Lifeline

Given the eerily quiet way Blair had behaved all day at the station, even as he soaked up the congratulations from the other members of the department on officially becoming part of the team, Jim expected to find the loft lit up with a million candles, his partner meditating silently amidst them. He wasn't. He was sitting at the table, the badge laying in front of him on it, staring at it as if it were going to explode.

On some level, even when he had first suggested the idea to Simon, Jim had known that the shield was going to be a problem for Blair. Holding in a sigh, he said what he had been thinking all along. "It's just a lifeline, Sandburg. Not an obligation that you *have* to take up, not a cheap consolation prize you're stuck with." He sat in the chair next to his roommate and friend, and picked up the badge himself, turning it so that the light glinted off the gold. "We - all of us, Joel, H, Rafe, Rhonda, even the donut girl - wanted you to know that you have a place, if you want it."

"Why?" Blair asked dully, not raising his eyes from where the badge had been. "I'm a fraud, a liar so far as they know. You shouldn't have bullied them into this, Jim. You shouldn't have."

"I didn't bully anybody." He tossed the wallet down, the leather hiding the metal within. "My idea, yes, but it was the rest of the department that came up with the facts and figures that supported their demands to keep you working with them. They were all behind you from the first; they only needed a goal."

Barely moving, Blair looked at him at that. "You didn't?"

Not bothering to stifle the sigh this time, Jim confirmed flatly, "I didn't." Hesitating, but not willing to wait for a better time, he reached into the breast pocket of the coat he hadn't bothered taking off yet. "I did do this; another lifeline while you decide what to do next." He laid the deed to the loft in front of Blair, then stood to go into the kitchen to avoid facing his reaction directly.

A soft murmur of astonishment as Blair read told him that he'd seen where his name had been added. "Why?" The question hit his back solidly; he absorbed it without visible sign, then turned from the refrigerator, beer in hand.

Carefully not making eye contact, he said as calmly as he could, holding down the many emotions that wanted to color his voice, "So you will always have a home, a place to be, no strings attached, any time you need it. As long as you need it."

"Why?" This time the word was cracked, and Jim could hear Blair dragging his fingers through his curls.

Pausing long enough to drop off the beer for Blair, Jim went to hang up his coat and take off his gun, using the actions to mask his face as he lied by telling the truth. "Because you threw me one a few years back. I can't even imagine what would have happened to me if you hadn't charged into that hospital room. Because I owe you for a thousand different things. Because you're my *friend* tough, no, *impossible* as I make that for you sometimes." Because if you leave, I don't know how I'll bear the weight of the loss. He shivered, skin going numb and cold at the thought.

"Putting my name on the deed is one hell of an act of friendship, Jim." Blessedly there was dawning acceptance and a shy pleasure in the tone and no suspicion. "And you don't owe me anything. Not after the way I nearly trashed your life."

"*You,*" and Jim verbally came down hard on the word to get his point across, "didn't. Much as I blamed you for it at the time." Needing something to do, not willing to let Blair get a chance to read his expression, he went back into the kitchen and started pulling out ingredients for dinner. It was his turn to cook, after all. "And before you start, this isn't some sort of delayed guilt trip for ruining your life. And," he risked a sharp look for emphasis, "I don't want you becoming a cop out of some sort of guilt, either."

"Is that what you told Naomi?" Blair asked. "That the badge was only an opportunity, a show of solidarity?"

Shrugging, Jim took out the chicken breasts he had put in to marinate the night before, and began cubing them for broiling, shish kabob style. "She's sure you won't accept, of course, because you won't want to blacken your karma with that whole authority trip."

"Wondered how you'd gotten her to go along with it," Blair muttered, automatically going to the other side of the kitchen and taking out the ingredients for couscous.

"It didn't hurt that she was beginning to have some idea of the consequences of her, ah, indiscretion."

"Polite way of saying cosmically huge mistake." Blair took a sip of his beer, then gathered what was needed to set the table.

"She's your mother," Jim replied calmly, truly meaning it. If anybody could understand making big mistakes out of love, it was him. At least Naomi had never killed Blair because of it.

They worked companionably, routinely, and it was a comfort to Jim that he warned himself against taking for granted, ever, ever again. For the first time in longer than he cared to think about, things felt normal between them, and the meal was eaten around blocks of conversation that ranged from how the Jags had done last season to the differences and similarities between modern "Slam" poetry and "Beat" poetry from the fifties.

He should have known it wasn't going to last, that Blair wouldn't leave it alone.

They were washing up, actually putting up the last of the dishes when Blair said nonchalantly, though a sharp tang of fear-scent betrayed it wasn't as casual as he wanted Jim to think, "You know, making me part-owner of the loft - that's way, way beyond friendship. More like an act of love, you know."

Grateful Blair wasn't the one with enhanced senses so he wouldn't know how terrifying this conversation was becoming, Jim answered, "It isn't a secret that I love you, Chief. Next to Simon, I can't think of a closer, better friend in my entire life, and you've been a partner that any cop could envy."

There was a wash of heat from Blair that had nothing to do with the hot water from the sink of dishes, and he said with the same shy pleasure from before, "Thank you." Recovering quickly, he grinned, "Keep this up and you're going to totally blow your image as stoic, man."

"Stoic? Me?" Jim snorted, but admitted to himself it was how some saw him. "Raging bull, maybe. Barely-in-control rogue cop, definitely. Half the uniforms and most of the detectives are waiting for me to go ballistic and get booted out."

"Keeps them from giving you trouble," Blair said philosophically, grin still in place. "I promise never to let them know what big softie you are."

"Softie?" Jim shot back with mock indignation. "Softie? Yeah, sure, I chase butterflies and do needlepoint in my spare time!"

"And help little old ladies across the street and rescue lost kittens," Blair added mischievously. He flicked off the dish water from his hands, drying them as he went over to where Jim stood. "Softie." He poked Jim in the stomach, which by natured denied the accusation. "Well, maybe not there."

He tried again, playfully going for Jim's neck, probably hoping for a ticklish spot. "Well, not there, either apparently."

Grinning himself, Jim said smugly, "Dials, Chief. Dials. Can't be ticklish if you control how much you feel."

"Never thought there'd be a downside to teaching you that!" Eyes full of devilment, which, if Jim hadn't been so happy to see his partner at his glowing best, he would have run from in a heart beat, Blair considered him, grin growing positively wicked. "Well, that leaves only...." He dragged out the last word, making Jim worry as to exactly what he was up to, then lunged upward, cackling triumphantly, "...this!"

The touch of his lips - a prank on his part - immobilized Jim even as it tore him in a dozen different directions as to how to respond. A friend would make the kiss a sloppy smooch, keeping it the joke Blair intended. A seriously straight man would be justified in drawing back in disgust or indignation. A homophobe, and at the moment even that seemed a viable alternative, would punch and/or run.

Jim stood there paralyzed, only wanting to open his mouth and kiss Blair senseless.

At his lack of response, Blair drew back, face already filled with concern, and before Jim could brush or laugh it off, understanding replaced the worry. "You're in love with me," Blair accused softly. "You don't love me, you're *in* love."

"So?" Seeing no point in trying to deny it when it had to be obvious now, Jim hung the cloth he'd been using to dry the dishes and reached for the last container to put in the refrigerator.

"So? *So!* That's all you have to say?" Thankfully Blair didn't seem angry; just annoyed and displeased.

"What else is there?" Jim said reasonably, head in the fridge, uselessly adjusting the contents of the shelves.

That seemed to derail Blair for a moment, but he came back, sounding more stern this time. "You weren't even planning on telling me."

"What was there to tell? You knew I loved you; how does it change things if I'm in love with you?" he asked, hoping that his very bland tone would end the conversation.

That did confuse Blair, and for a moment Jim thought he would be able to escape without any more than the embarrassment of being found out. Pretending the discussion was done, he grabbed the remains of his beer and headed for the living room, intending to see if he could find something brain numbing on the tube.

Two steps later his partner was in front of him, serious frustration showing. "When you're in love with someone, you want to make love with them."

Despite it all, Jim snorted in amusement. Trust his partner to come up with that first. "I didn't say I was gay, or even bisexual, Sandburg. I'll stick with people with breasts for sex, if you don't mind."

"Uh." Twice in one night; that had to be a record for Blair.

Jim actually had time to sit, get the television on, and pick the umpteenth repeat of last summer's big hit on a movie channel before his partner got his verbal capacity back online. "You're not? Gay, I mean."

"No, I'm not," Jim said patiently. "I'm not in denial, I'm not repressed, and I'm not attracted to men." Ruefully he glanced sideways at his partner as Blair sat on the other end of the couch. "Not even to you."

Obviously exasperated, Blair sat with his elbows on his knees, head in hands. "Then what does it mean for you? That you're in love with me?"

Pretending to watch TV, constantly sneaking sidelong glances, Jim answered honestly, surprised it came out so easily, "It means it hurts me when you hurt, that I want you to be happy and content and I'm willing to do pretty much anything you want me to because of it." He carefully, deliberately left out the 'wanting to touch until I knew exactly how many cells made up your's skin' part.

"And yes," he finished, reading the question somehow from the way Blair was sneaking his own peeks, "it means I want you to stay with me, so I can be with you as much as possible. Which is *not* why the badge and the deed. I mean that, Sandburg. If you find the perfect expedition, the perfect job on the other side of the planet tomorrow, I'd help you pack."

There was a dead silence, then he added, unable to keep the self-disgust out of his words, "Though I'd probably have to ask you if I could come along."

"Oh, my God," Blair whispered in pain and fear and denial, head hanging even further.

Jim just kept watching things blow up on the screen, amazed he could hide so effortlessly how much those soft words ripped at him.

A second later Blair shot to his feet, anger replacing any other feeling he might have had. Prepared for that, expecting it since he'd realized the truth himself, Jim didn't so much as blink when Blair shouted, "How long, dammit! How long!"

"What difference does that make?" For something to do, Jim took a swig from his drink. "If you start looking at everything that's happened since we met, you'd be able to twist all of it, if you wanted. Why give you a starting point? Without knowing, is there anything you can point to and say, 'you did that because you're in love with me,' as opposed to, you did that because you're a jerk, an insensitive idiot, a desperate fool, whatever?"

"No," Blair half-shouted, "but it still makes a difference to me!"

"Tough." It was the one thing he refused to share. Telling himself it was neither pride nor self-defense but honestly wanting Blair to have to accept everything he'd ever done with him at face value, he clamped his mouth shut and went back to trying to make sense of the ridiculous things happening on the small screen in front of him.

Surprisingly Blair didn't try to pry it out of him, whether because he couldn't see where it would make a difference, either, or because he was in shock in a big way, Jim didn't know. They sat there a long time, not noticing or caring when one movie ended and another equally stupid one began, until habit made Jim stir to get ready for bed.

Silently, as he done everything since his last outburst, his partner did the same. As Jim plodded upstairs to sleep, feeling million pounds of weight pressing on him everywhere, he wondered if this would be the last night that happened.

***

Blair didn't move out. He didn't avoid the loft or give up coming into the station to help out, though he quietly let people know that the badge wasn't going to work for him. Just as quietly he set about making a place for himself in Major Crimes, an official one that would let him ride with Jim and earn a paycheck. The number of people who happily and eagerly volunteered to help make his status as 'special consultant' official and legal made him practically bounce with enthusiasm and energy, much the way he had when he first came to the station.

On the surface, things were perfectly normal, and they worked together they way they always had. Nor did anything change as far as their private lives, though it seemed to Jim that his roomie was making special efforts not to rub his love life in his face. Jim kept up the pretense of dating himself, occasionally staying to pleasure the lady he was with if she was so inclined. He didn't get much out of it, and honestly wondered if he'd ever feel anything again.

The only real difference was that Blair became an author, probably at the instigation of his mother, though not even Blair felt it necessary to question that. The publisher who had come so close to wrecking their lives had approached almost diffidently, probably with the words 'law suit' and 'legal culpability' ringing in his head from the company lawyer, and suggested Blair give it a try. After all, sensational topic or not, it wouldn't have mattered a whit if the dissertation hadn't been extremely well written.

After thinking about it - and taking a certain amount of malicious glee in it, Jim was sure - Blair took Sid up on the offer. He began work immediately on a novel, based on an Indonesian tribe he had studied, fashioned after Jean Auel's Children of the Earth books. From what little he'd read, Jim thought it was a fascinating peek into a part of the world most people didn't even know existed.

But underneath it all, Jim could sense the threads of the lifeline Blair had once thrown him slowly, slowly unraveling, snapping free inside of himself with tiny pricks of despair and grief that added up to a sorrow that weighed more and more heavily each day. It was small things, like Blair keeping a slightly larger personal space and not touching when once upon a time, he would have without thinking. Where once his friend had exploded into his life, taking it and the space around both of them over, now Blair started confining himself, withdrawing first physical objects, then himself. Books and shirts weren't left out; he sat on the other side of the room to watch television with Jim.

All Jim could do was watch it happen, clueless as to how to stop it and not sure he should. Jim had always known that he was in way over his head and that the tether that Blair had provided would give way sooner or later. He'd accepted that he'd eventually be crushed by the depths of his own mind, his own feelings; he'd just hoped that he would have longer than he was apparently going to get.

Four months after Blair was offered a badge and love, the line holding them together finally gave way completely, with only a soft whimper to mark the loss.

***

The phone rang as Jim was picking up his dress jacket, mentally running down the things he needed to do before picking up his date. "If you don't hurry, Sandburg," he called out, trotting down the steps, "We're going to be late."

Darting out of his room, jacket caught between his teeth, Blair mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Fuck you, Ellison," then said more clearly, "Coming, already! Whose idea was this charity ball thing, anyway?"

"The mayor's, which is why we're going, willing or not," Jim shot back, reaching for his phone. "Ellison."

Detective James Ellison? the tinny voice asked perfunctorily.

"Yes, look, if you're selling something," he started, absently patting down his pockets to make sure he'd put his wallet in one of them.

I'm Dr. Helena Phelps, Cascade General. She waited for Jim to switch gears from ready to hang up to ready to listen.

"Yeah?"

Are you related to William Ellison? The gentle question was all he needed. He'd been on the giving end of it too many times not to know the rest of the speech before the doctor could go on.

Stunned, he sank down onto a table chair and answered hoarsely, "My father." He felt Blair come up behind him, a hand going to his shoulder in support.

Apparently knowing she didn't need to tell a police officer anything else, Dr. Phelps said, I'm sorry, Detective Ellison. We did everything we could for him, but he suffered a massive coronary. There was simply too much damage.

Closing his eyes, not in shock but because the world suddenly looked too bright and wobbly, he said carefully, "I see. Was anybody with him when he died?" There was a gasp from behind him, but he ignored it, focusing on finishing the conversation with the doctor.

No, it happened a short time ago at the country club he apparently belonged to. There was no one at his home number, and we haven't been able to reach the Steven Ellison listed as his other next of kin. Jim could barely make out the words, and with an enormous effort he brought his senses back under control, for once letting himself lean into the warmth so near.

"No, he's overseas on business. I'll contact him right away. Do I need to come down there and uh..." For a second he thought he might actually cry, but he said thickly instead, "Sign something or anything like that?"

He listened dully to the instructions, saying the right things in the right spots until Dr. Phelps hung up and he was blankly staring at the cell in his hand.

"Jim?" The worried question penetrated his fugue, and he clumsily patted at the hand on him before dialing Steven's number and starting what seemed like the endless phone calls that were needed.

Five days later, he stood by the graveside, waiting patiently in the rain for the mourners to trickle away to the dinner prepared for them at his dad's house. As he had since the first call, Blair stood behind him and slightly to the left, not saying much but doing anything he could to make the process easier.

There was no easy way to bury a parent, he thought. Oh, the rituals and ceremonies were down pat, carefully guided by the funeral director for an exorbitant fee. Without Steven there to help or voice an opinion, since he hadn't returned any calls or answered any messages, Jim had done the best he could, going traditional and lavish because he thought his father would have preferred that. It struck him as a ridiculous waste of time and money, but, hey, it was the old man's money after all. He just wished he felt something besides tired and crushed.

He acknowledged his captain's presence with a bare turn of his head, and softly spoken, "Simon."

"Jim." Thankfully that's all Banks had to say, and Jim relaxed a fraction, grateful for the break from meaningless and insincere condolences. The vast majority of people attending the wake and funeral had been business acquaintances; he didn't even know why they had bothered to come.

When everyone was gone but the three of them, Jim dropped a single handful of dry dirt from under the tarp into the grave. Then he gathered himself together, trying to find what he needed to get through the last morbid ritual of the gathering at the Ellison house. He turned to walk away, flanked on either side by his friends, when Steven ran up the small hill, nearly slipping on the wet grass of the slope.

"You son of a bitch!" Stephen shouted before he was halfway up. "You motherfucking son of a bitch!"

Startled, Jim ran to help him, but was punched on the chin for his trouble. He stumbled back, too surprised to do more. Steven swung again, almost falling as he overextended himself to reach his brother. It didn't come close, and by the time he'd righted himself, Simon and Blair were between them, the big Captain easily catching and restraining Steven's flailing fists.

"Easy, man, easy," Blair protested angrily, "Jim tried his best to get in touch with you, right up to talking to your company's president personally! What more can you expect! He couldn't hold the funeral off forever!"

"Screw that! He should have just dumped the body into a trash bag and thrown it away with the other garbage." The poison in Steven's voice was as shocking as his words. "How'd you do it, Jimmy, huh? Go sucking up to the old man when you realized that pension of yours wouldn't keep you in the dog food you deserve to eat? Or maybe point out that you were the first born after all, play up to his pride?" He shook off Banks, then added nastily, "Or did you play up the freak angle, Jimmy? Poor, poor abnormal Jimmy who's going to need the security of big bucks to keep the world out?"

Understanding all too well what Steven was insinuating, too numb from accumulated weight to particularly care, Jim stared into space, wondering what he should say or do.

Blair leaped into the chasm, getting in the younger Ellison's face with bulldog intensity. "Cut the crap, Steven. You know as well as I do that William had his own reasons for everything and no one ever told him what to do! Family trait, man, family trait. You might try asking the lawyer that you obviously stopped to talk to before you even had the decency to attend the funeral if he had any idea what your father was up to. Jim sure as hell didn't!"

"Like I'm going to believe his faggot lover," Steven snarled.

The recoil from Blair, from Simon was too much for Jim, too much for him to bear. Wordlessly he spun on his heel and walked away, shutting out everything around him except the feel of the ground under the soles of his shoes and the few tiny strands of a bond he had once hoped would last forever.

***

Those threads were enough to keep him from the inevitable descent into the deep for the week or so it took to speak with the lawyer and make arrangements to redistribute the inheritance fairly. The business of settling the estate was so complex that he didn't have any choice but to take bereavement leave from the department.

Out of similar necessity, he stayed at his father's house, going through his things and emptying it out for sale. Sally helped with a lot of that, but William had left a nice insurance policy in her name. She soon took off to live with her sister, crying silently all the way to the airport.

Jim envied her the tears even as he dried them and comforted her, not questioning that she had her share of bitterness, too. He was fairly sure she and his father had been lovers off and on over the years. For the first time he understood why she'd put up with it; he didn't even have that much from Blair.

On impulse he stopped at home on the way back from the airport, wanting only to remind himself that he did have a home and someone besides business associates and casual acquaintances that cared for him. A few feet from the door to his loft, he stopped, clearly hearing Blair argue lightly with someone 'about not screwing around and getting to work on these files before Banks skins us both.' A woman's voice answered with a husky, sensual purr that elicited delighted laughter and the sound of a soft kiss.

Jim couldn't help himself; he whimpered, nearly silently, and turned to go back the way he came. He never remembered the trip back to his father's house or the climb up to the bed that used to be his. Strangely, the warmth of the familiar bedding, the sense of a familiar room surrounding him, was the last thing he knew before becoming lost in the deep, dark nothingness inside him.

Once in a while a bubble of reality, meaningless and unconnected to anything, would flash by, leaving sensory information in its wake. In that way a room gradually became real to him, if only in his mind. It was a sun-filled, airy space with big windows that overlooked manicured lawns and hedges. Sparsely furnished and decorated only with thriving plants here and there, Jim sat in a rocking chair in one corner of it where he could see out or if anyone came into the room.

He rocked incessantly, slippered feet moving smoothly, soothed in some way by the motion and its repetition. Once in a while there was food; he ate it mechanically, not tasting or caring. Once in a while there were people in the room. Strangers, mostly, but Simon was there sometimes. Steven, too, appeared, looking haggard and worn. Once even Naomi, but the sight of her red-rimmed eyes disturbed him, and he gratefully returned to his own personal deep water, tumbling through it endlessly in a bizarre kind of freedom.

The room didn't matter to him, though; nothing really did, and he never tried to hang on to those momentary flashes. Any reason he'd ever had to care was far, far above him; too far for the meager will he had left, too far for the scrap of life left in his always-starved heart. In an odd way he welcomed that. It was something of a relief to know his fate.

Occasionally memories would drift by, as well, but he refused those, deliberately embracing his fall when that happened. There was very little good for him to remember, and far too much of what there had been was due to Blair. Better the darkness of the depths that the bittersweet pain of recalling what was forever out of reach.

An immeasurable time later a wolf's howl jammed into him, spearing him like a fish being caught, and dragged him back to the reality of the sunlit room. For long minutes he shuddered in pain, eyes streaming tears from the bright lights, ears in agony from too many sounds, gagging from too powerful scents and taste. Only his skin stayed offline, and that gave him something to work with as he scrabbled at dials nearly frozen in place from disuse. Focusing on that, he got himself to tolerable levels and looked around, vaguely hearing the wolf's agonized howl again.

Uncertainly he stood, then experienced a different kind of uncertainty as his legs wobbled and complained about being put to use after such a long vacation. It took more time, wolf howls accompanying him every step of the way, but he got his land legs back under him eventually, although he could feel muscles begin to ache as he did. Only then did he stand by the window, feeling the distant pull of awareness he had always associated with Blair.

In the periphery of his vision, he saw a black jaguar appear, and without hesitation followed it when it ran. It had to wait for him repeatedly as he slipped past nurses and orderlies, not willing to take the time to deal with them just yet. Once outside the grounds, he had to orient himself, hardening his resolve to find his partner as the faint wolf cries became whimpers of pain.

They drove the panther insane; it snarled and paced, clearly wanting Jim to move faster. He did his best to oblige, though he was more shambling along than running, paying only enough attention to his surroundings to avoid being seen or stopped. All the while the cries from both beasts lashed at him, telling him he had a deadline he had to meet.

Somehow he made it into the heart of Cascade, to the edge of a police barricade around a slum building that looked as if a good sneeze would bring it down. In the center of it he could hear Simon Banks talking on the phone, explaining that, 'no, he wasn't going to risk his man by having a SWAT team crash in, they were going to try negotiations first.'

Behind him Joel Taggart murmured, "They won't negotiate. According to the FBI release on this group, their own organization will hunt them down for failing. They've got nothing to lose, Simon."

"Yeah, but maybe we can use that, convince them we'll help them get away from them, too. Hope makes you do stupid things," Banks argued tiredly. "And Sandburg can talk his way out of just about anything if he's given the chance."

Jim didn't need that particular confirmation on who was being held; he had pinpointed the heartbeat and distinctive sounds of his Guide as soon as he'd been within range. The terrorists obviously knew about Blair's skill with words or maybe they'd gotten tired of their captive's talking. He was gagged, though protesting it strenuously with grunts and mutters whenever he thought he could get away with it.

Unfortunately, it looked like Joel was right, according to the various fragments of conversation Jim picked up from the inside the building. The only reason Blair was alive was to be bait to draw as many cops to the scene as they could get. The structure itself was wired to blow with explosives, enough to take out the block from the smell of it.

Adrenaline charged through him, waking long dormant skills, and Jim prowled around their perimeter unseen and unheard, looking for his opening. He found it; a man carelessly watching the action in front of him with his back exposed. A quick snap broke a neck and armed Jim, and he was inside the building, body hidden before the corpse had started to cool. Hopefully, the terrorist would be taken for a deserter if missed, and dismissed from mind.

Three floors and as many silent deaths later, Jim hovered outside the door of the room where Blair was being kept by the four remaining gunmen. The detonation switch was in there as well, and the armed occupants were heatedly discussing when the best time to set it off would be. At least one hold-out wanted to wait until a major news network anchor was present, insisting it was the only way to guarantee that their cause would be known by the world. Personally, Jim thought he just was trying to hang onto life as long as he could.

Grateful for it because it gave him time to plan, Jim mentally mapped the location of each person in the room, trying to determine the best way to get all the terrorists before any of them had a chance to react. Or at least to remember their hostage. Unfortunately, they were scattered through the room, pacing as they argued, making it almost impossible to target them safely, even with surprise on his side.

Luck was with him, though; that or Blair could hear the urgent rumbles from the animals flitting insubstantially around Jim's legs. His partner thumped the chair he seemed to be tied to into the floor, grumbling loudly through the gag for attention. He was ignored, but the next thump made a chair leg break, tumbling him over. Laughing rudely, three of them clustered together to make nasty comments while the fourth headed for Blair, whether to help or hurt, Jim couldn't be sure.

It placed all of them with their back to the door, and he simply opened it, firing calmly, evenly spacing his shots as he walked through. The first two died from bullets to the head before he'd cleared the threshold completely; another had time to turn to see Jim aiming for him. Unfortunately, the few seconds it took for those three gave the fourth the opportunity to raise his gun. Jim didn't hesitate and kept up his deliberate, steady momentum, sure that his aim would kill even if the last man had a chance to fire.

He didn't. Blair twisted in his bonds and jammed the broken leg of the chair holding him into the calf of the gunman, sending him to his knees before he could get a shot off. Automatically compensating for the change in position, Jim took him out, more worried about a suicide lunge for the detonator than mercy.

Two more steps brought him to Blair's side, and he knelt, one hand going to scrape off the gag while he looked the room over carefully, confirming his kills and locating the device. "Timer?" he asked the second his partner's mouth was free.

"Jim! How?" Blair blurted.

"Timer?" he repeated patiently.

Bringing himself to back to their crisis with an obvious effort, Blair answered, "No, but the damned thing is so jury-rigged it's going to be a nightmare disarming it. Is SWAT coming in?"

Untying him while distractedly studying the mechanism to double check Blair's information, Jim told him, "No, Simon was holding them off, trying to give you a fighting chance."

Rubbing at his wrists as he got to his feet, Blair took out his cell phone. "How'd you talk him into letting you go in by yourself?"

"He doesn't know I'm here." Watching his partner's eyes go wide, he sank slowly to his knees, his over-abused body finally rebelling at the extreme demands put on it after being practically motionless for so long, gun slipping from his fingers as he went. "Probably going to be hell to pay over this," he mumbled, feeling the darkness coming on fast and not caring. There was a rough lick from an animal's tongue, then both animal spirits dissolved into him, taking the last of his strength.

Strong hands grabbed his head, hanging onto it forcefully and tilting it back almost painfully. "Don't you dare go again," Blair demanded. "You stay right here with me! Hear me?"

Blinking, surprised at the ferocity in his partner's voice, Jim tried to form a protest, but exhaustion was draining his awareness. "Tired," he managed, finally.

"Rest, then," Blair relented, but only fractionally. "But stay!"

Collapsing completely, expecting to wind up on the cold floor and bemused to end up half in his friend's lap, Jim hung onto consciousness by a thought, eyes drifting shut despite his best efforts.

From a long distance away he heard Blair talk to Simon, heard the SWAT team rush into the building because of the shots fired, cussing and bitching when all they found was dead bodies - and dozens of C-4 charges everywhere. By the time they made it to where the detonator was, they were ready to find a military tactical squad, and crashed in, weapons up and at full offensive speed, hoping probably to save face.

Blair threw up his hands and shouted, "Cops, we're cops!"

"Keep the hands where we can see them and carefully shove that gun this way. Then go for ID... slowly, slowly!"

"You'd think," Blair muttered, loud enough for anyone to hear, "that these guys would have some clue as to who the damned hostage was, so as not to accidentally shoot him!" That forced a bark of laughter out of Jim, and he heard nervous fingers cock rifles, which worried him enough to lift his lids enough to make sure nobody was getting too anxious. Muttering an indistinct warning to Blair, he groped for strength to fight again if he had to, but gentle fingers brushed over his forehead, relaxing him against his will.

"Mr. Sandburg, are you injured?" the team leader asked solicitously, returning the ID. "Or the other hostage? We didn't know there were two."

"This is my partner, Detective Jim Ellison," Blair said shortly. "And he's not a hostage; he's the guy who saved my ass."

There was a very weird silence after that announcement, which Blair ignored in favor of shrugging off his coat and draping it over Jim. The warmth was wonderful and the rich scent of his friend so close to his skin was an unexpected luxury. Hanging onto both, he let himself drift again, barely hearing Blair say bluntly, "He's been on bereavement leave; the loss was hard on him, especially when he got sick a while ago."

"Hate to go up against him when he's in top shape," somebody muttered.

It was the last thing Jim really noticed for a long time, though he stirred himself enough to open his eyes and half smile at Simon when he blustered through the door. He didn't pay attention to the multiple comings and goings, the explanations, or the decision-making, though part of him knew he should. For the most part, he was content to wait curled up for whatever happened next, his head cradled against a solid thigh, listening to the many minute sounds of a human body.

At last Simon and Blair urged him to his feet, and he helped as best he could, wondering why they weren't sending him to the hospital on a gurney. Mentally he shrugged; maybe they didn't want to wait for an ambulance. A few minutes after the car began rolling he recognized the way back to the loft and considered asking what was up, but was too comfortable to be bothered, tucked under a blanket with Blair pillowing his head once again.

It wasn't until they were home, and Blair was steering him toward the stairs of his old bedroom that Jim balked, unable to take that last step toward being 'back.' He lurched away, nearly dragging Simon and Blair down to the floor with him. "Couch is a better idea," he grumbled, aiming for it with weaving steps.

"Come on, Jim," Simon protested. "You'll be better off in your own bed."

Knowing by the concentration of scent and the few items he could see hanging on the railing that it wasn't his bedroom any more, Jim shook his head. "Can't do those stairs by myself and the bathroom is down here," he explained, hoping both would buy it. His friends shared a look, then helped him to the couch. Settling onto the cushions, he balled up again, bringing his knees almost up to his chin, and sighed, already more asleep than awake by the time the blanket was dropped back over him.

Blair climbed on top of him, knees digging into his back and thigh. "Wha?" He lifted his head enough to glare at his partner.

"Promise me you'll wake up, sane and *here,*" Blair insisted. "Promise me."

Wearily Jim dropped back with a plop. "Don't know if I can," he whispered. "Nothing left to hang onto."

"We'll find enough; we'll fix whatever's wrong. I promise. I promise! Now you promise me to stay." Blair punched his fists into the cushion on either side of Jim's shoulders and leaned over him, so that his lips were against an ear. "Don't do this to me, Jim. Not if you love me. Don't leave me."

"I didn't leave you," he denied softly, not sure his words could be heard, but not able to produce more sound. "You let me go." He wanted to add more, but couldn't fight off the need for sleep any longer.

Hours later, not sure what had disturbed him, Jim lay very quietly, waiting to see if whatever it had been would happen again. At the same time he measured what he saw/heard/smelt against what he knew the loft should be like, and found nothing out of place. Almost convinced it had been a fragment of a dream, he twisted restlessly to get his pillow in a better position, then heard a soft groan of pain from upstairs.

Ruthlessly he told himself that Sandburg was a big boy, that if the terrorists had hurt him, he would have seen a doctor without being nagged by his partner. Ex-partner, Jim supposed, if he wanted to be honest, and in the coldest hours of the morning, it was hard not to be no matter what skill he had in self-deception. He didn't even have that much of a claim left on Blair, and he sighed, feeling crushed and breathless.

Bare feet padded down the stairs, and he thought about feigning sleep, but Blair knelt by him, hand going unerringly to his forehead. "Still with me?" he murmured.

"Yeah. You okay?" Well, old habits died hard, he thought, unwillingly melting under the caring touch.

Smiling wryly, Blair confessed, "Just wondering what I did in a past life to attract trouble the way I do now. All I did was go to the federal building on an errand for Simon! Tell me why I should even consider that I would get kidnapped and dragged off to a slum somewhere!" His fingers never stopped their careful strokes, easing Jim back toward the rest he craved.

Stifling a yawn, unconsciously squirming deeper into the couch, Jim said, "Can't decide if it's you or Cascade, itself. Ought to move to New York or LA, see if gets worse or better!"

"No, thank you! The way I see it, an increase in population equals an increase in opportunities for me to get shot at, held hostage, or blown up. If anything, we should try someplace smaller." Blair pulled the blanket higher onto Jim's shoulders with his free hand, tucking it in around them.

It was a strange, almost alien sensation; Jim didn't think he'd ever been coddled in his entire life. Before he could react, Blair stood, hesitated a moment, then said softly, "We're going to have to answer a million questions tomorrow and straighten out more than one bureaucratic mess. Better get what rest you can."

"Same applies to you, Sandburg. Sleep. And if you can't sleep, count pretty girls jogging down the beach or something. Might as well enjoy yourself if you're going to be awake anyhow."

"Oink, oink, Ellison," Blair shot back, genuinely smiling this time. "I'll have you know that I would never do something so crass. Besides I've got some really *great* memories that I can haul out instead. Like these native women dancing in a traditional...."

Laughing, Jim clumsily made shooing motions at him under the blanket. "Go, go, already. The idea is to recharge here, not get worked up!"

With answering chuckles Blair made his way back upstairs, and crawled into bed. The sheets and bedding rustled for a few moments as he settled in, then there was silence. Before it was too old, he said, knowing Jim would hear, "Missed you, man. Really missed you."

Knowing he wouldn't hear, Jim replied, "Miss you, Blair. Really, really miss you."

***

The last thing he expected to see when he opened his eyes early the next morning was his brother, sitting on a kitchen chair that had been pulled up beside the couch. The bright sunshine wasn't kind to Steven; it added ten years to his looks, making every wrinkle and gray hair stand out like beacons. It was his eyes especially that were aged. They held the pain of a man that had lived a long, hard life, not the thirty-something status that Steven could legitimately claim.

"Hey," he said, at something of a loss for words.

"Oh, God," Steven breathed. "You are awake!"

To Jim's utter amazement, and to his brother's, to guess by his expression, Steven broke into tears. He fell forward onto his knees, burying his face in the cushion next to Jim's chest, and cried painfully, sounding very much like the small boy who would sneak into his big brother's bed to weep out the sorrows of a child missing his mother. Not knowing what else to do, Jim treated him the same way he had then. He patted small circles on Steven's back and whispered meaningless assurances, knowing the actual words didn't matter at all.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blair slip from the kitchen for the front door, expression filled with sympathy and concern. Jim gave him a small nod to let him know that he appreciated the privacy for Steven, and went back to consoling his brother. The sobs went on for a long time, with Steven gasping out broken apologies occasionally, and once asking for his daddy in a very little boy voice.

Eventually he pulled himself back together enough to sit back down on the kitchen chair, using a linen handkerchief to clean his face while he wrestled down the last of his grief. "No way to say hello," he muttered at last.

"Looks like it did you a world of good," Jim told him honestly. He did look better; the stress that had deepened the lines on his face was almost completely gone.

"Yeah," Steven agreed, sounding shocked. "It did. One more thing the old man was wrong about."

There wasn't any bitterness in his last words, but Jim felt compelled to say, "He was wrong about the will, too, Steven. I honestly don't know why he left it all to me, and I don't want it, I swear."

Staring at his hands, which were nervously twisting the soggy hanky, Steven admitted, "I know why; he left me a letter explaining it."

"Huh?"

Suddenly meeting his gaze, the younger Ellison explained, "When I finally got the news, I jumped on the first red-eye to Cascade. It wasn't a direct flight; I must have changed planes five times between Nepal and here, living on coffee, bad airplane food, and catnaps. By the time I got a cab at the airport I was totally strung out. I got to the graveyard just as the old man's lawyer was getting into his car. For what it's worth, I don't think he meant to let it slip that Dad had changed the will. All he wanted to do was give me the letter he'd been charged with making sure I read before the legal proceedings on the estate started."

He paused, going back to watching his hands again. "I was tired and headachy and so goddamned angry at him for having the balls to die while I was still trying to get up the nerve to mend fences with him, the way you were. And there you were, looking all composed and in control and unapproachable, but with friends, honest-to-God friends standing by your side when I couldn't even think of someone to call. None of which was an excuse for making you the target of it all."

"Maybe not an excuse," Jim agreed, "But understandable."

Visibly relieved, Steven met his eyes again. "I'm sorry, Jim. I'm really, really sorry. For the punch, for the things I said - I didn't mean any of them. Uh," he stuttered to a stop, then went on. "Especially for last one. While you were, were ill, Blair explained to me that he was sort of a personal trainer for the senses thing, that he did it originally in exchange for info on that damned dissertation. Although I wondered why you'd let yourself be a guinea pig," Stephen added wryly. "I didn't think you were the type to put up with the poking and prying."

"I was pretty desperate when we met," Jim admitted dryly. "If he'd told me that I could have gotten things back to normal by flashing a bus full of old ladies, I would have done it. Later," he trailed off, thinking he probably still would, for entirely different reasons. "Later I realized how much shit he was putting up with from me, a lot more than any dissertation was worth. He's been a good friend, Steven, and didn't deserve to be called a faggot for it. Which, by the way, is as far into left field as you can get and still be in the ballpark."

"Yeah, I got set straight on that, big time," Steven admitted. "Among other things."

"Sandburg does have a way about him with that kind of thing, doesn't he?" They shared a knowing grin, then Jim hitched himself into a half sitting position, accepting his brother's ready help without a qualm.

"You need help to bathroom or anything?

Shaking his head, Jim said, "Juice would be good, if there's any in the fridge." As Steven walked over, he asked, more to get the conversation on a less emotional footing than because he cared, "You said the old man had a reason for the change? What the hell was it?"

"Would you believe so that we could do together exactly what you did on your own? Guess he must have known you'd do the fair thing, even if I acted like a jerk about it."

Sitting up straighter, Jim picked up his jaw. "He wanted us to split it ourselves? Why not just do it himself?"

"Well, he said all kinds of high sounding things about giving us a chance to get to know each other again, a reason for us to spend some time, but I think he was really apologizing for pitting us against each other so much." Orange juice in hand, Steven walked back over, handing Jim the glass.

"Doesn't that just sound like him," Jim said with a mix of irritation, respect, and love, though the last was grudging.

"Makes us both chips off the old block, doesn't it?" Shaking his head himself, Steven rocked on his heels a moment, looking around the loft, then said very, very casually, "In more ways than one. You did a real good job of dividing things equally, right down to sharing out the blue chips with the high-risk stocks. Didn't know you had that much business sense."

Carefully ignoring the compliment, such as it was, and hiding a grin by taking another big drink, Jim shrugged.

"Have to admit I have a problem with the ten percent each off the top for charity."

Rising to the bait willingly, Jim said, "Think of it as a necessary tax deduction."

"Oh, I don't object to charity, I object to all of them being police related. The widows and orphans fund, the Police Dependents Scholarship Fund - I didn't know there were so many of them!"

Laughing, Jim offered, "Well, I suppose we could change a few of those."

They bickered about it good-naturedly until Jim began to nod off again, grumbling to himself about feeling like an old man. Steven admitted he had work that was waiting for him, and rose to leave, taking his coat off the hook and draping it over his arm. "When you feel up to it, I'd really like to go over the paperwork with you. Maybe after dinner sometime?"

"I'd like that," Jim said sincerely. "I honestly would."

Looking relieved, Steven bent for a fast hug, catching Jim almost completely off guard with it. "So would I. Bring Blair along? I owe him; he never once believed you wouldn't come back when you could. Never once gave up."

"He wouldn't," Jim said, knowing it was the truth. "And I'll extend the invitation. In the meantime, take care, I'll talk to you later." He gave a quick squeeze to the hand left on him, watched his brother leave, then drifted off to sleep.

For some reason, it made perfect sense that Simon was beside him when he woke up again a few hours later, and he was relieved to see his captain and friend looked exactly as he should. "If you're going to chew me out for going in without backup and not telling you I was there," Jim said, trying for cheerful and somehow sounding muzzy, "You could at least wait until I'm back on my feet so I can take it like a man."

Instead of taking the opening, Simon regarded him very solemnly for a long moment, then simply sat on the edge of the couch and gathered him into a hug so tight Jim could hear bones creak. Of all the painful and surprising things he'd dealt with since hearing the wolf's call at the hospital, this was the most astonishing, and to his utter bewilderment, he began to cry. Unlike Steven's abandoned wailing, Jim wept softly, tears barely seeping out, arms around Simon's waist to hang on tightly.

If Blair's cosseting had felt odd last night, this comfort was beyond anything in Jim's experience, but it hurt him as much as it helped because the arms holding him were the wrong arms. To his deadened nerves, they may as well have not been there, and the suffocating pressure on him doubled, making it nearly impossible to drag any air into his lungs. He could feel the currents pulling him down again, but he held on, held on, though for the life of him he couldn't figure out why.

He heard Blair come into the building, juggling grocery bags and mail, and began to pull himself together. From Steven's comments earlier and his friend's behavior last night, it was clear Blair was feeling guilty about not being able to keep Jim from losing it. The last thing he wanted to do was add to that burden, though he didn't have a clue as to how to convince Sandburg that he wasn't at fault. The cause, yes, but Blair couldn't be blamed for that. He wasn't responsible for Jim's heart.

To clear his head, he concentrated on the hushed sound of Simon clumsily patting his back, the wordless mutter of reassurances that didn't sound that different from the ones he'd given Steven. It brought something resembling a smile to his face; maybe there was such a thing as paternal instinct. Without lifting his head from the refuge of his friend's shoulder, he fumbled for a tissue from a box kept stashed in the end table.

If his surprise quota hadn't already been seriously overfilled, he would have been startled when Simon got the tissue for him, and began drying his face, treating him like a four-year-old. "If you tell me to blow," he muttered, "I will, sans tissue."

"Gross, Jim. Gross," Banks answered calmly. "Quit being an ass and let a friend help, okay?"

"Yeah, but will my captain respect me in the morning?" he said, only half joking.

"Always," Simon muttered gruffly, "Always." With a last awkward squeeze, he stood, looking at the door as it opened and Blair came in. A hint of relief in his voice, Simon said, "Morning, Sandburg. Hope you brought breakfast."

A fast peek showed that Blair was staring at him, taking his reddened eyes and the soggy Kleenex, then he determinedly turned his attention to the groceries he carried and answered, "Hi, Simon. Morning, Jim. Bagels okay with you two?"

"As long as a decent cup of coffee is included, yes, thank you." Simon went over to help Blair with his bags, face clearly forbidding any questions.

Needing to get away from his roomie's too-perceptive gaze, Jim tossed off the blanket covering him and swung his feet to the floor. "While you two do that, I'm going to clean up. I reek."

"I wasn't going to mention that," Simon deadpanned. "But now that you do, can I offer you some industrial strength cleanser?"

Standing shakily, he answered distractedly, "After all those cigars how can you possibly smell anything?" He felt as much as he saw Blair's aborted move toward him, and he schooled the pain at the new rejection away from his expression. Shuffling toward the bathroom, Jim winced, willing to swear that his legs had been replaced with wooden poles that had the ability to bend in the middle. Intellectually he knew that virtually running a marathon after being nearly totally stationary for a long time was bound to have repercussions, but this was a major pain.

Halfway there, he asked in annoyance, "Just how long was I out of it, anyway?"

With a swallow Simon could have heard, Blair answered, "Just over two months. I, ah, dropped by your dad's place one night to ask you to give me a hand on a case Conner and I was working. Your truck was there, and a light was on in the kitchen, but you didn't answer the door. Bothered me enough that I let myself in. I found you upstairs in your old bedroom totally, and I do mean *totally,* zoned. To judge by, uh, your condition, you'd been that way at least 72 hours."

Leaning heavily on the wall, Jim groaned. "God, I'm sorry for that, Blair."

"Just don't do it again, dammit," he snapped. "And what caused it, anyway? I tried everything that's ever worked to pull you out, including give you a good shot to the arm - which got me tossed out of the hospital, by the way, for abusing a patient."

"Touch." It wasn't exactly a lie, and allowing Blair to think it was a zone was infinitely better than allowing his friend to know how much damage his gradual retreat had done. Was doing? Hell, he didn't know. Focusing on getting clean, Jim finished his trip down the hallway.

The trip back was better. A hot shower, the temperature cautiously gauged by steam and how pink his skin turned, loosened the worst of the stiffness in his muscles and revived his brain. Shaving made him feel almost normal, though he tried not to look too hard at the haggard face in the mirror. Deciding the next stop was going to have to be the gym, he dressed in the loose sweats Blair must have put in the bathroom for him, and went back to the kitchen.

Gingerly he seated himself at the table. "This is stupid," he groused.

"Hey," Blair said shortly, "you're moving. It's an improvement."

"Point." The food smelt great, and he dug in enthusiastically, asking after the first bite, "IA going ballistic over the shooting yesterday?"

"Yeah, with Jim still officially on bereavement leave, they have to be screaming their heads off about procedure," Blair chimed in, looking to Simon.

"A total of a quarter-ton of C-4 went along way to keep it down to disgusted mutters," Simon told them between bites. "Not to mention *someone,*" he glared over the tops of his glasses at Blair, "started the rumor that you weren't really on personal leave, that the CIA had you doing some dirty work for them in some remote, potentially explosive area."

"All I did was refuse to confirm or deny," Blair said cheerfully, taking a small bite and chewing it thoroughly.

"What exactly went down, anyway?" Jim asked, genuinely curious. "Terrorists don't usually take just one hostage."

"Oh, man, loooong story." Putting aside his dish, Blair started describing a convoluted series of events that began with him recognizing two men from an FBI terrorist alert he'd read, and involved pulling a fire alarm. He had run like mad for his car, but the terrorists had done the same thing from the supposed fire, straight into him. Apparently they hadn't thought about needing getaway cars because they hadn't planned on getting away. From there things had escalated to a high-speed chase, Blair getting the other hostage free (the driver of the third car had simply taken a dive out her door when armed men piled in) and the discovery that he was with the police department.

"Sandburg, do you *ever* have a boring day?" Jim asked in admiration.

"Of course I do. Just last Tuesday I went the whole day without getting shot at once!" He sounded happy and smug, and Jim grinned, feeling smug himself on his behalf. Trust Blair to take on the police department on his own terms, and still be more involved on the front lines than nearly anybody else. And love it.

"I keep throwing paperwork at him," Simon put in. "Hoping it'll slow him down some. No luck."

"Paperwork!" he and Blair moaned in unison.

"I can't imagine the kind of paperwork this is going to take," Jim went on by himself, sharing a grin with his cohort. "The triplicates are going to have triplicates."

"Which I am not going to help you with," Blair said tongue-in-cheek. "I'll be dealing with my own deforestation problems."

"Before you go in for your statement," Simon cautioned, "We've got one thing to clear up. Jim, how did you know where Blair was and what kind of trouble he was in? We need to get our stories straight; too many loose ends to trip up on otherwise."

Sobered, Jim fiddled with his coffee spoon, eyes on the gleam of the metal. "Are you sure you want to hear that? This sentinel thing can get seriously out there."

"Last thing I want to deal with, but this is the hand we've got."

Not able to look at either of his friends, but excruciatingly aware of Blair, Jim told them about hearing the wolf's cry, and ended with, "I guess a part of me is always listening for Sandburg; it just took a really loud yell to get as far down as I'd gone."

"Why a wolf?" Simon asked, apparently confused.

Unable to stop himself, Jim glanced up at his shaman and guide, telling him silently that he didn't understand that part, either. Smoothly Blair stepped in with, "In many cultures in North America, wolf is the symbol for teacher, especially one who shows a warrior the 'right' path for him to take. Jim's subconscious picked that as a symbol for me a while back because that's sort of how he sees me. I called for help - actually I was wishing out loud that Jim was around - and his subconscious translated it to a wolf howling."

Unspoken between them was the vision they had shared of a wolf and panther merging, the vision Jim hadn't been able to discuss. As he'd told Blair at the time, he hadn't been ready to go there yet. He knew Blair saw the merge one way; Jim suspected it wasn't the way the panther and wolf meant it to be seen.

His simple pleasure in the camaraderie they'd been sharing crashed, turning into dust under the weight on him. Head on hand, he methodically finished off his breakfast, dully listening to Blair and Simon discuss cases he knew nothing and found he cared less about. He didn't resist when Blair urged him to his feet, telling him that he should rest some more, that a night's sleep and one meal wasn't going to go far toward recuperating.

Simon took that as a cue to leave, waving his hand negligently when Jim mumbled a good-bye. "You need me, you call," he ordered on the way through it. "Or else!"

The small jesting threat brought Jim's head up, and he smiled, "You can do better than that."

"Don't need to, do I?" With that, Simon shut the door behind him, leaving them shaking their heads at him.

"You know, Sandburg," Jim said reflectively, sinking gratefully down onto the couch, "Of all the good things you brought into my life, that's the one I appreciate most."

"Huh?" Blair squatted down next to him, hands on his knees.

"Simon's friendship," he explained patiently. "Before you started changing everything around me, Banks was just a commanding officer who I respected and who put up with my attitude. He was friendly, but I didn't encourage it, mostly because I was too thick-headed to see it as a good thing."

"Can't give me credit for that," Blair said, sounding upset.

"Yes, I can. It's the truth." He closed his eyes and started to lie on his side, but a hissed exclamation from his roommate jerked him upright again. "Chief?"

"What did you do to your feet?" Gingerly Blair picked one up, looking it over carefully.

Noticing for the first time himself that they were covered with bleeding blisters and raw spots, Jim rotated the other one, checking out the bruised sole. It took a minute, but he finally connected the slippers he'd been wearing when he undressed for his shower with his mindless race to join his partner. "Oh. Good piece of advice for you; boots are much better for long distance runs than house shoes."

"You ran?" Blair asked incredulously. "I thought you stole a car or hitched."

"Wasn't working on that civilized a level, I guess," Jim answered, preoccupied with looking over his injuries. "Going to need the first aid kit." He added a moment later, "And it's hard to chase a panther with a car. They tend to ignore things like stop lights." He started to struggle to his feet to get the kit, but Blair beat him to it, darting to where it was stored and back before he could get upright.

"Sit," Blair ordered. "How can you even think about walking on those?" Opening the box, he sat cross-legged on the floor and put one of Jim's feet on his thigh where he could see it easily.

"It doesn't hurt that much." Actually, they didn't hurt at all, and he shrugged of his friend's concern, trying to reclaim his appendage with a gentle pull.

"Hold still. You shouldn't turn the dial down that far," Blair scolded. "There's a reason we feel pain."

"Yeah, but once it's made its announcement," Jim countered, "it doesn't serve any purpose except to keep me awake. Come on, Sandburg, give me the bandages; I'll take care of them."

"You can hardly sit up without toppling over into sleep. It'll be faster and easier if I do it; now stop giving me a hard time and hold still!" Head down, Blair started smearing ointment over the worst of the blisters, fingers moving deftly and gently.

It felt good, Jim noticed with wonder, realizing fully for the first time he could *feel* his partner's touch, had all along. There was warmth from the strong muscle supporting his heel, a delicate stir of sensation from the palm cupping his toes to turn his foot this way and that as Blair treated his wounds, even little pricks of discomfort from the open sores when he touched them. Some part of him gobbled up the input, savored it, all of it, from the twinges of pain to the nearly imperceptible brush of the hairs on Blair's knuckles as he worked.

Any thought of fighting the care evaporated, and he slumped down, head on the back of the couch, eyes closed. His body responded to the careful administrations, too; not erotically, though there were shivers streaming over him that raised goose bumps. It wasn't precisely relaxing either, though he was so limp from Blair's touch that he couldn't have moved if he had to. It was more as if his skin were starving, and since his foot was being fed, it was sharing with the rest of him.

Determinedly he closed his lips over the tiny moans of pleasure that percolated along with the feeling in his nerve endings, and he fought to keep his face, blank as well. Despite his resolve, he nearly cried out when Blair stopped, but he was only switching to the other foot, leaving the first propped where it was.

Double the pleasure, double the fun, Jim thought idiotically, dimly wishing Blair wouldn't stop and knowing he had to eventually. How am I going to explain being blissed out on having my feet bandaged?

It seemed he wasn't going to have to. Blair not only took it for granted that Jim wasn't bothered by what he was doing, but he didn't seem any more ready to stop than Jim was. When he was through wrapping a protective layer of gauze around the foot he held, he lightly massaged the ankle, then the calf of that leg, muttering something about the knots in the over-worked muscles. Pushing the pants leg up out of the way, he kneaded patiently, leaning over his task so that his hair occasionally swept over the exposed skin.

That fleeting contact made Jim tremble, and in desperation to keep from zoning on it, he threw open his other senses, automatically locking them onto Blair. Opening his eyes, he drank in the sight of his guide, watched the way his body shifted and rocked in time to the efforts of his hands. The morning sunlight played in his swaying curls, dancing from strand to strand in bright glitters that released wafts of scent.

It was Blair's own scent, overlaid with hints of breakfast and his trip to the bakery earlier. Unconsciously opening his mouth a little, he inhaled deeply, feeling traces of the fragrance curl over his tongue, wondering if Blair's taste would be as appealing. Probably, he decided, for once admitting he wished he knew. So far he'd found everything about his guide to be essential to his senses. Even Blair's voice could reach into him and wrap around his mind, soothing and caressing in ways he should have found disturbing, but couldn't any more than he could deny the wonder of the touch on him.

Strong hands tunneled under the fabric covering his leg, and he lolled his knees farther apart to make room for them. They were stroking more than massaging, now, not that he cared. His hands flexed, digging into the cushions in an effort to keep them to himself. A need to reciprocate, to handle his guide was growing rapidly, and he suddenly became aware of the danger they were in.

Blair realized it at nearly the same time, his hands abruptly halting their journey upward. Before Jim could tactfully pull away, he said softly, "You're hard."

It was true, though he hadn't noticed until Blair called his attention to it, but Jim replied as softly, "So are you."

"I...." Blair looked down at himself, as if seeing the state he was in for the first time. "I didn't intend to."

"Me, either. Just been a long time, you know." He tried to sound un-concerned, to make the confession the kind of man-to-man thing buddies would do, as he straightened up to pull away.

Not responding in kind, Blair said seriously, "For me, too. I haven't wanted it, haven't thought about it for the most part." He tightened his hold on Jim's thigh, keeping him in place.

Confused, wanting to make a joke of it, Jim found part of a smile somewhere and plastered it on his lips. "Wear yourself out already, Romeo? You're a little young for Viagra."

"Apparently all I need is you melting under my hands, surrendering like a virgin who's never been turned on before."

Though his partner hadn't sounded disgusted or outraged, Jim groped after some honest anger to shield himself against the mind that was adding things up far too fast. Cheeks warm, he snapped, "Leave it alone, Sandburg. Sometimes a hard-on is just a plumbing check." He tried to jerk away, but was held down easily. Becoming truly angry with himself for his physical weakness, he brought up his hands to shove his partner away.

He was stopped half-way by Blair raising up to wrap both arms around his neck, tilting them sideways down onto the couch. Without meaning to, Jim held him close, body adjusting to make room for both of them. The living weight of his love laying beside him, tucked as close as skin, was nearly completely overwhelming, but somehow he found enough presence of mind to turn his head before Blair could land the kiss aimed at his mouth. "What are you doing?"

Not deterred by lack of lips, Blair mouthed the line of his jaw, muttered as he did, "Giving us both what we want."

"I don't...." Jim began, but lost the ability to speak when sharp little teeth found his ear lobe and began worrying it. Knowing he was lost, that he couldn't fight his starving body and Blair at the same time, he deliberately unleashed his passion, keeping only the slimmest of leads on its full force.

Moaning, unashamed of his response, he rubbed against Blair, making sure that the hard ridge digging into his belly got a huge share of the friction from the act.

"Oh, my, God," Blair whispered, and he began to rock into Jim urgently, lips working aimlessly over Jim's throat. "Oh, my, God."

The heat between them was incredible and rich with their combined scents. It was a heady perfume that spoke to Jim's desires directly, but he concentrated on satisfying Blair, working to find the right combination of rhythm and power that would give him the release he was frantically striving for.

It happened quickly, with only a hard shudder and low groan to mark it. A second later Blair sagged onto him bonelessly, panting hard into the curve of his shoulder. The new smell of semen and completion was maddening, and before he could stop himself, Jim turned his lover under him, hands going for the wealth of curls without a go-ahead from him.

He enjoyed the slide of them over his sensitive fingertips and palms, then traced feather light patterns over Blair's upturned features. Once he'd given himself permission to touch, he couldn't hold back, and he worked his way over every inch of Blair's front, removing their clothes as necessary. Throughout it all, Blair only sighed or murmured wordlessly, helping as much as he could to get garments out of the way.

Jim knew without being told that Blair was deliberately being passive, though he didn't know why. If it was to make Jim take his own satisfaction, well, he was, if not in the way probably expected.

By the time he had had his fill of the sturdy chest and limbs, Blair was becoming aroused again, his erection seemingly growing straight at Jim. Unabashedly curious, he watched it do so, encouraging it with more delicate caresses that made Blair's hips lift in involuntary begging.

Tempted, but wanting to finish what he started, Jim carefully eased him onto his stomach, half expecting a protest. He didn't get it, but he felt the sudden drop in heat, heard the stuttered breathing, and knew Blair was afraid. Whispering soft assurances that they weren't going to do that, he continued his tactile exploration of his partner's body, delighting in the smooth downiness of his back and bottom. When he was done, he lay on top of Blair, considering his options carefully despite the nagging urges of his own erection.

He licked his lover three times: at the nape of the neck, in the small of the back just above the cleft of his backside, and at the back of one knee. It was a small sample, but enough to give him the essence of what Blair tasted like. A deep kiss was what he really craved, but that would move them in a direction neither could go. Reluctantly he sat back on his heels, fingertips barely skimming over Blair's calf.

"What do you want?" he asked, barely recognizing his own voice, it was so hoarse.

"Huh?" Dazed sapphire eyes peered back over a shoulder at him.

"This was your idea. What do you want?"

"God, Jim, this is a hell of a time to ask!" Blair twisted over, instinctively pulling up his knees to hide his hard-on. "Whatever you want, I guess. What do you like to do when you're making love?"

"We're not making love," Jim said flatly. "We're having sex, and if you're only doing it because you think you have to, I'd rather not, thank you very much."

Shoving a hand full of hair away from his face, Blair shook his head. "You need it, man, and I'm obviously not having a problem, here."

Not wanting to be crude, but needing to nip any notion of self-sacrifice in the bud, Jim reached down to dig through the first aid box for the aloe burn cream kept in it. Lying on his back at the other end of the couch, he swung one leg over the back of it and put one foot flat on the floor. Not in the least bothered by how exposed and obscene he had to look, he squeezed a generous dollop of the cream into his palm.

"I don't need any help to get relief," he said shortly, coating his erection. "In fact, I don't need a partner for sex at all." Putting his head back on the arm, he began to jack himself slowly, using his free hand to tickle and roll the heavy sac under his hard-on. Closing his eyes, he licked his lips to get the last of the flavor from his sampling of Blair, and released the remnants of control he had on his hunger. Skin alive with sexual stimulation, he concentrated on how good his lover had felt under him, how sweet and wonderful each bit of flesh had been, and tumbled toward climax in a breathless rush. By habit he slid a finger deep into himself as the first warning of it tightened his stomach, and he groaned in pleasure.

"God, look at that," Blair muttered. Prying up an eyelid, Jim saw that Blair was kneeling between his thighs, eyes riveted on the action, and it sent a flash of lust through him that sped up his hands, tearing another cry from him. "Can't even imagine how much better that must feel for you," Blair said, touching himself in the same way. "For a straight man, you really seem to like having your ass played with; two fingers, no problem, and I bet you could take more."

He inched closer, shifting so that his need was close to Jim's, so that their hands actually bumped at the top of their strokes. "Want to take more, Jim, huh? Want to make it better? You might not *need* a partner, but I bet I can give you something you can't give yourself."

There was no denying the desperate want in Blair's voice, and Jim found the will to stop pleasuring himself. Heedless of the mess on his hands, he reached up to frame the beautiful face, locking eyes with his lover. "I know you can. But you have to know - it wouldn't be sex, Blair. It would be making love. Don't do it if you can't accept that."

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Blair looked down at the opened body waiting for him. "I... I know. It's just... I can't give you that back, I'm sorry."

His answer confused Jim, but he couldn't think why, couldn't think at all with what he needed inches away, so he slowly drew Blair's head down so that their lips were nearly touching. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that I love you." With that he kissed him, the tenderness inside him temporarily over-riding the lust to make it innocent and gentle. He opened his lips in sweet invitation, and Blair hesitantly accepted it, barely slipping inside enough to tentatively introduce their tongues.

It was instant fire, instant connection, and Jim shamelessly whimpered at how right it was to be entered this way, to give himself up to his lover even this small amount. Eager for more, he sucked on the shy probe, bringing it all the way into him at the same time he lifted his hips high, bringing the opening to his body up for Blair's use. With a sound that was part growl and part wail, his lover claimed him, penetrating carefully for all that they were both shaking with need.

The burning pain threatened to rip him apart. Blair felt huge, but underneath that was a triumphant blast of joy that sent shockwaves up his spine and into his skull, exploding there with a scream of ecstasy. Mind, heart, and soul he opened himself to Blair as he came, aching to be filled the way his body was.

But there was nothing there, no gossamer threads to slip inside and bind him back together, no waiting presence to take rightful residence. Agony overshadowed physical release, and his eyes sprang open to find Blair mindlessly plundering him, head thrown back and eyes as tightly closed as the rest of him. Jim was just a receptacle for his cock, for his come, and it could have been anybody, anyone. In fact, behind those closed lids, he could be with anybody, could be imagining Jim as any woman he'd ever used.

It was such a bitter, foul realization, that for a moment Jim thought he would puke, but for all that his mind was reeling, his body was reveling. If nothing else, Blair could fuck, and seemed able to do it forever. Heavy embers of physical sensation flared in his gut and groin, stirring his semi-hard dick, encouraging him to meet the thrusts into him. Sighing, he pushed away his disappointment and grief, hardly needing to think about it any more, it had become so commonplace in his life to do so. If sexual release was all he was going to get, he might as well get the most out of it.

And, God there was a lot to get out of it. Blair rode him as if he were going to be deprived of sex for the rest of his life, going deep and hard, each stroke slamming intense pleasure into Jim. In almost no time, he was ready to spill again, his erection copiously weeping pre-come, and he had to take himself in hand to answer the urgent demand for satisfaction. A subtle change in the shaft inside him - longer, maybe harder - told him that Blair was close, very close, and he couldn't hold back a tiny bleat of disappointment because he wasn't. A moment later, his partner stiffened and a flood of hot wetness bathed him internally, and he ground onto the fading erection, trying to bring himself off before it was gone completely.

Blair slid free of him, collapsing to one side, and Jim arched his back, digging in his heels, as he tightened his ass with all his strength, using the impact of the spasming ring of muscle to shove himself over the edge. Despite his shout of relief, it was a joyless climax, and he gratefully dropped into a dead sleep, glad to be spared dealing with the aftermath.

***

Jim was alone when he woke up hours later, and that was pretty much how things stayed for the next five days. Ostensibly, the job was consuming long hours because Blair was involved in a major negotiation between a slum neighborhood on the verge of exploding in violence, and the police trying to keep the body count down. Somehow he wound up being one of the few people both sides would listen to, however reluctantly, and when he was at the loft, he was often on the phone with some person or another, trying to find a wedge into the impasse between the two opposing forces.

Even when Blair was there, though, he wasn't. He hid himself in paper work, behind meaningless chatter, in claims of exhaustion. Numbly Jim accepted it, offering unwanted food when reasonable, or his own small talk about the minor accomplishments of the day. For five days he ate as needed, began working out at the gym again to regain his strength, did small chores around the loft, visited with Steven and Simon. In those days, the closest he and Blair came to a real discussion was over Jim's return to the upstairs bedroom; he stubbornly refused to do so and stayed on the couch. In fact, he didn't even go upstairs to get his clothes, making do with the casual sweats and jeans he found in storage in Blair's old room.

Why he wouldn't, he couldn't say. It had something to do with feeling suspended, caught between sinking to the bottom to be lost in the deep forever, and kicking for the hint of light far above him, not wanting to drown but not able to save himself. Occasionally he wondered if that was how Blair had felt between the time the dissertation had been revealed and the press announcement it was a fake: trapped between two impossibilities.

In fact the greatest irony of it all was how completely their roles had been reversed. Blair took refuge in the job that used to be Jim's, while he wracked his brain trying to think of way to break through their bland politeness. He was even the one spending all his time with a red marking pen in hand, reading incessantly, except that it wasn't a student's exam that he corrected, but Blair's first manuscript.

It was a good story, compelling and absorbing, taking up his empty time in a way that was almost pleasant. He hadn't intended to make any editorial comments at first, but found himself neatly making a notation in a margin, almost without conscious thought, the first time he bumped into a section that his cop's brain found out of place with the rest of it. Blair didn't seem to mind; he read over the note, nodded and agreed that spot needed work.

So Jim cooked, clean, slept, read, and tried to connect with his ex-partner, former guide, sort of lover.

And when the words 'the end' were all that was left of a book that Jim knew could make the best seller's list if the publisher could find away around the dissertation fiasco, he accepted that it was, and began to pack.

After arranging his flight, he called the station and left a message for Blair to call the loft, and checked back several times in the last few hours he had in Cascade. Sandburg wasn't answering his cell, wasn't taking his messages, and so finally Jim wrote a brief note explaining that he was going to Peru. He called a cab and was stacking his duffle and backpack by the door when Blair finally came home.

Smiling with genuine pleasure, Jim said, "Good! Glad you made it before I had to take off." He put on his coat and his Jags baseball cap, nervously fidgeting with the back of it. "There's stew on the stove if you're hungry, I paid the bills for this month and the taxes for the year, and Steven will help out if something comes up with the loft." Mind on the mechanics of taking a trip, he hefted the pack once, testing its balance for the hike into the rainforest.

Hoisting his jaw from off the floor, Blair demanded, "You're going now? Where?"

"Peru, to the Chopec. Flight leaves in a couple of hours, cab's on the way." Satisfied with his luggage, Jim braced himself and reached out a hand to brush it over Blair's cheek, only to drop it mid-motion when the other man flinched away.

Turning all the way around, Blair hung his jacket and said, "I need more time than that to get ready. Is there a later flight we can take, and what are we going to need to help them?"

"Whoa, Chief," Jim said with false good humor. "Nothing's wrong. There are just a few loose ends down there I've been meaning to take care of since Incacha's death, and now's a good time. No need for you to drag along; no way for you to put the job on hold right now, anyway."

"I never thought of you as the kind of coward, Jim, who would run away from his problems." Back still to him, Blair spoke as if only making mild conversation.

Blandly, not rising to the fight the other man seemed to want, Jim said, "Fear-based response, remember? If you can't fight, you run, and I've done it all my life. What else is repression and denial but a way to run and hide? At least among the Chopec I can be of use while hiding; their shaman's loss has got to be hurting them, big time. Here I'm nothing but a waste of groceries."

"A self-pitying waste of groceries," Blair muttered.

"A self-pitying waste," Jim agreed evenly. "Look, if it will make you feel better when I'm gone, we can have a knock down drag out fight over anything and everything. You're still fucking forgetting to use the spray in the bathroom, and I'd go a lot further than Peru to escape the stench."

Daringly he stepped closer, almost but not quite cupping Blair's shoulders with his hands. "But I'd rather say goodbye as friends, if we can. Detach with love, as Naomi would say."

"I have always," Blair said definitively, "absolutely fucking hated that particular piece of neo-hippie, new age philosophy. It is just so much bullshit. If you love, you don't detach. You hang on with everything you've got, 'cause in the end, what else have you got but love? Guess you didn't love me as much as you thought, huh?"

That hurt badly, actually penetrating the peace Jim had managed to scrape together for this farewell, but he went ahead and touched Blair, rubbing his hands soothingly up and down the rigid arms. "I love you too much to keep this up any longer. We're both hurting, pretty much pointlessly, and neither of us knows how to fix it. Let me go, Blair, please. Don't hold me here, trapped between guilt and friendship."

"Walk through that door," Blair said grimly, "And I will call your brother and ask him to get a court order committing you for psychiatric examination. Simon will help; I can pretty much promise he'll put you in handcuffs if he has to. Keep in mind, Oh Sentinel of the Great City, that you just spent two months in a mental hospital, though so far only people we trust know that. I won't have any problem convincing either of them that you've gone off the deep end."

"Blair, don't do this," Jim pleaded, giving up on trying to stay calm and centered. "*Why* are you doing this?"

"Why? *Why?*" Blair spun around, eyes blazing a brilliant fire that Jim would have found beautiful under any other circumstances. "How many years did I put into being your guide, helping you with your senses against every niggling, bitching complaint you made at living with me, working with me? How much of my time, my energy did I put into your job, your wants, your needs? I fucking even *died* because of you, man, and I didn't even get the piece of sheepskin that would have let me believe it was all worth it. And now you're just going to walk away from being a cop, walk away from being a sentinel, after I gave up *everything* for you? No way. No fucking way."

Distantly, dimly, Jim thought, Oh, well, at least I'm not hanging in the middle any more, and sooner or later the bottom has to come up. Aloud he said, "So this is my punishment, then, for screwing up so completely." He knew he sounded crushed to death, but in truth, he felt that way already. "I have to live in a home that's cold, with warmth a finger tip away; have to live in silence with music locked behind sealed lips."

Blair winced, though Jim couldn't tell if it was the words themselves or the empty man saying them. "It won't stay that way; give me a chance to think, to work some things out. I haven't had more than five minutes to myself since you...."

He yanked himself back, chopping the rest of what he had to say, so Jim finished for him, "Took over your life again. Yeah, I get the message, Sandburg, loud and clear." Taking off his coat and hat, he listlessly hung them up and wandered over to the fireplace, starting one for no better reason than because it was something to do.

Blair fidgeted by the door for a minute, then came up behind Jim, wrapping his arms around him from behind and leaning into him. Helplessly he closed his eyes and soaked up the warmth, hating the fact that even now, he could feel Blair when everything else in the world was so much novacained blankness. His, his what, his roomie? - hugged him tightly and murmured, "Don't give up, please. We can work this out."

Shaking his head, Jim asked, "Can we? You know, I think I started falling in love with you when I heard you fighting for you life with Lash. At the time I couldn't help but admire the way you wouldn't back down, wouldn't give up and sometimes I think the perverse part of me would deliberately throw things in your path, just to see how you'd find your way around them. But this might beyond even your talents."

Hesitantly, Blair asked, "You felt something back then? When did you realize you were?"

"When I killed you," Jim said flatly, hoping this bit of truth would finally free them both. "About the time Alex Barnes came into town, I started dreaming that I was hunting, probably in the rainforest, I had my Chopec bow, and I shot a wolf, but it was you. All I could think was that something about my sentinel powers were going to get you killed. Maybe I was going to accidentally shoot you like I did that guard that time, or, I don't know, maybe you'd follow me someplace you shouldn't, trusting your sentinel to know what the hell he was doing."

Behind him, Blair had gone very still, but he didn't move away. Head hanging, Jim went on. "Everything in me was screaming that something was wrong, but I couldn't *find* what it was, and all I could see in my mind over and over was you dying because of me. So I kicked you out, sent you away from me, thinking that without my need to protect you coloring everything, maybe I could figure out what was going on. Instead I sent you right into that bitch's arms, and she fucking killed you, but I was the one who really pulled the damn trigger."

"You brought me back," Blair said gently. "You talk about me not giving up. Everybody else gave me up for dead, but you literally raced after my spirit and brought it back with you."

"Is that how you see what happened, Chief?" Jim asked tiredly. "That I found you like you were a lost child and carried you back to you body with me?"

"Well, sort of, I guess." Blair thought a minute, bouncing his forehead lightly on Jim's back. "It felt good when the panther and wolf merged, you know. Safe, warm."

"Wondered why you called me 'brother,'" Jim muttered.

"How did you see it, then? Maybe it's time we went there."

Despite it all, Jim half-smiled. "Sooner or later you get everything out of me, don't you?"

Blair snorted. "Everybody has to have a hobby. Now talk."

Without meaning to, Jim turned his mind back to the moment their spirit guides merged, combining their lives when his heart instinctively claimed what it needed to keep beating, even as Blair needed it for his to work again. He shuddered in pleasure, the perfection of that moment better than any orgasm he'd ever had in his life. Just as quickly he gasped in pain. How could Blair see that union in terms of innocent fraternal safety? No wonder Alex's allure had been so hard to deny; no wonder the following days and months had been a nightmare of a round peg and square hole trying to fit with each other.

"Jim?"

Called back yet again, Jim carefully peeled the arms around him off, and squatted to pick up firewood and place it on the hearth. "I saw them leaping into each other, becoming one life, and I realized I wanted, more than anything I've ever wanted in my life, that to be our reality. A split second later we were back in reality, and I was faced with the very disconcerting fact that I was in love with a man; one who, much as he was my friend, was studying me for a paper that was a bomb waiting to explode. You could say I was seriously fucked."

"So when it went off, you saved my life by giving me yours again?"

"Huh!" Jim thought about that. "Interesting way to look at it. I was trying," and he looked at his own motives very, very clearly, "to keep you with me, but to let you do it on your terms, so it would be what you wanted." Wood and tinder placed, he struck a match and watched the curls of smoke and heat from it. "Chief, if I hadn't screwed up so that you found out how I felt, would it have worked then? Would you have been able to make a place for yourself where we fit together again?"

Blair blew out the match just as it reached his fingertips and bent to light another. "I already knew. I just wanted you to tell me, and you wouldn't, even when your own body gave you away."

That was too much; much too much. "I see." He didn't, not really, but he had to have something to say. He took the match, carefully not touching Blair as he did, and set it to the fire. "Well, it wouldn't have made a difference then, in the long run. Thanks for letting me know that."

"You're welcome." Blair sounded confused, which suited Jim. Why should he be the only one? The fire caught nicely, and he fumbled for the next thing to say or do. "Want me to dish up that stew?" he asked, hoping it didn't sound too stupid.

Blair eyed him warily, the visibly decided to let things drop for a while. "Sounds good. Mind if I clean up, first?"

Nodding, Jim went to the door for his duffle. "I'll get this stuff put up. Garlic bread with that?"

Stretching, Blair nodded as well. "Why are all chairs in conference rooms designed to hurt your back? A deterrent against staying too long? Punishment for calling a meeting in the first place?" He meandered down the hallway, still theorizing.

Tracking him until he was safely in the bathroom, Jim stepped to the balcony and held up a hand to the cabbie about to let him know that he was on the way down. He went into Blair's old room, turned the light on and put his duffle at the edge of the door, half opened so Blair would think he was unpacking. Then he picked up his backpack, which held all he had to have, and went down the fire escape, hoping between the typical marathon shower and his ruse, he'd have time to get airborne before Blair missed him.

***

They caught up with him at his second connection, showing up at the gate as he stood for his turn to board. Simon looked viciously angry, Steven was worried, and Blair.... Blair was as blank as Jim felt. Banks and his brother flanked him, and he shrugged off their hands. "Next stop the funny farm?" he asked facetiously.

"Jim," Steven started.

"Save it, okay? Just save it. I'm not going to make a scene, I'm not going to put up a fight. What'd you do, charter a flight?" he asked conversationally. If this was how Blair wanted to play it, he would go along. After all, Jim held the trump card; a mental institution was where he'd wind up eventually anyway. Living with the Chopec had just been a stopgap measure until he imploded on the pressure destroying him.

"An expense which is coming out of your share of the inheritance," Steven joked feebly.

"My time," Simon growled, "is coming out of your hide, detective."

"You've already got most of it, sir, including choice pieces of my backside. Which way, gentlemen?"

Silently, like he was for the rest of the trip home, Blair led the way. With an effort, Jim kept up the light conversation he'd started with his escorts, brushing off their apologies and explanations, Simon's temper, Steven's concern. It wasn't until they were in the limo hours later on their way home that Jim fell silent himself, staring out the window, feeling the last descent begin.

The world shrank to just the interior of the vehicle, to the heartbeats and scents of the people he loved, and he gave a last kick for the light when they pulled up in front of 857. Hugging him before Stevie got out to speak with Blair, he murmured in an ear, "Sorry for the inconvenience, little brother. And being such a pain."

"Turnabout, huh?" Steven said, hugging back hard. "Don't go away again, Jimmy, okay? I'm just getting to know you."

"I know. And it's my fault we wasted so much time. Take care." Jim cuffed him, smiling, and watched him walk around to the other side of the limo to join Blair. "That goes double for you, Simon," he said, tearing his eyes away to give his friend his full attention. "I'm sorry, and I'm sorrier that it took me so long to take that hand of friendship you kept out for so long. Thank you for being so stubborn."

He held out his hand, hoping for a shake, but Simon held it, looking at the back of it as if there were a message printed there. "That sounds too much like goodbye, Jim. The permanent kind." He lifted his eyes, a hint of embarrassment coloring them. "I know you're hurting; I even know why. Blair told me you were lovers and things were pretty bad because neither of you have a clue how to do the gay thing. But you worked out the sentinel stuff and it was way, way stranger than being straight and falling for a man. You can do this."

Jim gave a half smile and reclaimed his hand gently. "It's not that simple. Not when you add in the cop thing and the sentinel thing and the dissertation thing and all the rest of the shit we're trying to pick our way through."

"Then make it that simple. Make it one man who wants to love and doesn't know how and one man who knows how to love and doesn't want to."

Jim drew back, blinking. "Is that how you see it?"

"Isn't that how it is?" With a gentle shove, Simon sent him out of the car, saying sternly, "If I have to do this again, it *will* be to commit you." He glared at Blair who was glaring at him, "Both of you." He leaned back in the limo, taking out one of his cigars and popping it into his mouth as Steven came in on the other side. Tapping on the glass behind the driver, he said, "Home, Jeeves." Shutting the door, Jim stepped back, hearing Simon chuckle, "I've always wanted to say that."

Blair grabbed him by the front of his shirt and towed him upstairs, hanging on as if afraid that without his backup, Jim would take advantage and make a getaway. Too absorbed in trying on Simon's view of their relationship, Jim went along with it, not balking until they reached the foot of the stairs to his bedroom.

"No, look, Chief, I told you, this is your home, and I'm not throwing you out of your bed. We can put the futon back in the office, and I'll sleep there if you're sick of seeing me on the couch."

"It's not my home," Blair said fiercely. "It's ours and until you claim your part of it, all I'm ever going to feel like is a squatter. Shut up and move!" He got behind Jim and pushed, huffing with the effort to overcome Jim's resistance.

Doing as he was told, Jim looked over his shoulder, sighing at the very stubborn look Blair's face. A vague memory of how safe and warm his room at his dad's place had felt popped up, and he surrendered, trudging up until he was at the top step. There he halted, impervious to another shove from behind, taking in the small alterations with a trained eye.

One side of the room was virtually unchanged, right down to his badge and gun resting on the nightstand where he kept them at night. His robe was hanging undisturbed - but not dusty - where it should, his pillow looked as if it hadn't been moved since he had made his bed last. He could have been just coming up from a shower after a day's work, like he had a million times, to go to bed.

The other side had been converted into a Sandburg zone. A stack of books and papers was piled next to the bed, looking ready to topple at the least provocation. Blair's spare glasses were on top of it, a pair of his sneakers dangling over the wire that created the barrier between the bedroom and the rest of the apartment. That side, and only that side of the bed, was a bit crumpled, as if smoothed hastily into 'almost made' before a mad dash for the front door.

It looked like the bedroom of a married couple, a pair who had had ample time to settle into each other's ways and find tolerance for their differences.

For the first time, Jim wondered *why* Blair had moved upstairs if he'd been so sure that Jim would come out of his catatonia. Why he had taken the futon out of his old room, why he had tried to get Jim to confess to loving him, why he wouldn't let him *go.*

A particularly hard knock made him stumble forward, and Blair ducked around him. "What is your...." He stopped when he saw where Jim was staring and darted toward it. "Sorry, sorry. I'll get this mess out in a minute, it's just a few things."

Jim sat on the end of the bed and caught Blair by the hand as he hustled past, one arm haphazardly full of papers. "Don't. Please."

"No, I know how much you hate having my stuff all over the place." Blair tried to wiggle his hand free, but Jim wouldn't let go, fingers lacing through his lover's sturdier ones to prevent it.

"I have an idea, here, Chief, if you're willing to listen." He waited patiently, though his thoughts were tumbling anxiously around the concept of 'a man who doesn't know how to love and a man who doesn't want to', fitting a thousand different things about his life with Blair into it.

"Uh, sure," Blair agreed worriedly, then added firmly, "As long as it doesn't involve you sleeping anywhere else."

"Why not share the bedroom with me, then?" Jim asked quietly. "I don't feel right about making you go back downstairs, and you don't feel right staying up here. Sharing makes perfect sense."

"I can't," Blair said flatly.

If he didn't know how to love, Jim decided painfully, he could always imitate Blair. Do whatever his lover would do in any given situation and maybe that would be a way of learning. Blair wouldn't take a no for a first answer. Hell, he wouldn't take it for the fourteenth, if it mattered to him enough to get to the bottom, so Jim asked again. "Why not?"

That seemed to be an unexpected moved on his part; Blair actually fidgeted in place before blurting, "Cause I'd never sleep, man. Not with you so close."

Unintentionally he winced. "It's that bad being near me? What I can do to make it easier?"

"No!" Blair shouted, then backed down hastily, "No, it's not like that at all."

"Well, then, explain it to me."

"Look, if you're going to be like this, go sleep on the couch for all I care. I was just trying to make you feel at home again." Blair yanked at the hold on him, trying to get free.

Well, if he could take a page out of his partner's book, no reason why the other man couldn't take one out of Jim's and be a total belligerent shit. "Why won't you share the bedroom with me if you don't have a problem with me being in your space? It's not as if we haven't shared smaller quarters, camping and whatever."

"I didn't say there wasn't a problem," Blair muttered, pretending to be distracted by the shifting mass of papers. "Just that it's not you. It's me, okay?"

"Blair," Jim started again, tiredly. God, where did Sandburg get the energy for these head-into-a-wall sessions?

"Look, Jim," he muttered finally, giving up and tossing his burden onto the floor in the general direction of his side of the bedroom. "You might not be attracted to me, but I *am* attracted to you. I always have been, in a vague, what-is-it-like-with-a-guy kind of way. And now I know what it's like, and I want it, and you can't expect me to lie there next to that incredible bod of yours and keep my hands to myself. That kind of torture I don't need."

Relieved, Jim said softly, "I don't have a problem with that. In case you didn't notice a few days ago."

To his surprise, Blair was the one who winced. "Man, after the way I messed up, I'm surprised you can stand the sight of me. I practically attacked you, then left you hanging. Girls have dumped me for a lot less."

Snorting, Jim coaxed his lover a few feet closer with a tiny pull that was more a suggestion than anything else. "First times are always a mess. Considering the lack of experience...." He looked at Blair questioningly and received a confirming nod, "it wasn't as bad as my very first time."

Curiosity did what gentleness couldn't; Blair stepped to the edge of the bed, eyes bright with interest. "That's hard to believe."

"I had her panties down," Jim confessed wry, "And was almost home when she made this sweet little noise that just hit me in the gut. I came so hard I nearly blacked out, and she thought that I had peed on her. Slugged me right in the jaw, yanked her panties up and stomped off."

Laughing despite himself, Blair asked, "How old were you?"

"Twelve - a few months shy of my thirteenth. The young lady in question was a few months older, in case you're wondering. Had her in the 'secret clubhouse' all kids build." Jim laughed, too, remembering Becky's grumbled, 'boys!' as she went.

He sobered quickly and said, "The thing is, I don't look at you and think in the animal part of my mind, 'great ass, I wonder how tight it is' or 'god, that mouth looks like it's made for sucking,' like I would with a woman. But when you touch me everything in me feeds on it, and if it's an intimate touch, it makes it that much better. I guess I get hard because of automatic response, but that doesn't make it any less valid, or any less satisfying when I get off."

"Way to be romantic, here, Ellison," Blair muttered.

Hiding a grin, Jim agreed with a shrug and leaned his forehead on his lover's chest. "You're hardly the first to tell me that. Carolyn considered me hopeless." As he'd hoped, a hand came up to the back of his head, stroking the short hair there carefully. Shivering, he brought Blair closer to him, finally releasing his hand so that he could wrap his arms around the slim waist.

They stood that way a few long, sweet minutes that were way too short for Jim, then Blair asked, "So then you really liked what we did? Even, ah, me, uh..."

"Entering me?" Jim supplied, then he inhaled deeply. "God, I like the way you smell." He nosed at the shirts covering Blair's chest, found a minor gap between two buttons, and burrowed into it. "Yes, Blair, I liked having you inside me," he muttered, quickly getting lost in the wisps of fragrance and heat. "I liked kissing you, I liked the noises you made when you came, liked it all."

"That," Blair murmured, spreading his legs as he straddled his lover's, "is a good thing because I think it's about to happen again."

"Mmmmm," he agreed, ducking his head enough to rub his cheek over the growing bulge in front of him. It was hot, redolent with a musk that was mouth watering for Jim, and he bit at it carefully. Not the least bit perturbed that he wanted to do something which would have disgusted him a year ago, he undid buttons on the fly until Blair's erection was eye to eye with him.

He hadn't really taken time to look it over before, so he did this time, gingerly running a fingertip under the edge of the crown and marveling at how *soft* something so *hard* could be. The tip was damp, and he unthinkingly dabbed at the moisture with his tongue, finding the bitter tang much better than he had expected to. From there it was a small step to taking the whole head into his mouth, sucking experimentally.

Above him he heard an incoherent noise, and the hand on his head tightened as if to pull him off. He started a slow jacking motion on the shaft below his hand, matching it to the action of his tongue, and the hand pressed him down, unintentionally encouraging him to take the cock deeper.

Oral sex had always been one of his favorite things with women, and with Blair it was better, much better, and not just because it was Blair. It engaged all of his senses so effortlessly: feel of shaft in mouth and hand on supersensitive lips and tongue, stronger taste all right there, scent almost physically caressing his face as he worked, obscene slurps and groans, and the sight, the sight of that lovely flesh vanishing and reappearing as he moved his head up and down on it.

It was going to make him come, make him cream in his pants like a kid, and he didn't care. Blair was close too. He could feel it in the thrumming of the fluids in his cock, almost hear the load building and building in the sac under it. Happily he groaned deep in his chest and picked up the pace, eager to accept that most intimate taste of his lover.

Blair pulled away, holding Jim's hair to keep him from following, and ignoring the tiny cry of disappointment he couldn't stop. "Not like this, not like this," Blair moaned.

Toppling back onto the bed, Jim hastily threw off clothes. "Fuck me?" He squirmed back into the middle of it, spreading his legs eagerly. "Now?"

"God, god, god, god," Blair chanted, ripping off his own clothes, eyes never leaving Jim's wantonly offered body. "You want it. You want me."

"Yes!" He opened his arms and wasn't disappointed; Blair all but threw himself into them.

His lover's lips found his before his weight settled over him completely, and Jim was lost, completely lost in a sensual haze made of hungrily roaming hands and mouth. Blair turned him into a feast and devoured him with single-minded intent, never giving him the chance to do more than moan or whimper. When he finally reached his cock, there was nothing Jim could do but empty himself into the wet heat, screaming Blair's name.

And that was not the end of his pleasure, because Blair simply swallowed him down, then forced his legs wide so that he could lick and suck his way to the opening of Jim's body. If he'd been able, he would have climaxed again. As it was, he shook convulsively, feeling the smallest of movements from Blair's lips and fingers with blasts of pure physical good that would have driven him insane if he hadn't needed it so badly.

When his lover finally lifted his head, dragging the back of his hand over his face to dry it some, Jim was utterly boneless except for the weeping erection standing straight up from his groin. He couldn't even help Blair get his legs up, but had to let them dangle limply over his back. It was only when Blair fumbled to place a condom and lube that he mustered his mind enough to protest.

"No, bare," he mumbled, knocking away the condom. "Know the risks and don't care."

"I do," Blair argued, but he was too aroused, to judge by the tremors in his hands and legs, for it to be more than token.

"Please, no barriers. Need this touch, *need* it, lover." He flexed his legs, using his heels to pull Blair down to him, almost impaling himself on the thick shaft aimed at his ass. At the same time he buried his hands in Blair's curls, not caring he bent nearly in half to accomplish that. Forcing heavy lids up, he effortlessly met a gaze that was nearly insane with suppressed lust, sure his own was as black. "I want you naked in me, want your seed in me, your scent over me. Please."

"Jim," he groaned hoarsely, "God, Jim." A small thrust put the head of his cock at the rim of the yielding portal. "Need you, too. So much." Sliding forward, he breached the tight ring, and sighed, "So much."

The next thrust filled Jim completely, and he accepted it with a sigh of his own, eyes still locked with his lover's. "Yes, so much."

Blair began a steady pumping that shook both of them, shook the bed itself, each stroke seemingly going deeper into Jim and yet paradoxically carrying him higher up in eddies of pleasure into the blue of Blair's eyes. It seemed neither of them were willing or able to break that connection, and he savored as a vital part of their joining, hoping his lover sensed that too.

He must have, on some level at least, because he cupped the side of Jim's face, the same way his own was held, even as his movements took on a ragged, desperate edge. "Now..." he mumbled, "need... now... now, Jim... now!"

At the command Jim was finally released from his endless dive, and sent rocketing for the bright surface hovering over him. All the air left in him rushed out in a long, silvery stream that led the way to his next breath, and he reached it with an implosion of joy that was consumed with its equal and its match from Blair. His climax finished with a backbreaking jolt, and he sucked in a new breath, tasting and scenting their culmination in it.

Fresh air had never tasted so sweet.