Disclaimer: These characters, the show, and the concept do not belong to me; instead, that very definite pleasure is known to UPN, Paramount, and Pet Fly Productions, who don’t treat them as well as we do, but have a bigger budget for special effects and PR. So we forgive them. *grin* This was just something that came to out of the blue one night when I should have been studying for one of three midterms, packing for the SentinelCon ‘98, or working on one of at least four ongoing stories. So, of course, I dropped everything to write it. *grin* Tell me what you think!

A Clear Time

Crashing, pounding waves against the shore. Just past dawn, the rising sun staining the sand and sky a hundred thousand shades of pink and red and gold and orange. No clouds yet; it’s going to be a scorcher today, but right now it’s still chilly. Sea birds cry out and screech plaintively for a dozen miles all up and down the coast, making the comparative silence around me a relief. The stiff breeze is filled with the tangy scent of salt, warms smells of grass and fish and seaweed and a dozen, a hundred other odors I don’t really want to know about. I isolate, tag, and ignore them, one by one, just like Sandburg taught me.

Sandburg’s beside me. I don’t know how he finagled this week off for the two of us, but he did, and I’m grateful. We needed this, both of us, though I showed it more, I think. Blair’s reaction to stress is to get even more enthusiastic than usual, so most people don’t even notice he’s hurting until he’s on the ragged edge of burnout. It’s more obvious with me; if I yell more than usual, then I’m stressed. And I’ve been yelling a lot lately. We both needed to get away, and an old student of Sandburg’s, who just happens to have a surfing cabin down here in Northern California and won’t need it until next July, lent him the keys for this week. So here I am, surfboard in hand, and finally able to relax from the endless grind of death and scum and filth.

Okay, so I’m being pessimistic. After all, it’s not that bad--since, usually, I win and the bad guys lose. But it wears on you, and just because I don’t show it as often as my partner doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect me. There have been days when all I wanted was to go back to bed, let someone else fight crime and save the world that day. And then I remember that that isn’t the way it works, that there isn’t anyone who can do what I do, and that’s that. And off I go.

But is sure feels damn good to get away from that, if only for a week. I owe you one for this, partner, big time.

I’ve never known anyone like Sandburg before. He’s almost completely selfless when it comes to me; I’ve never seen anything like it, and it scares the hell out of me, that level of trust. I get the feeling that if I told him to cut off his right arm, if it was to help me, he’d do it. No one’s ever trusted me like that. And he’s not even a cop; he shouldn’t have to be that way. He shouldn’t have to put himself in danger. Not for me. But I’ve tried to keep him safe, and it hasn’t worked, and what the hell can I do about that? Just keep him close, and hope that the bad guys are too busy aiming for the bigger target to worry about his shadow.

He follows me around like a damn puppy, always trailing in my wake. Half the time he forgets his observer’s badge, which is probably lucky because the date of expiration is about two years overdue. The uniforms pretty much recognize him by now, ‘Ellison’s shadow’, and just wave him on through. He doesn’t know it, but I know exactly how hard it was for him to get their respect; I heard him getting hassled at the station a couple of times, back when he still forgot how much I could hear, and it didn’t always go his way. But once he came home to the loft moving very carefully, all bruised up, and trying to hide an insufferably pleased look behind a story that he tripped and fell at the University. The next day two uniforms reported sick, and I didn’t hear much more from anyone after that. I figure Sandburg finally got tired of the ‘hippie-freak, love child’ cracks and made them put their money where their mouths were. And Blair may not be big, but he’s wiry, smart, and fast; he’s held his own against a lot, more than they realize.

He’s my only good friend. Him and Simon, but Simon was never as close to me as Blair is, never knew as much about me as Blair does. And he never wanted to know that much. Whatever else he may be, Simon’s still my captain first, and everything else second. He has to keep at least a little emotional distance, just to be able to function as my captain. And I understand that--but Blair’s different. With Blair it goes beyond that kind of rank system, beyond even simple friendship or partnership. Maybe brothers, except that I haven’t been this close to Stephen since I was ten and he was five. Maybe lovers, except that I haven’t been this close, this comfortable, this completely honest and trusting with any lover, not even Carolyn. Of course, we also aren’t sleeping together, but that’s more a happenstance than anything solid. I wouldn’t mind going to bed with the guy, and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind sleeping with me; it’s just never been an issue. It’s never had to be; we don’t need it.

Or maybe we’re just two halves of the same soul, if you believe that kind of metaphysical crap. Sandburg would probably know more about that than me, though.

All I know is that his heartbeat is more precious to me than anything else on this beach. I can’t sleep without it anymore; I go to sleep listening to it strong and sure in the room underneath me. If I know he’s going to be gone for the night, I might as well not go to bed, ‘cause I’m not going to be able to sleep. That started about a year ago, right after that disaster in Peru, when Blair made his commitment to stay. I don’t think I could ever live without him now. It’s a good thing I trust him like I’ve never trusted anyone else in my life, or else I’d be worried about what to do if the kid ever decided to leave. But if Blair leaves, he’s taking me with him.

It’s disconcerting and not entirely pleasant to me to be so totally dependant on a single person, but somehow with Blair I don’t mind. He’s a part of me now.

The look in his eyes is incredible. A sort of smug, ‘I did it!’ look, seeing me obviously enjoying myself here on the beach. He’s not saying anything and neither am I, we’re just sitting here and watching the sun come up. I feel relaxed for the first time in forever, it feels like. I’ve been pushing everyone pretty hard lately; late nights, not much chance to slow down. Blair had to do most of the driving down while I slept. And that’s another first, because nobody, and I mean *nobody* drives my truck but me. It’s a control thing, and a trust thing. But that doesn’t mean so much with Blair. I can’t control him. Hell, I’m can’t even get him to wait in the truck while I check things out to make sure it’s safe. That kid is completely without any sense of self-preservation, I swear.

I think I’ll go surfing now. I’ve been watching the sunrise long enough, there’s more than enough light to see by. It’s still fairly cold and Blair’s beginning to shiver; for some reason, he feels the cold and I never do. When I actually leave the beach to surf he promised to give me some privacy, so that means when I start he can head back to the cabin where it’s warm. But there’s something I want to say, first, that needs to be said. That I don’t say nearly often enough.

"Thanks, Chief."

And the look in his eyes makes it all worth it.

**********************************

Blair slowly walked back to the beach house, unable to stop grinning. Jim was happy and relaxed for the first time in weeks. They were together, free to just hang out as they chose, no trouble, no obligations. Jim was already getting his sea legs out on the water, when Blair glanced over his shoulder to check on his partner. And Jim had just thanked him, all the things he couldn’t say shining out of clear blue eyes. Life was good.