag, then reaching around to undo the ropes.

"Had better days," Taggart admitted hoarsely. "Daryl?"

"At my place," Jim said shortly, not wanting to hurt the big cabby by telling him *why* Daryl was there. "And the cops aren't far behind me." Running fast hands over Joel's body, grateful for the too-manyth time that he'd kept current on his medic training, he added, "Hopefully an ambulance, too, buddy. You've got some broken ribs and internal bruising, though I don't think you're bleeding from a rupture or anything. That knee's gotta be killing you, but I think it's only dislocated."

Grunting in pain, Taggart gritted out, "Yeah. Those two were real rookies at this roughing up business. My drill sargent did worse than this trying to convince me to climb a rope ladder, once."

With a snort, Jim undid the last knot and helped Joel to his feet. "Look, I don't want the police to know I'm involved, okay? Too many questions I don't want to answer, for Daryl's sake, and the last thing I want to be is earmarked by the locals as a loose canon. Is it okay with you if I slip away? Just tell them that an irate husband crashed through the here looking for his philandering wife, saw you, undid the ropes with all the appropriate cussing and wondering what the hell he'd gotten into, then took off before you got much of a look at him. Will you do that for me?"

Joel regarded him thoughtfully, then nodded his agreement. "I won't lie for you," he warned.

"Wouldn't want you to," Jim said shortly. The sirens were getting close enough for Taggart to hear, so Jim made sure the other man was steady and took off through the back door. Once through it, he pulled off the cap, stuffed it into a back pocket, taking out the clean cloth to scrub at his face. His outer shirt came back on, covering his soiled T-shirt, and he affected a leisurely pace.

By the time he reached his truck, police cars, including an unmarked, were pulling into the front of the house he'd just left. Joel was in the doorway, hands up and plainly seen, but as Jim watched he broke into a huge grin. "Rafe! Brown! What are you doing here?"

"Daryl must have broken down and called some of Joel's friends. " Jim muttered for Blair. Then he blanched; there was still no trace of his roommate. Maintaining his un-hurried, unworried, *un-noticeable* posture, Jim started his vehicle and pulled away. His nonchalance lasted only until he was out of sight of the cruisers. The minute he was clear he punched it, depending on his damnable senses to stop him from causing an accident or getting pulled over.

His raceto the loft was less controlled; only the fear that he'd trip and not be able to get back up kept him from trying to run. Once inside, he paused, opening his senses up as he had never thought possible, seeking any trace of his lover. The scent was there, like always, but the *feel* of Blair was gone. He sagged into the nearest wall, barely staying upright, rational mind already vanishing under an overwhelming tide of pain. Instinct made him lurch toward the small office, mentally repeating over and over what his companion had first told him about the room, that it had always been his center.

Flinging himself into the small space, Jim hesitated, then did as Blair had told him many times. Drawing in a deep breath, he relaxed as much as he could, and *focused,* choosing his sense of touch to use as the tool to find his lover. For long, heart-cold minutes he could find nothing, then the faintest tickle of awareness pulled him toward the futon bed. Not caring what he dislodged or crumpled, he climbed onto it, curling around the barely tangible presence huddled in the middle of it.

With infinite care, he hugged it as best he could, bringing it into contact with his own body the best he could. "Blair?" he pleaded in a whisper. "What can I do?"

"Hold onto me!" The sound was so distant that Jim wasn't sure if it was wishful thinking on his part, but he did as asked anyway, determined to stay with Blair until his lover gave him leave to go.

A night came and went, and Jim mulishly kept to his plan, literally crawling out of the bed only when his bladder wouldn't let him stay in it any longer. He took care of business as fast as he could, then went straight back, sure each time that his companion was becoming more and more substantial. When the pain from his hip would let him, he'd doze, and when it wouldn't he would ramble aloud from one thought to another, hoping that his voice would be as much of an anchor for Blair as touch was. Restlessly, endlessly, he would float his hands over the unseen contours of the body he held, wanting it, willing it to be more there. In the end, he fell into a deep sleep, too wracked by exhaustion, worry and pain to stay aware any longer.

It was a fairly even bet as to which actually woke Jim the next day; his grumbling stomach or the faint kisses being pressed onto the palms of his hands. Instantly he rolled the very solid feeling body under his, wanting nothing more than to kiss Blair senseless. At the last moment, unable to stand the thought of having even that much of his lover fade, he buried his face in the curls nearest the broad shoulder. "Blair?"

**I"m okay, I'm okay,** Blair reassured him hastily. "It got really vague there for a while, but I'm all back. How're you doing? Can you move at all?**

With a growl Jim showed him how much he could move, enfolding him with long arms and legs, grinding against the soft crotch mercilessly. Breathing heated kisses into the fragile shell of an ear, biting on the tender lobe, he brought them both to full hardness within heartbeats. As frustrating as they both found Blair's current condition, the near loss of his lover drove Jim past all caring of how difficult it was for them to find relief.

All that he knew was that Blair was with him right at this second, when he thought he might never touch him again, and however pitiful it was, he was going to milk every drop of sensation from his lover that he could. Ruthlessly Jim pounded into him, not surprised that Blair was giving back as good as he got, clawing at his back to hang onto him tighter. Mindlessly they both slammed together, trying to breach the barrier of clothes and skin, wanting to be inside each other with an intensity that almost made it happen.

For one golden moment as he emptied his seed over his own skin, Blair was there, really there, underneath him, head thrown back, brilliant blue eyes locked onto his. His pleasure was clearly etched in his features, in his eyes, and there was wonderful, incredible heat spilling onto Jim from him, wetness that came from the jerking spasms of his lover's cock as he helplessly came too.

"You're so beautiful!" he moaned, not able to stop the words that left with his fluids.

Even as he spoke, the image faded, leaving him uncertain as to whether or not he had conjured it from his own need. Deciding he didn't care, it was enough that his lover was there, Jim collapsed beside him, still refusing to let go.

As they both fought to bring their breathing back to normal, Blair murmured, **We can't keep this up, lover. I can't stay away from you, but I can't stand not really touching you, either. I hate that you have to walk out the door without me to watch your back. I know that you don't plan on getting into things like today, but you can't stop it from happening sometimes. Protecting, helping your tribe, that's part of your genetic programming.**

Swallowing down a fresh burst of agony that made the ache in his hip look like a splinter, Jim asked carefully, "You want me to move out?"

**I want you to find me.**

*****

"Jim, I can't believe you sold your truck to do this!!" Joel said for about the thirtieth time since Jim asked him to come to Mexico with him.

Like he had all the rest of those times, Jim answered, "I can't believe how much I got for it." He stirred up the fire, which wasn't needed so much for warmth in the hot jungle, as for the discouragement to local wild life it presented. Stepping back, leaning on the tall staff he'd been using since he'd starting searching the jungle two days ago, he peered into the night, mentally marking out the boundaries of their camp with his senses. It was smaller than the one Blair's expedition had had here, holding only the necessities, but at least he'd been able to chopper in instead of hike.

"You got so much because that Ford looked like it'd just been driven out of the showroom. Clean as a whistle, paint job smooth as silk. No wonder you're thinking of setting up a shop for restoring classic and antique cars. But I tell you, there can't be *that* much money in it, I don't care how much you got." Taggart said casually, only wanting to make conversation to hide the eerie noises of the night world around them.

Balefully eyeing the black jaguar that had been flickering in and out of his vision since he arrived, Jim couldn't blame the ex-cop for his chatter. "I don't need a lot, Joel, and now that I'm working for the What It Can Do foundation, I can cover any gaps I might run into. And it's pretty easy doing the background checks on their grant candidates." //Especially since it's my foundation, and I'm picking them to start with,// he added mentally, not ready to share that with the other man.

"Well, why not ask them for the cash to do this instead?" Joel asked. "Why sell your truck?"

Patiently Jim explained again, "Because you have to pay the Foundation back if you can." //And I don't want to get into the habit of running for the old man's money everytime I hit an obstacle.//

"Well, Joan and I can't thank you enough for hooking Daryl up with it," Taggart said. "It's just what he needed; a hand up not a hand out. He goes to school, makes good grades, and the foundation covers his tuition and fees. He screws up, he pays them back, low interest. He graduates, he's got a five year amnesty, then has to pay them back, no interest, or has to sponsor his own student. Not just helping him, but encouraging him help others. I like that. You say you learned about it from Dr. Sandburg's stuff?"

"You're not going to get on me about breaking into his office again, are you?" Jim half grumped, side stepping answering the question. "I told you, the best chance of finding him was to look through his papers and hope we could find whatever resource it was that sent him to Mexico in the first place. If we know where Sandburg was going that morning, we might can follow him and learn something."

Giving the night filled jungle an uneasy glance, but not seeming to see the panther sitting so close to their camp, Joel argued, "I don't know, man. A *lot* of jungle out there. Ranger training or not..."

"More than just Ranger," Jim admitted reluctantly, thinking about Blair's very enthused reaction to this same confession. "I lived in the jungles in Peru, with a indigenous tribe there, for over 18 months. Learned their ways, how to live with the jungle, not fight it the way white man does. None of the people on the search and rescue for Dr. Sandburg had the kind of intimate acquaintance with survival out here that I'm counting on to help me."

Taggart was quiet for a long time, poking randomly at the fire in front of him. "Time," he muttered, and Jim grimaced, thinking of when he'd been a cover for the magazine. "Lost your whole team. Why the hell did you stay in the Army after that, after being abandoned for 18 months?"

Remembering the rage and soul-deep weariness, all Jim could say was, "I almost did. But I wanted to know what went wrong, why all my men had died. The best way to do that was to stay in." Unaware of the very unpleasant expression on his face, he thought about what had happened to the Colonel that had been behind the deliberate misinformation, and added, "Besides someone whose advise I trusted, the Chopec Shaman, told me that I needed to go home, to find my place, my tribe. At the time I thought he meant the Army, since that was the only home I'd acknowledged in a while."

"Huh!" Joel shuddered and tore his eyes away from Jim's feral expression. "That why you came back to Cascade when you were hurt?"

A fragment of something that wasn't quite a memory and not quite a dream floated across Jim's mind, and he said absently, carefully lowering himself to the ground, "Kept dreaming about it when I was first injured, running a fever." He shrugged and stretched out, drawing mosquito netting over himself. "You gonna keep watch? Long as the fire's going we shouldn't have any four-legged visitors."

"Then I'll keep it going," Joel shot back, glancing around nervously again.

"Suit yourself," Jim yawned. "I'm going back out when the sun comes up."

"How long you going to look?"

Jim didn't answer. It was a good question, but he simply didn't know. Wishing for Blair's presence hovering around him, despite being the one who adamantly insisted that he not risk coming on this trip, he settled down to rest. More than anything he missed Sandburg's careful guiding of the infuriating senses currently playing tricks on him. He lifted his head to glare at the panther idly grooming itself, but he still couldn't say how long it would take to convince them all that his ghostly lover was beyond help.

So used to having Sandburg's insubstantial form tucked up against him, he had trouble falling asleep despite training. But when he did, it was deep and dreamless - dreamless until the noises of the morning jungle waking entered his mind.

Then he rose effortlessly, injured hip totally forgotten, and ran into a jungle with all the color leached out, leaving only shadows and shapes of blue behind. Ahead of him was the panther that had been watching. It stayed just ahead, obviously leading, and with the innate knowledge that can come with dreams, Jim knew he had to follow. Rejoicing at the smooth, fluid motion of his own running steps, remembering distantly the pure pleasure of his body moving at top speed, he kept pace with the animal, not really paying attention to where they went.

A small clearing opened up ahead of them, and the ruins of an ancient temple filled one side of it. The panther leaped to the top of the first huge step and turned, pacing up and down until Jim caught up. They stared at each other, then the animal shifted, changed, stretching up to its hind legs, which became a man's legs as it became a man.

"Incacha." Jim greeted.

"Enquiri." The shaman answered. "Why are you here? You are not ready."

"I seek one lost; I seek my friend." There was no apology in Jim's words, though he kept them respectful.

"Ah. The young Shaman trapped within the portal by the Mad One." Incacha said to Jim's surprise. "Your intention is good, Sentinel. But I tell you again, you are not ready. You cannot come to the temple."

Certain for some reason that he would not find it without the Chopec's approval, Jim argued carefully. "Nor can I leave him caught between this path and the next." He hesitated, not sure he wanted to admit it even to himself, but added, "My heart will not let me."

"Your heart, Enquiri?"

"My heart." Jim confirmed quietly.

"Then use it as your path, Sentinel. But listen to this warning. Do not enter the pools! Or you will share the fate of the Mad One, and your mate will remain lost always. Follow *only* your heart, Enquiri. Only your heart."

On the last words the Shaman melted, flowing back down onto all fours and into a panther, snarling silently as it pounced...

.... jolting Jim awake and into a sitting position. On the morning breeze was a hint of a scent, one he knew as well as his own thoughts. Blair's. Disregarding that it was *impossible,* even for a sentinel, to pick up a trace as old as this one had to be, he practically levitated to his feet, grabbing his day pack by habit, staff out of necessity, and followed it.

His journey was like the one in his dream, except in living color, complete with sharp-edged leaves, treacherous footing, and biting insects. Not allowing any of that to slow him down, he forged on, coming at last to the clearing he remembered, the temple tumbled in ruins at its edge. There he stopped, gasping for breath and battling a superstitious dread that insisted on creeping up his spine. This place was forbidden to him, though he couldn't say why or how he knew that. Only that he was not welcome.

Straightening, deliberately dropping his staff, he crossed the clearing, walking as tall as he could. At the entrance he looked at the carvings and heiroglphys for a second, drawn to them as if he could read them, given enough time. A trickle of breeze freshened the scent, though, focusing him on the slight crack where the massive stone door met the wall. Doubtfully, he wedged a hand in and pulled, but it pivoted easily, showing an interior filled with more carvings, lit by a window or crack high up in the structure.

Cautiously he wedged his pack into the crack, hoping that it would provide enough resistance if the door did start to swing close. Even more cautiously he entered, keeping his back to the wall. There was only the one entrance and the one chamber he saw, empty except for two stone cisterns set on either side. Sandburg's scent was as strong here as it was in his office in Cascade, and Jim tuned up all of his senses, looking for some other sign of his lover.

There was nothing, not even the hint of Blair's presence, and Jim reluctantly stepped into the center of the room to survey it again from another angle. It brought him close to one of the wells, and he looked down into it, startled to find fresh water that smelled and looked pure enough to drink. He blinked, a sunbeam from overhead somewhere bouncing off of it for a second, then saw that the pool wasn't empty. A skeleton lay in the bottom, hands peacefully at its sides.

Another stab of sunlight made him turn his head sideways, hand going up to shade his eyes. The skeleton became a woman, a beautiful, beautiful woman, sitting up and reaching for him. "It's incredible," she breathed, and her voice was honey on his ears. "You can see *everything*! Understand *everything*! What it means to be like us, what we were born for! You have to see!"

The water had plastered her clothing to her body, outlining it's feminine contours, showing off curves in an erotic display that would have been devastating to almost any man. Hair wet and slicked close to her skull, her eyes shone from a face both strong and delicate, with a wide generous mouth that promised somehow all forms of oral pleasures. Without thinking, motivated by male hormones that rose to the challenge of any willing female, Jim took a half step toward her. "Like us?"

"Sentinels. All five senses. More, so much more, than any normal person. Come, let me show you!"

Artfully she arched her back as she opened her arms to him, lifting her breasts and showing off the peaked tips. Her flat stomach and tiny waist were accentuated as well, leading his eyes down to long, strong legs that would be heaven wrapped around a man while he rutted. Lured by the promise of sensuality, of fertility, Jim inched forward another step, drawing in an animal-like breath to scent her physical readiness.

The stench of decay that flooded his wide-open sense sent him reeling backwards, stumbling to stay upright on abruptly weak legs. Tears streaming from the smell, he covered his nose and mouth with his hand, and turned away, but not before he saw the flesh melt away from her bones, eaten by writhing maggots.

Suddenly he was surrounded by the spice he associated with his lover, and he inhaled that deeply to clear his mind. //Follow *only* your heart,// he reminded himself, adding acidly, //Not your dick!!//

Half sitting on the other cistern, he calmed himself, marshalling his resources to make another attempt at locating his lover. He glanced into the second pool, almost expecting to find the female sentinel making another play for him. Instead he saw Blair lying peacefully at the bottom, eyes closed as if in slumber. Tentatively he stretched a hand toward the image, dreading the second when it, too would decay away into the skeleton that he would carry home to be properly buried.

The barest brush of his fingers onto the surface sent ripples chasing themselves over it, but the mirage didn't break up into dancing lights. The figure sighed, lids fluttering up over dream-blue eyes. Without hesitation Jim plunged both hands in up to the arms, grabbed the sleeping man under the armpits and hauled him out onto the floor of the temple. What emerged from the water was a thin, thin man with *dry* tattered clothes, long matted hair and beard that bore very little resemblance to Blair Sandburg.

Only the scent, stale and polluted with the stink of starvation, and the blue eyes were the same.

They stared at each other, Jim in amazement and Dr. Sandburg with total blankness, then the smaller man passed out, head lolling back over Jim's arm. Bitterly cursing himself, Jim did a fast check of the anthropologist's vitals, finding a weak pulse and shallow respirations. Worried, he manhandled Sandburg into position and dragged him out of the temple, not caring if the door swung shut again or not.

With the help of his staff and innate tenacity, Jim positioned the wasted body over his shoulder, and started for his camp and the radio. Though the trip was only a few miles, and the weight on his back barely negligible, it took him forever as he staggered and stumbled, staying on his feet with the pain in his hip threatening to drop him and his burden every step. The thoughts that ripped at his mind while he trudged made it seem even longer, and he had no way to shut them off while he automatically dealt with the physical work of hiking.

Over and over he saw the utter lack of recognition in Blair's face when he'd been rescued. Over and over he faced that he had no way of knowing what the spirit had experienced would be remembered by the body. Or if whether or not what happened between them in the loft would last once Jim wasn't the only contact Blair had with the real world. In the end, he told himself firmly that he'd risked all that, risked more even, because his lover could still die and be freed that way, as well. Wearily did the only thing he could do and took all that he felt, shoved it behind a wall, and concentrated on the job at hand.

He shambled more than walked into his and Joel's camp, startling the big man into yelping and leaping into his feet. For the next five minutes, all Taggart did was mutter, "Oh my god, oh my God," and rush around doing what Jim ordered him to do, half falling over himself as he did. Thrusting the medical kit into Jim's hands, draping a blanket over Sandburg, getting out the emergency radio - through it all he kept darting wondering glances as the unconscious man and mumbling his mantra. Steadying when he raised their contact in the city, he asked for an airlift out, with an ambulance waiting to take an injured man to the nearest hospital.

All the while Jim woodenly did his job, tending the man as if he were a complete stranger, forcing himself to *think* of him as a stranger, face as impassive as a stranger's himself. Convinced that all that was wrong was starvation, Jim had Taggart heat some soup, and he dribbled a few traces over Sandburg's half-opened lips, relieved when it was reflexively swallowed. Patiently, Jim kept feeding him, letting him rest between sips and cutting away some of the tangled mane to make the scientist more comfortable and give himself something to do.

Blair revived as the warm fluid filled him, blindly reaching to hold the cup, lapping at its contents like a cat.

"Not too much," Jim told him. "You'll only throw it back up if you stress out your stomach by filling it."

"'S' good," the smaller man slurred, voice rusty with disuse.

"I can imagine. You've been trapped over a year." Later, he'd have to come up with an explanation that would suit the authorities, suit Sandburg himself. For now, vague would work since all the other man cared about was the food trickling into him.

"I still can't believe that Daryl was right, that Ms. *Sandburg* was right," Joel marveled, gently taking up where Jim left off in snipping off the worse of the tangles.

"Not that any of the psychics she saw were any help in finding him," Jim said acerbically.

"Hey, don't think so black and white, man," Blair scolded hoarsely, rousing himself enough to try to sit up.

"Easy," Jim warned. "Chopper will be here in an hour; you've got nothing to do but save your strength and wait, Chief." The nickname/endearment slipped out without his meaning it to, but Jim only pressed his lips into a thin line, letting both Sandburg and Taggart to make of it what they wanted.

"Chief?" Blair repeated slowly, rolling the word on his tongue as if to savor it. Dragging up his eyelids as if they weigh more than he did, he opened his eyes, taking in the camp and its inhabitants with hesitant sweeps. "Daryl sent you?" he asked Joel, giving the cabbie a thoughtful look.

"Sorta. Mostly just drove me crazy about you until I had to look just to get some peace, you know? Name's Joel Taggart." Taggart told him jovially.

Blair frowned at that, fingers twitching on the cup he and Jim held as if he wanted to brush the comment away. "Hi, Joel. Yeah, Daryl can be persistent," he agreed non-committally.

Jim *felt* those thoughtful eyes land on him, traveling from the top of his bowed head to the where their hands lightly brushed each against each other, then back up to peer into the shadows that hid Jim's face. Feeling their pull, helpless against it though he feared the lack of recognition behind it, Jim lifted his own eyes to meet Blair's steady regard, not sure he'd be able to keep his mask of impassivity in place.

Frown deepening, Blair studied him. "That's not why you came," he said positively. And quietly. Sentinel quiet.

"No," he said shortly, refusing to either hope or encourage, though he didn't think Blair would have to have exceptional senses to hear his heartbeat slamming against his chest.

A fire ignited deep it the darkness of Blair's blue gaze, one that doubled, then tripled, then burned nova bright, matched only by the smile that gradually spread over his face and the one illuminating the Sentinel's heart. He whispered a single word, telling Jim all he needed to know about what his Guide remembered.

"Jim!"

EPILOGUE

"Got you," Jim muttered as he finally got his fingertip on the elusive brake line and traced it back to the cylinder. There was a crimp in it, like he had suspected. Some damn fool had tried to make a part from the wrong year. This line was for a 72 Mustang, not a 69, like the car he was lying under. Despite concentrating on what his fingers told him, he heard the growl of a big rig making its way up the narrow drive to his shop even before it make that first gear-grinding chug up the steep slope that began the turn onto his property.

He gave the sound only half of his mind; smoothing the twisted rubber under his fingers to remove it before it could slip away took most of it. Half was enough, though, for him to admire whoever the driver of the truck was. Had to be a real pro to make it up here without stalling or having to back out for another try. Faster than he'd thought likely, the dull roar of a heavy diesel engine crashed into the courtyard, bouncing echoes in the closed off space. It died quickly, leaving a strained silence, then was replaced by the metallic thump of a door opening and someone climbing from the cab.

From the corner of his eye Jim saw a scuffed pair of boots appear next to where his left shoulder and arm stuck out into the hot, bright sunlight. "Hey, man," a rich baritone called out, "I'm looking for Jim Ellison. He around here?"

Even before the familiar voice rang through him, shocking his ears into locking onto the other man, the much-loved scent sent wistful tendrils down to his level. Resetting the hooks that had torn free the last time he'd seen the loft, it soothed those wounds instead of inflaming them, allowing the first deep, easy breath he'd known since. Automatically denying that, denying the crash of his heart into his throat, Jim rumbled out, "Down here, Sandburg." A split second later, the brake line slid free of the coupling his fingers had been working on. "Yeah!" he crowed instinctively.

From above came a luxurious laugh that infiltrated him as completely as the scent had, and it half-pulled him out from under the car to find the grin that he knew came with it. Blinking furiously at the change in light, all he could see at first was a male shape against the brilliance of the sunshine. It was a very fine shape, he decided almost absently. Still a bit too thin, but a vast improvement of the near skeleton he'd carried out of the jungle nearly four months ago. For the first time he saw the powerful thighs, the well-defined arms and shoulders, the sturdy chest that his hands knew so intimately.

Grateful his lower body was hidden by the Mustang's chasis, Jim rode down hard on his physical reaction, and made himself meet the merry blue eyes with only a hint of the welcome he felt. "What's so funny?"

There was more than a little welcome in Blair's expression, but there was a wariness, too, that Jim wasn't sure he wanted to overcome. "You sounded exactly like a high school football star scoring with the homecoming queen!"

Despite himself, he laughed back. "Getting a piece of machinery to do exactly what you want it to is almost that satisfying," he informed his ex-roommate archly.

"Speaking from experience?" Blair shot back, grinning widely.

"Gentlemen don't kiss and tell," Jim said blandly, with only a hint of an answering smile dodging around the edges of his lips.

"That's because all a gentleman *gets* is a kiss!" Blair bent over to challenge Jim's assertion, and the movement brought him too close for the big man's appetite, close enough to take one of those kisses they were talking about.

Rolling the rest of the way out from under the Mustang, forcing Blair to back away, Jim unfolded from the dolly carefully, using the frame of the car to steady himself. Leaning on the hood, he took a rag from his back pocket to clean some of the grease from his hands, keeping his eyes on that rather than meet temptation eye to eye.

"How would you know?" he challenged quietly, keeping up the game to give himself time to get his mental balance too. "Rumor has it that Dr. Sandburg is a great many things, but I've never heard the word 'gentleman' associated with him."

Suddenly sober, Blair answered, "I don't think you can lay claim to that distinction either. Gentlemen don't run out on their lovers without explanation."

"I didn't run out," Jim argued mildly. "Your mother threw me out. You never mentioned she was allergic to the military, pig type, I believe she described me."

Blair had the grace to look ashamed. "I'm really sorry about that, Jim. As far as Naomi was concerned, you were the hired muscle Daryl talked into helping."

The heat of the sun, doubly reflected by the high gloss of the Mustang, sent a drop of sweat rolling down Jim's cheek, and he lifted a shoulder to wipe it on the grease stained white of his t-shirt. Insisting to himself it *was* the weather, and not the lust beginning to flicker his middle, he blandly assured the other man, "It's okay. It's not like you could speak for yourself when you first got to the hopital. After all, you'd been returned from the dead; you can't blame a mother for being..."

"Possessive? Protective? Bigoted? " Blair broke in, staring at Jim's face.

Wondering how much grease he had there, Jim fought off the temptation to wipe at his skin again and finished, "Motherly."

"And after, when I woke up?"

That memory killed some of his growing need. "You were six deep in the press; the current 7 day wonder. Did you read any of those headlines? Anthropologist Survives Jungle Ordeal. Rainier University Professor Beats The Odds. Miracle in Mexico. I saw how Joel and Daryl got dragged into that feeding frenzy. I wasn't going to go there, Chief. *Been* there and don't need a return trip."

"Don't be so hard on the media. Because of me and their publicity, a five year old named Mark Scott is alive and well. It led his parents to you, and you found him in those canyons and arryos before the mudslides could kill him." Blair said. At Jim's reluctant grimace of agreement, he went on, stepping closer and adding to the heat enveloping Jim. "And the loft?"

"I bought the shop," he tried to say negligently, nodding to the building encompassing them on three sides. "Has a small room with a frig and hot plate; easier for me to stay here than commute. Besides, you were going to need a place while you finished recouperating. Least I could do was provide you with it, since it's your own home."

"You gonna sell it back to me?" Blair was nearly chest to chest with him, standing between his spread legs, not giving Jim any options on backing off or leaving.

Unable to stop his jaw from tightening, Jim nevertheless managed a casual, "Sure, if that's what you want, Chief." Needing to change the conversation, change the other man's focus, he nodded at the truck blocking the alley to the shop. "Should be able to afford it if you're hauling with that rig. Sweet, powerful ride. Decide to take a break from being a professor?" More sweat was gathering at his hairline and in the middle of his back, the trickle making his skin creep and goosebump regardless of the warmth causing it.

Not bothering to look at his vehicle, apparently totally fixated on where a single bead of moisture was beginning it's journey down the side of Jim's face, Blair said absently, "It's my uncle's. I'm working with him to have something to do until my position at Rainier is free again at the end of the semester. Good thing the guy they hired to replace me was such a disaster, or I might have had to wait longer to find another job."

"Like the foot loose lifestyle, huh?" Jim tried to joke, resisting the urge to smudge his cheek dry and remove the source of Blair's fascination.

"Not any more, Jim. Not any more." With no more warning than that, Blair stretched up, putting both hands on the taller man's shoulders to brace himself, and licked away the drop of sweat he'd been fixated on. They moaned together, Jim frozen in place despite the inferno crackling through him inside and out.

"Blair," he tried, voice too rough to be understood even by himself.

"I like driving," Blair murmured, sipping another trace of liquid away. "Gives me plenty of time to think. Want to know what I thought about, Jim? What I've *been* thinking about for the past four, long, hard, lonely months?"

Without his command Jim's head dropped back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat to the indescribable velvet of that talented tongue. "What?"

"Your mouth. On me. Tasting me, all of me."

"ohsweetgod," Jim whispered, then he wrapped himself around the smaller man as if he intended to feed on Blair through his skin. Unerringly he went straight for the mouth that was tormenting him, fastening onto it and ravishing it with mindless urgency. The incredible taste of Blair burned away what tiny amount of restraint he had, and he feasted, plunging into the depths of the scalding cavern over and over.

Blair responded to each oral thrust with chest deep groans, tangling his own limber tool around Jim's in frenzied hunger. Taking advantage of his partner's open-legged stance, he fit himself snuggly into the apex of that v, aligning their erections, then writhed to bring them together in hot, tantalizing strokes. Already Jim could feel the dampness from the heads soaking into him, the fluid not quenching his fire at all, but stoking it to insane levels.

Cradling the back of Blair's head with one hand to hold him in place for their devouring kiss, Jim cupped the hard rear working against his body with the other, adding his own rhythm to their humping. Rumbling approving noises, he kneaded and squeezed the firm muscles of that tempting backside, wanting nothing so much as to claw away the fabric and touch bare flesh.

The sound of his t-shirt ripping as Blair tugged at it, trying to get it out of his way, jolted through Jim, knocking into his over-loaded brain the simple fact that his lover was *here*. Real, flesh and blood, and *touchable*. With a snarl of pure triumph, he went to work on the barriers between him and naked skin, never releasing the sweet mouth he was claiming. Heedless of tears or flying buttons, he soon had a bare chest smashed against his own, the springy hairs on it driving him further toward the fiery abyss with their tiny lashes of sensation.

Their pants were opened, cocks suddenly free and rubbing sinuously over and onto each other, sending Jim's sense of touch into overdrive even as Blair began to whimper continuosly around the tongue fucking his mouth. Recapturing the fall of curls, pulling Blair's head back to move from the swollen, tender lips to the hard line of the jaw and up to the delicate ear, Jim licked and bit, savoring each small change in flavor from spot to spot on the heated flesh. He slid his palm down the sweat and fur slick side, swept back up, then down again, delving into the gaping waist of the jeans sagging off Blair's slim hips. One quick squeeze, and he journeyed back up again, hardly paying attention to the frantic rocking of their bodies, so caught up was he in the riot of pleasures his senses were giving him.

His next trip down the slender back brought him to the top of Blair's cleft, and his lover *shoved* into him, fingers bruising his upper arms as he hung on. "Jim...man... you havta... now? Oh, God!"

Not quite pleading, the words were goad enough to Jim's lust that he quit teasing both of them, and he slipped a single finger down to the hidden portal of Blair's body. It was slippery, well covered with lube, muscle already loose and yielding to the careful probe.

The sound that boiled out of Jim at discovering that would have frightened him if any part of his rational mind had been left to hear it. As it was, the primal man that whirled in place, somehow turning his mate in his arms so that Blair was face down, bending over the hood of the Mustang, knew only that what was his was *his*, now, this second. With his lover's help, jeans were shoved down, then Jim was arching over him, his cock finding it's way to the musky pucker and breaching it with a lunge that would have been excruiating if Blair hadn't been so ready.

The smaller man reared back as best he could, howling as he was filled, sheathing Jim's rod with a living glove that was hotter than the metal scorching Jim's hands as he propped himself on either side of his mate's body. Incapable of words, incapable of sound, he withdrew only because instinct demanded it; he would have preferred to remain buried to the root in the eager ass. Around his shaft he could feel the minute spasms and quivers that told him Blair's climax was imminent, was blasting through the nerves and tissues holding him.

The knowledge made him withdraw until only the tip was lodged just within the guardian ring, then he slammed back in full length, making both of them shake with the force of it. As he pulled out again, Blair arched under him, screaming his name over and over, and he rammed home as the first shock of the smaller man's finish tightened the clinging channel.

That subtle caress was the last bit needed for his over-heated senses; he pinned the trembling body to the hood of the mustang, his seed geysering deep into Blair. It went on forever, but not nearly long enough, and when his mind cleared, Jim only pushed harder into his lover, not willing to be separated from him.

It seemed Blair shared that wish. Though he had one arm curled under his head for a pillow, the other was stretched back to allow him to latch a hand onto Jim's thigh, holding the bigger man in place. Cheek down on the red lacquer of the car, curls scattered every which way, lanquid smile in place, he looked ready to be screwed sensless, not just fucked. In confirmation, he panted happily, "Soon as I catch my breath, you can do me again, lover."

His smile widened, turning lascivious as Jim's still mostly hard dick jumped inside him in agreement, and all Jim could do was bite gently at one bare shoulder blade. "Sounds like a plan, Chief," he agreed, breath huffing in and out with the words. Experimentally he pumped, but he hadn't warned his lover of his intent, and the limp body skidded over the hood, sliding on the semen liberally splashed there.

"Whoa," Blair yelped, trying to get back to where he'd been. "I like things hot, but that...."

Becoming aware of the baking heat emmanating from the car, Jim hesitantly straightened, bringing his companion with him until they were both precariously perched at the edge of the car. "We should take this someplace else," he muttered, nibbling at the back of Blair's neck distractedly.

"Yeah, before the neighbors call the police," Blair agreed reluctantly, but he made no move to even stablize their position.

"No neighbors, and that rig is blocking my driveway. But the last thing I want is for this," and he lovingly cupped Blair's damp cock and balls, "to get a sunburn. I have plans for it."

A shudder that richoceted around inside Blair completely contradicted the steamy sunshine and he looked toward the garage door marked 'office.' "You said something about a back room?"

"Only a cot in there," Jim warned, knees buckling carefully to lower them to the ground, his lover's legs to either side of his lap as he knelt with him. "Your cab looks like it has a sleeper in it."

"No mattress; uncle's wife took it out so he wouldn't get any ideas!" Blair muttered, shifting and squirming down onto the rod piercing him, sobbing once as it tunneled in deeply.

"Going to ride me like this, then, babe?" He lifted his hips encouragingly, but had to stop mid movement as his hip warned him it wasn't up to it.

Though he thought he hadn't made a sound, Blair either understood the hesitation, or changed his mind about what he wanted at this minute. Covering the hands resting on his stomach, keeping him in Jim's lap, he tilted his head back until he could see the bigger man. "Not a good idea, I think," he said seriously. "The last thing I want to do is to put my new partner in the hospital."

In spite of the intimacy of their connection, Jim's heart stuttered, and he could feel the shutters inside him coming down, hiding him from Blair. Silence stole around them, not interrupted even by the distance calls of birds and insects. "Partners?" he asked neutrally. "After four months of dead silence, not even a call to let me know you were back in town, and you simply assume I'm going to be your partner in some business venture?"

Not the least perturbed, Blair flexed internally, caressing Jim's erection and encouraging it to stay hard, though it was flagging rapidly. Absorbed by that, the other man said, "Not business. Unless of course you're planning on hiring yourself out as my body guard on any future expeditions." He lit up, seemingly unaware of the slow raising of Jim's barriers and bouncing microscopically on the tool inside him. "Hey! Maybe that'll get the dean off my case! Official Professional Tracker and Native Guide for all Rainier University expeditions; I could, like *double* the number I go on.

"Except of course, *I'm* the guide, but there's no need for anybody besides us to know that. Unless you want to go public about being a sentinel, though I wouldn't have thought you'd want to. You always struck me as being way too private for it. But you have to work with a guide for these 'personal favors' you keep doing on the side for Joel or whoever before you get yourself killed!"

Sighing, thoroughly confused, growing more relieved at each word, and still aroused despite the babble, Jim used the leverage of his arms around the trim waist to jam his lover down firmly, startling a yelp of pleasure from him. "First - I had to know if you wanted me, or just wanted company while you were haunting the loft. I figured if it was the first, sooner or later you'd come looking. And before you asked, if you'd taken much longer I would have come looking for you. I still will if you want to do the traditional dating thing or whatever.

"Second, I *told* Joel not to tell you about helping Mr. Donnelly rescue his children from that religious cult. It's too dangerous for you to go in with me, Chief. My senses aren't very reliable, and I don't count on them, so a guide isn't needed. And coming looking for me because of them isn't what I had in mind when I waited for you."

The denial in his companion was so strong, that for second Jim thought Blair was going to simply twist around on the cock impaling him so that he could glare at him face to face. To prevent him from trying it, Jim added hastily, "But I was counting on you to help me with the foundation. You have a way with people that I could really use when trying to get out of them exactly what it is they want to do. Believe it or not, aside from the con artists that crawl out of the woodwork constantly, most people have trouble asking for money, even when the understanding is that they'll pay it back."

Relaxing again, Blair insisted, "Your senses aren't reliable because you haven't had me to help you! And they damn well aren't the reason I came looking for you. Not directly, anyway. When I found out you were working solo I got over being mad at you for not being there and got pissed about you taking risks!"

When Jim started to argue, Blair went back to massaging with his inside muscles, making tiny noises of pleasure that were getting to the bigger man as much as the wonderful milking on his cock. It also effectively stopped the debate since both of them suddenly had better things to do with their mouths. Breaking off the kiss, panting softly, Blair said, "The question now is, what are we going to do about this pole shoved up me and how soon are we going to do it?"

Groaning, Jim wrapped a hand around the hard-on that had been tapping at his wrists, leaving wet dabs behind. "You keep up what you're doing, babe," he growled, "and that's going to be a rhetorical question.

Blair only shivered in delight at the firm strokes on his cock, clenching hard on the invader within him in response. To his amazement Jim realized he hadn't been teasing; he really was going to come, and come hard only from the satin grip working his tool. "Uh! Blair," he tried to warn his lover.

"More, little more," the smaller man moaned, thrusting into Jim's hand as much as he could. "Oh! Yeah! Like that!" he begged as the grip on him tightened and quickened, managing to rise and fall a few inches on the dick filling him.

Minor as the rocking was, it was enough, and Jim met it with growing force, forgetting everything except the slick glide in and out of the tight hole. Even before his seed began to burn out of him, he was shouting at the pleasure of taking Blair, moving in him, finally having him. His last shout was of triumph; fountains of scalding creme jetted over his hand as his lover shuddered silently through his climax, setting Jim off as well.

Losing his balance, forced to throw out a hand to the side of the car to keep them both from falling, he didn't have time to enjoy the lanquor draining his strength. "Damn" he muttered, trying to keep his mind together with the last jolts of ecstacy rocking him. "Sorry, babe."

"Much as ..." Blair panted, "..love this... need to take it .... better place." Prying open his eyes, staring at Jim from over his shoulder, he whispered, "Come home, Jim?"

Hanging onto his lover tightly, burying his face in the waiting curve of Blair's shoulder, Jim answered honestly, "I thought you'd never ask."

finis