Author's webpage: http://www.drizzle.com/~eliade/

Strains May Float - Part Two

C:My DocumentsCompost1997June3.doc

Punishment. I woke up early this morning and realized that I need to write something about this, can't believe I haven't before. I just searched back through all my entries, but there have only been vague, coded references. I guess I knew that, but thought I might have slipped at some point.

It's lame, to have this fear of being found out. But it makes me understand Jim better. My thoughts on this are lucid this morning. I was dreaming of Jim.

We were both drinking, the first time I almost talked about this with him. We were drinking long and steady, through evening into the small hours, sitting on the couch facing one another, both of us fully dressed but intimate. We'd been having sex for months, on and off. Short bursts of weeks where we couldn't keep our hands off each other, and then we'd work up an argument about something or other, mainly just so we could rebound to women, to a safe distance. We got along despite everything, well enough. We'd cemented a friendship.

That night he spent hours paring off a careful chain of short military anecdotes, many of them not even about him, but they told me a lot. In return I'd told him about this and that, about traveling with Naomi, about field trips. I made up some stories. Others were true. Later I found myself draped into the crook of his body, like a kid in a tree, between branches, and I turned to curl against his body, its hardness, and he told me more military stories, dirty ones. I liked that, and we made out for a while, talking during breaks, never going all the way. I remember the back of my neck resting on the curve of his arm, its solidity. Then the conversation tacked in a different direction again, and I told him things, I can't even remember what, about my childhood and adolescence, and I told him what a bastard I was, figuratively, not literally, though that too. I vomited up some guilt, the dark Jewish stew that nourishes my secret inner life, and he was silent while I talked, and I bitched about my therapy, years of it subsidized by my grandparents, and how pointless it had all been. Not really all pointless, but enough to make me feel disgusted as I fished up details of the past and recounted them. As I talked, I went further toward the line that I'd never crossed before, prodding him subtly--as subtle as I can be when drunk--toward the subject I was circling. I asked him about his own childhood, and when he wouldn't tell me anything useful, I asked him about the military again and about its discipline, its punishments.

We didn't talk about it then. Just almost. But he remembered the conversation. I could see it in his eyes the next morning, and in his speculative face. But he let it go, and I was afraid, and I let it go too. Two or three weeks later we were driving home from a case consultation in Oregon, late at night. He was usually the quiet one on highway drives, and I was the talky one, to keep him from zoning. But he kept picking at me that night, like a man picking scabs, except they were mine. I think the case had some militaristic details, and that's what got him started. He did it with skill. The man is an artist at interrogation, and his secret is, he doesn't let you see it, and you don't notice, and after you do notice, you forget until the next time. The great Ellison facade is smooth as stone. He went at me first with quiet, casual questions, then with a broad, joking fusillade, and then he just dug in with his gun and targeted the one vulnerable spot he knew was there somewhere, and kept at me until I cracked. Which is to say, I broke down at last and said: "I wonder sometimes what it would be like to just give up all the guilt we live with, to know that if you do something, it's punished and accounted for, like a kid who gets spanked and he's okay with it, because that's the trade off." Something along those lines. And he knew what I was thinking. And the weird thing was, he was interested, as if I'd suddenly become worthy of a different kind of respect. Wanting punishment, discipline. To take it like a man, despite the guise of this childish need. He understood, maybe better than I did. I recognized another face of Jim, sharp and unfazed, in the darkness of the truck as we drove.

I want. . .structure. Half a lifetime ago I said, "Today I am a man," but I've never really felt as if that's true. I was supposed to have taken responsibility for all my sins beginning that day. And I guess I did because Naomi stood up there and relinquished them. But I kind of think--I know--that I was responsible for them even before that day, too. And it was always heavy.

It took a while to work out the details with Jim, but the exchange fit unexpectedly well into the puzzle of our life together. It became a monthly thing. End of the month, confession, penance. No regression or role-playing, though, no elaborate scenario of masochism. Just this day of atonement, my own private ritual. If I were another kind of man, maybe even a better and wiser man, I'd probably pour all my angst into religion, say ashamnu and al chet at the proper times while beating my chest with self-flagellant force. Instead I let Jim whale on me. I don't know that I'm pure of my aberrations when he's done; not when what I'm doing is an aberration itself. But it keeps me thinking about my sins and makes me feel as if someone gives a shit. It feels like compliance.

It's one of the few areas of my life I don't apply anthropology to. I'm afraid to examine this through any lens. It would only be distorted.

I read back over what I've written above and think: I'm so self-deluded. When am I not an anthropologist? I collect logs on irc as if they were field notes. But does that count? I save them, thinking that someday I'll make more use of the material, even if it's only to write a private and unpublishable organization of thoughts, but I never look at them again once they're tucked away behind their password-protected barrier.

Twenty minutes after Jim stopped, the local fire crew had arrived on the accident scene and order was appearing quickly and efficiently from chaos. Jim felt confident enough of the scene management to walk away for a moment and take a breather. He stared down the road in the presumed direction of Blair's vanished Volvo. He hadn't yet been able to touch base with the reporting officer, but sensed the rightness of the direction and that he'd been close to catching up with the chase. Now there was no telling where Blair had gotten to.

When Jim concentrated his vision, it tunneled down into a blurred impression of green foliage, along a blur of asphalt, and stopping in a hazy vanishing point where the road could no longer be distinguished from its surroundings. He strained his sight but the pollen, dust, and smoke corrupted his potential range. Conscious of his guide's absence and the risk of zoning, he shook himself out of his exercise after a minute.

Twenty minutes lead time. Jim's gut ached at the missed opportunity. By now they could have veered off in any number of directions, be on their way anywhere. He wondered what his odds were of getting a set of road blocks authorized, but knew the answer.

Smoke and the dusty tang left by dry-chemical extinguishers still hung and drifted heavily in the atmosphere, and every inhalation dragged the tainted air scratchily through his nasal passages and downward into his lungs. If Blair were here, he'd be muttering anxiously about toxins and nudging Jim toward fresh air.

Jim turned and strode over to the officer who'd been on the scene when he arrived, and after a quick introduction confirmed that the man, stationed out of Blackwood, had been in pursuit of Blair's Volvo when he dropped out to handle the accident. The deputy, McMillan, summarized the incident but had few helpful details to impart, not even enough for Jim to bother making mental notes.

"You'll be keeping an eye out for them," Jim said to McMillan, handing over his card and giving him a detective-grade stare to make sure his seriousness was appreciated.

"Yes, sir," McMillan said crisply. He put the card on his clipboard, aligning it with the clamp. "I reported it when I called this in."

"Call me directly if anything turns up."

"That we will."

It had to be accepted as enough, so Jim perfunctorily offered further help, had his offer politely declined, and returned to his truck. He sat there, sideways on the edge of the seat and with the door open, absently scanning the accident's debris while he called Simon on his cell phone.

"Banks."

"It's me. We lost the Volvo. There was an accident on the road. School bus."

"Serious?"

"Luckily, no. Just a few kids, and they're okay. The officer who called in the sighting had to stop. There was no one on the scene. I stopped too." Jim swallowed unreasonable guilt, as if he were speaking these words to Blair instead of Simon, explaining why he'd lost him. He was hungry, tired, and suddenly aware of his deep anger and frustration. He glared out through the clearing smoke, down the blameless but empty road.

"You going to keep scouting or come in?" Simon was asking him.

"Hadn't decided."

"I'm waiting for a fax from the Everett PD. Copy of some pertinent outtakes from their file. Stuff not on the system."

Jim hesitated, then made up his mind. "I'm coming in."

He hung up and climbed into the truck. Turning it around wrenched him, and he drove away in a knot of conflicting impulses, thinking about Blair, one ear tuned to radio traffic for reports. His foot was heavy on the gas pedal and he did not stop for food, despite his need; he made good time. When he reached the station, he took five in the break room for coffee, and a package of cookies that tasted like wood pulp and fruit juice, then went to the bathroom to wash the dust off his face. He had to study himself in the mirror to make sure he was calm. He looked calm, was the funny thing. Tiredness sometimes exaggerated his expressions, and other times ironed them flat.

You're a cop, Jim told his reflection.

And with that reminder in place, Jim went to Simon's office, where he looked over the fax that had arrived and listened to Simon recap an assessment of what he'd found. Iris had a brother, Rob Johnson, with whom she'd been arrested in the drug-trafficking case, and they were both a pair of freebirds.

"Says he's a mechanic out of a garage near Freemount," Jim noted.

"Worth a look, don't you think?"

He was obviously intending to come along. Jim, unable to voice his thanks and not sure if he was supposed to, gave a wordless, awkward acknowledgment.

They rode separately to the garage. On the drive over, Jim could not stop speculating on how dangerous Iris and her pals might turn out to be. At points during the trip he got so pissed off he would have accelerated had he seen her in the road. But he tamped his loosening emotions down again and let them smoke. He had to concentrate, deal with one thing at a time. If they didn't find Blair by the end of the day, he'd force Simon to open this up into a full-fledged kidnapping investigation. He had to keep his nose to the trail, get some evidence that would support this action. . .if it came to that.

When he reached their destination, Simon was just car lengths behind. Jim exited the truck and attuned himself to the feel of the place, giving it a sharp once over without looking anywhere directly. The weathered garage was hung with signs, mismatched hubcaps and tires, its door raised to display a work in progress. A few other cars sat on the lot, one with its hood open. To the left of the garage was an old grey house, a blue jeep parked in front. None of the vehicles were Sandburg's Volvo. Jim absorbed the quiet, alert for his guide's heartbeat, his breath. Heard and felt nothing. His senses seemed dulled, hard to dial up. He felt no immediate human presence, but the hairs on the back of his neck tingled with awareness.

Simon had already pulled up and begun walking past him in the direction of the house when Jim froze in place and inhaled the air. "Hang on a second," he said to Simon.

"What's up?" Simon asked, turning.

"Sandburg's car. I can smell the burnt oil."

"You sure?"

"It's the special synthetic stuff," Jim said. "It's unmistakable." And he had never been so happy to smell burnt oil before. A twist of satisfaction went through his gut.

"I'll check the house," Simon volunteered.

"I'll check the garage." Jim headed inside, barely glancing at the mess of equipment that reefed its walls. Smells of oil, exhaust and grease hung densely in the air, seizing his unwelcome focus. It was a long but narrow building and he went straight to the back, glanced at the contents of a creaky shelving unit, then peered around for a view of the rear door. There was no one around.

He heard his name called by Simon, no distress in the tone, and then his captain appeared in the doorway with a short, stocky man in tow. "You'll never guess who I found."

Jim moved to the front with long strides until he came to stand near them. "That's the guy from the surveillance tape," he said in recognition, interest sharpening like a knife. He swept a glance down him. Hair aside, the man looked nothing like Blair.

"Hey, look," the guy said, "I don't know what's going on here, man."

"We were kinda wondering ourselves," Jim said with deceptive mildness. The guy's voice was slow and stupid, and he was clearly stoned.

"Well, I swear I'm not trying to put anything over on you guys. I had the stuff. It was right here and then that bitch, she takes off on me, right?"

Simon nodded with a show of earnest understanding.

The man eyed them, an uneasy grin sliding along with his words. "You guys--you're the--you're the ones that--that Rob called, right?"

Jim and Simon traded glances and shared a traditional handshake of laughter, the kind that truly dumb perps prompt in a cop. True to form, their perp took it as further encouragement.

"You're here to buy the. . .stuff." The man's gummed and uncertain voice strung the statement out slowly.

Simon shrugged and looked at Jim, ceding the floor.

"Where's Blair Sandburg?" Jim asked, point-blank.

"Who?"

"I'm Jim Ellison." Jim drew out his badge and ID, flashed the tin then put the case back in his pocket. "I'm with the Cascade P.D. This is Captain Simon Banks."

Simon gave the guy a friendly tiger of a smile.

The perp made a muted noise of shock and lurched for escape. Simon caught and hauled him back easily with just one hand, and then gripped him by the collar. "You didn't answer the man's question," he noted. He unhanded the perp in a gesture that unfurled into a shove, sending him staggering back against the wall to knock against a set of shelves.

Jim closed the distance, pinning the man with his gaze. "Let's just try this again. Where's Blair Sandburg?"

"I plead the sixth," the man said anxiously. "No, fifth! Yeah. The fifth."

"You can't plead the fifth," Jim growled ominously. "You're not in court. Yet."

"Hey, are you arresting me? 'Cause if you're not--"

"Yes, I'm arresting you." Jim swung him around and handcuffed him. "Discharge of a firearm in city limits, reckless endangerment, and if we like you for that, let's add carjacking, kidnapping during the commission of a carjacking, grand theft auto--" He paused and patted the guy down, then dug his fingers quickly into his left front pocket and pulled out a bag. "Possession of a controlled substance."

"Shit, man! I just--"

"You have the right to remain silent," Jim said over the other man's objection, and rattled off the rest of Miranda in clipped, grudging bursts while Simon went to radio for back-up. He finished the warning, found the guy's wallet open and glanced at the license inside. "Charles Vaughn," he read aloud. He turned the guy around, eyed him. "So, Charles, you want to tell me about it?"

"Um. I think I want a lawyer. Yeah. Yeah, I definitely want a lawyer."

Jim sighed, then grabbed his arm and walked him out of the garage. "Our little friend here has lawyered up. I'm going to double-check the house." He handed the guy off to Simon. "See if there's anything interesting."

Simon nodded and let him go, and Jim went and sniffed the house with distaste, turning up by sense alone a rolled bag of marijuana, two cached joints, three guns, a jar of GHB tablets, and a stickily fingerprinted copy of Pamela and Tommy's honeymoon video. He didn't bother to do more than uncover the goods carefully and leave them in view. He could hear the arrival of the locals, and headed out of the house to fill them in on his findings before trudging off again, this time around the back of the garage. He surveyed the environs with grim thoroughness, ensuring that he missed no possible traces of blood, no stashed bodies.

It was a relief that nothing red-flagged his senses, but it was also a disturbance. Of course Blair was innocent of wrongdoing, but Jim was beginning to have moments in which he questioned whether this was a simple abduction or some kind of harebrained Blair adventure. Maybe he thought he could help reform Iris, bring her in safely. But he would have called the station, or Jim, had he been able. That alone was significant. Jim shook off the doubt, which was no more than optimism in disguise. He wanted Blair to be safe, not lying in a ditch somewhere.

And he was safe, Jim decided. Because nothing else was acceptable.

As he came back to the front of the lot through the garage, two police officers were leading their perp away. Jim stopped to touch a dash of oil on the ground, and rubbed it between his fingers thoughtfully.

"The guy's still not talking," Simon said as Jim reached him. "I'm sending him back to the station. Let Detective Adams have a crack at it."

"Looks as if Sandburg's car is leaking oil as well," Jim said, crouching down to dip up another spill of oil from the gravel outside the garage. Simon hunkered down next to him.

"I don't mean to put a damper on things, Jim, but this is a garage. There's oil everywhere."

"No, trust me on this one, Captain." Jim could suddenly see the oil clearly, as if a paintbrush had been dragged lightly across the ground. He didn't know whether its visibility was personally enhanced or not, but it didn't matter. "The drops are leaving a trail," he told Simon. He stood, focus sharpening, and stared off across the lot. He could see traces of oil all the way to the road. Roused, pleased, he gave Simon an encouraging thump and called, "Follow me." He took off without a glance back, counting on his captain to follow.

Blair ended the next leg of his run by veering from the tracks and making a triumphant arrival at the highway. A semi was heading his way with perfect timeliness. Exhilarated with relief, he bounced in place and pumped his fist at the air. As the semi approached he tried to flag it down but it roared on by with a blast of its airhorn. Blair groaned his outrage. Man, he'd driven a rig. He'd been an honorary member of the fraternity of the road. What happened to all the good samaritans? Aggrieved and frustrated, he spun to watch the truck barrel on down the road, then turned as a car rolled up to him.

His car.

A cheerful young man with an anchor beard and close cropped hair, whom Blair had never seen before in his life, smiled at him from the driver's seat. "Great car, dude."

During the short, startled beats while Blair was processing--trying to figure out why a millennial Maynard G. Krebs was driving his car and how he'd recognized him as its owner--Iris stepped out of the passenger side of the car and trained her gun at him across the roof.

"Get in the car, Blair."

Wonderful, thought Blair. Perfect. Peachy keen. Disgusted with this turn of events and with the long-limbed, gun-toting bane of his existence, Blair forgot himself. "What're you gonna do," he snapped crankily. "You gonna shoot me? I don't think so."

Iris fired the gun and the bullet stroked the air next to Blair's head, close enough that he felt its riffling wake. He throttled back his defiance. "All right, so I was wrong. I'm coming. Relax. Calm down."

He went around the car and climbed into the back seat where he settled with deep tiredness. Iris took her place in the front seat and aimed the gun at him once again over the seat back. Blair suspected he should be far more worried about the possibility of an accidental discharge. Iris should too. Hadn't these people seen Pulp Fiction?

"What do we need him for?" the man, obviously Rob-her-brother, asked.

Iris turned a smile her brother's way. "I just thought of a new plan and we need him to help us."

"Oh, god," said Blair, heartfelt, and listened in disbelief as she outlined an insane plan to tape heroin to their bodies and smuggle it into Canada.

"Cool," said Rob. "Just like Billy Hayes in Midnight Express." He and Iris laughed together in familial unison.

"You guys are crazy," Blair burst out. "Billy Hayes spent eight years in a Turkish prison."

"Well, we're not in Turkey now, dude." Rob made it sound like a rebuke.

They took off and Blair slumped on the seat and closed his eyes. Tired, tired. He was tired of these people. He cocooned himself in denial as the wonder twins elaborated on their plans to conquer Canada. He was hungry and the two in the front seat were goofing around like kids. He almost kicked Iris's seat but reason prevailed in time.

They ended their relatively short ride at the train station. Iris butted up to Blair like white on rice as soon as he got out of the car. She'd wrapped the gun in her bag to hide it, and dug it into his side while she took his arm. The parody of girlfriendliness irritated him, and he finally dared to tell her that Jim was a cop.

"Yeah, nice try," Iris said.

"I'm serious," said Blair, threading his pervasive fear into a blanket voice of confidence. "He's out there looking for me. There is no way you'll get away with this."

Even a caution from Rob didn't convince Iris or sidetrack her plans, and they continued inside the station, which was heavily trafficked with arriving and departing crowds. The throng made it impossible for Blair to consider breaking away; someone might have gotten hurt if Iris decided to shoot. He allowed himself to be led, then prodded, into an "Employees Only" storage closet.

They stood among the shelves, cleaners, and mops and Blair watched in surreal disjointure as Rob took off his shirt. The other man caught his eye. "Let's go, man."

Iris neared enough to playfully began unbuttoning Blair's shirt. He'd never had a girl do that with a gun in her hand. "Yeah. Come on, Blair. I thought you were dying to get naked with me."

Blair drew back slightly and did the job himself. "It's not exactly what I had in mind."

It took a while to tape the drugs on effectively and he wasn't impressed with the results when he finished. Rob did not appear to be enthralled with the effect either.

"Great idea," he said to his sister, pulling his shirt down to demonstrate the disproportionate bulk that now padded his stomach.

"Yeah, well, we'll just have to repackage it," said Iris. She looked around, located a bunch of plastic bags on a shelf and handed them to her brother.

Blair, idling with his shirt buttons, began to surreptitiously track the movements of the gun in her hand. She switched it from right to left as she tried to help rip the tape off her brother's drug pack, and as they fussed with each other, Blair made his move, abruptly grabbing the weapon and then swinging around to knock Rob flat with one prayerful blow.

He held the gun on Iris and, heart tripping with his audacity, struggled to catch his breath. It was heady having the upper hand at last. "Okay. . .um. . .you take the tape and you tape up your brother. All right?" Iris carefully moved to comply. "Then you take the rest of the heroin and you put it in the bag." He left her to it while awkwardly and one-handedly yanking the belt of drugs from his midriff. From beyond the closet came the drone of boarding announcements. He knew the station must have security. He'd find them, hand Iris and the bag of drugs over, get to a phone and give Jim a call.

Plan settled, Blair left the storage room, the bag over his shoulder and Iris firmly in his grip. Iris was slinking smiles at him which were hard to ignore. He didn't understand what her knowing look knew, but it got under his skin. He shoved the gun into the back of his trousers as they entered the lobby.

"We split everything three ways. . .everything," Iris said suggestively.

"I'm not into threesomes," Blair replied, lying. Right now any chance to cut her appealed to his animosity.

Iris grinned. "Ooh, come on, baby, don't knock it till you've tried it."

Her seductive if mocking croon made the tips of his ears heat. Embarrassed at his own residual fascination, he brushed her lures off with a mutter and glanced through the crowd toward the front entrance. He wanted to get her outside; it was too risky to stay in here. If she screamed for help, he'd be the bad guy. He hoped she didn't think of it. He wasn't sure if there would be security outside, but it would be worth a look. Establishing a more reliable restraint on Iris, he resumed a fast march despite her grating noises of protest.

They were nearly out the door when the deliberate slide of the bag down his arm pulled him up short. A gun materialized alongside his cheek, long enough to make its point, then was removed. He was motionless, as was Iris beside him.

"Hey, Sport, it's your unlucky day." Parkman's voice was satisfied, the bag in his hands. "This is mine, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Blair had to let his grip on Iris go as the bag was drawn away. Enveloped by strong cologne, he felt his gun taken next. He endured the rude slide of gunmetal against the small of his back and the other man's gloating tone.

My life has become farce, thought Blair. He'd ridden so many switchbacks today he frankly just wanted to get off the road entirely. He didn't want to drive, didn't want to be driven. Nope. He wanted out of the trip altogether.

Iris strolled sulkily as Parkman guided them both out of the station through a side exit. No one they passed noticed a thing. Iris, self-serving and a born opportunist, didn't waste time working Parkman around to a new alliance.

"You're never going to get the drugs through customs by yourself," she told him. "We'll have to go with my original plan."

"Which is?"

"We tape the heroin to our bodies, smuggle it across the border, and when we get there, my brother's got the connections to unload it quickly."

"I've got my own contacts," said Parkman. "Why should I risk bringing in your brother?"

They paused for criminal conferencing near a cluster of dumpsters and debris, not far from what appeared to be a baggage loading area. Blair followed the implicit instruction of Parkman's gun and audited their conversation without comment. As they spoke he stood, hands raised, hoping someone would notice him. Daddy, look, that man has his hands in the air--and the ugly man has a gun.

"Because if anything happens to Rob, I'd be very sad," Iris said. Honey sweetened her throat and poured out with her words. "And that would mean you wouldn't have the opportunity to get to know me better, which I'll bet is something you'd like to do."

Iris wound herself to Parkman like a skinny alleycat and smiled up winningly at his bland dough-colored face, the soured currants of his eyes. Blair experienced a mild pang of nausea. If he felt any regrets for Iris's sake, it was that she was getting herself into far more than she knew. The fucker was dangerous and if she didn't watch herself she'd end up hurt, or worse.

"Yeah, maybe," the man said without enthusiasm, then looked at Blair. "What about him?"

Iris shrugged, gave Blair a dismissive smirk. "He's your call."

Parkman's gaze narrowed, fitting him for a shroud, and Blair took a breath. He'd whacked the man with a board of nails and chances were he'd be persona non grata on the next leg of the trip. And he wanted to get off, but not offed. He had no idea what to say. He knew admonitions to gun-toting weasels were of dubious survival value, but the only thing that came rolling out of his mouth was,

"Look, Parkman, this is crazy, man. You'll never get out of here with those drugs. You might as well just throw them away."

"Yeah?" The man's voice was dry as toast. "Says who?" He paused, then a shutter dropped over his empty eyes, and Blair felt himself edited out of the other man's view. "Moment of truth, babe." He handed his gun to Iris, who took it easily and without hesitation. "Do it."

Blair backed up instinctively and found himself stumbling off the edge of the sidewalk. A heap of trash hemmed him in at the rear, and with a dumpster to his left and a fence to his right, he was going nowhere.

"Such a waste," Iris said smoothly, raising to shoot.

Blair flinched to one side and heard a sharp crack followed by a ping and the skipping force of something bouncing on the ground near his left foot. He went down with a gasp, hands flat on the cool asphalt, one trousered knee grinding against something sharp. Other noises came too quickly for comprehension, a clatter and a small cry, more shots. He looked up to see Parkman running off, Iris spidered flat on the sidewalk. He stood, shots still echoing in his ears, and made himself wait in relative safety as Iris snatched up the bag of drugs and ran off. But no more shots came and after long, shuddery seconds he detached himself from his pen of refuse and looked around.

And then there was a touch on his arm and Jim was standing next to him.

"Oh, god, what--I'm glad to see you," Blair said in an honest daze.

"Me, too," Jim said. And he could have said a hundred other things, but he was Jim, so the next remark out of his mouth was, "We're not done here yet, Chief--and, Sandburg, when you find her, forget about the seven-course meals."

And then he was off like a cat chasing its prey. Good old Jim, a practical hero and a funnyman for all occasions.

Okay, Blair, rise to the occasion and the example, he told himself in an inner voice that sounded a lot like Jim's. Another more Blairlike voice in his brain was nudging him to go park himself on a bench, have an orange soda, and leave the rest to the professionals. It was sensible, but he ignored its kvetching with long practice. He'd been recalled to duty.

As he stood gathering his bearings and trying to decide exactly what duty entailed and which direction to take first, he spotted Iris skulking off. Nice. Purpose found, he followed her to front parking lot. She beelined for the Volvo and unlocked its trunk to put the bag of drugs inside. Some nerve this bitch had, going for his car again. Piqued, he eased up behind her, waited until she'd stashed the bag, then tapped her gently on the arm. She turned and Blair felt the tumblers of closure click into place. He gave the first truly pleased smile he'd felt stretch his face in nearly a day.

"You want to get in the hard way or the easy way," he asked cheerily.

"Look, Blair, I wasn't going to shoot you. . .anywhere fatal," she said, trying it on and twirling her hair at him with a little girl smile. "And going halvsies is even better."

He uttered an amazed laugh. "You never stop, do you."

Leaving her smile on, she touched his chest. "I know what boys like," she said, and her tongue performed a jawbreaker swirl, without the jawbreaker, as if to remind him of possibilities.

"I can't believe how you turned out," Blair said, shaking his head. He watched her face change, the trick of her eyes which made them glass darkly to basalt; the way her mouth folded down.

"How I turned out," she said, sounding honestly pissed. "I thought we were alike. You're a free spirit--I can tell, Blair. But now you're acting all Mister Mod Squad, 'I work with the Jakes.'" She made a face, then softened again with deliberation. "You could let me go. I know you want to."

"You know wrong."

"C'mon, Blair. You can keep the drugs. Turn them in and get your merit badge. I don't need the car, even. I can hitch a lift, be out of your hair in a minute."

Blair touched her shoulders, held them lightly. "Look, Iris. I'll do what I can for you, really--"

"I knew you were a forgiving kind of guy."

"--but I can't let you go. You can't just go around breaking the law. Guns, drugs--it's wrong. You have to take some responsibility for this." He let the day's grudges drift abeam and focused his powers of persuasion on her. "Trust me. I know how hard it is, but you have to face up to it."

She stared at him, lips twitching. "So what are you, the poster child for reform school? Bad boy made good, huh. I bet your mom would be real proud."

The aimless digs riled Blair more than he intended to let her see. "Get in," he said.

She darkened, her lips a sly pout, her eyes measuring him. "Fuck off," she said, turning her back and reaching up to close the trunk.

He grabbed a handful of her hair at the nape, and the rear belt-loop on her jeans and held her there, ignoring her ouches, and how they sounded like plaintive meows. He hardened himself. "In," he said again. Her slim hands grabbed for purchase and she climbed in and curled there as he shut the trunk lid on her. He was surprised at himself, and at her--she didn't begin cursing at him until the lid was closed, and then only briefly. Was he so fearful, he wondered, or was she.

He went and climbed in behind the wheel of his car, spent a few minutes adjusting the seat and mirrors to their norms, then pulled his back-up sunglasses out of the glove compartment. There was a weak thump from the trunk. "Yeah, yeah," he said. He sat another minute with his hands on the wheel, breathing deeply from his diaphragm. "A job well done," he said. He cleared his throat, smiled consciously. "Jim, what's up?" He started the engine. "Iris? Oh, well. Um. . .Iris? Well, you know, my mother always said. My mother always said." He pulled out of the parking space. "Naomi always taught me to put things back where I got them from. From where I got them. From where I found them."

With care, he drove toward the front of the station, where he could see the flash of a police car. "I'm a happy, happy guy," he murmured as he peered down over his sunglasses and circled the lot. A child passed in front of the car, hands clasped by a parent on either side. The mother wore pink shorts, the father wore plaid. "Naomi--my mother--always told me to. Taught me. . .told me. . ."

Blair spotted the truck and drove up alongside it. Jim and Simon stepped out to greet him and he grinned at them over the top of his sunglasses.

"Simon, Jim, what's up?" he said heartily. The other men loomed authoritatively next to the car as he put it in park.

"So where's your girlfriend?" Simon asked. Jim said nothing.

"Hey, you guys are going to love this." He got out of the car and walked to the rear, laughing for effect on the way. "You see, my mom always taught me to put things back where I found them." He popped the trunk. Iris sat up and gave them a wary regard. After a pause, Simon chuckled and Jim made a low hum that may or may not have been amusement.

Blair drew off his sunglasses with a dramatic flourish and did not meet Jim's eyes.

"Okay, miss, come on." Simon reached for Iris and helped her out of the trunk. Blair stepped aside, still smiling, still ebullient. Because he needed to be. That's what he did. He bounced a bit as Jim tugged on a pair of evidence gloves then reached in to pull out the bag of drugs. Jim opened the bag and poked through it, his elegant face studying the contents. Serious, absorbed. Then he looked up and their gazes locked across the trunk. Blair palmed the lid down.

"Good work, Chief."

Blair's heart stuttered, but he was used to this. "Hey, yeah, thanks. Man. Man, was I glad to see you. Whew. What a day." He sidled over to Jim as he spoke.

Jim raised a brow. "I'll bet."

He stood by waiting, jittery and restless, while Jim and Simon logged and secured the evidence, and then while Simon called the district attorney's office. Jim was filling out a clipboard of forms with a methodical hand that made Blair want to levitate off the ground in impatience. He tried not to look, and watched Simon instead. The police captain had gradually eased off to one side and was at turns muttering into his cell phone, and more often listening, with an increasingly grim face. Blair hoped it was just pure chance that Simon's gaze had focused his way as he frowned.

"Jim, can I talk to you a moment," Simon called out when he'd finished.

Blair leaned on the nearest car and fidgeted for five minutes while Jim and Simon stood at a distance, talking, then shooting glances at him, then gesturing his way, then clearly arguing. Oh oh, he was thinking as they walked back over to him. He tried to figure out if he'd dropped the ball in some way.

"Oh, hey--did you find Rob?" he asked, as they reached his side. At Jim's headshake, he went on, "He's inside, taped up in a storage closet."

Jim looked intrigued by that. "You don't say." A smile touched his lips. "You've been busy." He reached up and rubbed the back of Blair's neck, squeezed. Blair's head dipped a fraction. If he could have, he'd have pressed like an affectionate pony to Jim's chest. He shook in odd places, his body a sudden archipelago of nerves--one wrist, the length of his neck, knees--the shockiness of aftermath hitting him out of the blue, as it usually did. The fact that he'd eaten or drunk very little all day probably contributed too. He could tell Jim noticed, but the other man didn't make a big deal of it.

He led them to Rob, who was lying on his side on the grey floor with surprising serenity, head by a mop bucket. He didn't seem displeased at the nature of his rescue, and agreeably allowed Simon to cuff him, Mirandize him, and lead him off.

"Thanks, dude," Blair heard him say as they walked away. "That duct tape tastes for shit."

They were left standing in the storage closet alone, Jim looking down a bit, Blair looking up. Jim long-armed the door shut with a gentle click, and Blair hitched a breath as Jim turned back and slid his bare, warm hands around to cup Blair's neck and skull the way you'd hold a certain kind of vase, thumbs stroking his jaw. Then Jim kissed him. Tongue, even.

The strung-out tension in Blair's muscles melted by degrees, and he let his body relax into Jim's, let his arms wrap around that tight waist like a loose bow. His own mouth had a sharp, ketotic taste that Jim couldn't enjoy, but, oh god, he was tongue-fucking him with relish, dominant and reassuring. Blair ground his dick against Jim's thigh and in response felt Jim's thumb press harder below his ear, against the throbbing of his jugular. Pleasure spiked and he almost came, spoke love moans into Jim's hot mouth, encouraging; but Jim eased away.

Blair's breath came raggedly. He undid his heavy slitted eyelids to meet Jim's gaze. The other man's pupils were dilated and everything else about him had flared to life; he was breathing heavily through his nostrils and the sharpish lines of his cheekbone were pinked by inner heat. Yeah, I made you like that, Blair thought, happy for himself, for Jim. He closed his eyes as Jim stroked his hair, up from underneath, lifting it from Blair's head and letting it dust his knuckles, run between his fingers. Jim got off on that, had told him so once.

"How're you doing, Blair," he said in a gentle voice.

"Hmm. Good." Blair smiled and rubbed his cheek against Jim's mouth and felt Jim smile.

"No damage? No trauma to that armor-plated skull of yours?" His hands roamed a bit over Blair's head in search of head wounds, half joke, half true concern.

"No damage."

"Yeah? Your stomach's growling. You probably need a candy bar. Soda."

"Sounds good."

"We'll get something on the way out."

"Cool."

"Chief, I want you to take it easy. . ."

"Oh, I'm way easy, man."

"That's good, that's good." Jim detached himself from their embrace with care and rested his hands on Blair's shoulders. "Because I have to arrest you, buddy."

Blair gaped. "Excu--what?!"

Jim grimaced. "Sorry, Chief. It's just a formality. Some prick in the DA's office is having a go at us, wants us to take you in on a possession charge. Idea being that if we didn't know you, we'd be doing that anyway until we got it all sorted. We'll work it out. They'll probably drop the charges within--"

"Probably?" Blair shoved Jim in the chest and bounced back in disgust. "I cannot believe you, man!"

Jim looked to one side with patent guilt, then back. His face had firmed during that gesture, and when he spoke his voice was stressed, sharp. "Cut me a break here, okay? If I could avoid this, I would."

Little joy in that.

"Jim, you know I'm innocent, right?" Blair heard the vehement pressure in his own voice. The question was embarrassing but uncontrollable.

"Of course." Jim's gaze was officer-on-the-stand steady, leaving no doubt he spoke the truth, but the whiff of impatience he gave off was more comforting.

Blair swallowed, throat strained. "But I'm being arrested. What if something goes wrong, what if they say I was in on it. I could go to prison." He was aloft, but Jim shot the wild flight of worry down.

"Not a chance. No matter what happens."

Questioning that flat certainty in Jim's voice, and its implications, would have been dangerous for them both; Blair let it go for now. "Maybe I should have taken that train to Canada," he said instead darkly.

"Too cold for Sandburgs up there, I hear."

"Yeah, well."

On that note they went back to the lobby, Blair trying not to display his ill temper, Jim wisely silent. At the snack machines, he handed over several dollars from his wallet and waited while Blair grabbed his goods.

"We can hit a Wendy's on the way back," Jim offered as Blair tore into a bag of pretzels.

Blair grunted as he chewed. Jim could take that for assent if he liked, and he seemed to. On the sidewalk, Blair stood like a post and crunched pretzel after pretzel while Jim conferred with Simon. He armored himself in a casual pose, bored, as if convinced by Jim's persuasion that the arrest would be routine. He believed he'd learned a lot from watching the body language of perps, but Blair also knew he was bad at hiding his belligerence. Naomi had told him so long ago.

Uninvolved, he endured the discussion and pretended to watch a patrolman who was directing traffic to move on past the hubbub. The hunch of Jim's shoulders and the glances from Simon were hard enough to take, but the arrest itself was excruciating: Simon standing close, his low voice reciting Blair his rights, his broad face at its most unreadable, his voice at its most toneless, creating a distance cultivated for Blair's sake. Or for his own. Or, simply because he was an asshole. Blair liked Simon most days, but today he didn't want to be within ten feet of him.

He couldn't even drive his fucking car home, and that was what pissed him off the most. It was impounded for evidence, and he resigned himself to regaining it ripped to shreds, even though Jim and Simon both promised otherwise.

They didn't cuff him, that was something. Left more or less on his own recognizance, he went to sit in Jim's truck. From there, downgraded from participant observer to mere observer, he watched the methodical deconstruction of the crime scene. He couldn't see everything but he inferred most from experience. They were thorough. Simon was standing next to his car, logging evidence as the bags were brought to him. Iris's gun caught his eye, but they also appeared to have collected duct tape and other miscellany from the storage room.

After an hour, the scene wound down, and a few cars pulled off. There were one or two people standing near the entrance talking to a uniformed officer who was jotting notes, head down at his work. Statements of witnesses, presumably, except where the hell had they been when he was being escorted at gunpoint back and forth across the station lobby?

And there was Jim, arms crossed, back straight, the thrust of his chin showing an attentive but critical listening posture as another of the ubiquitous uniforms reported something or just chatted him up. Blair watched through the windshield, Jim close but distanced by the glass. He'd pulled on his role, Detective Ellison, and it looked almost natural, though Blair's eye could pick out the idiosyncracies that said he was listening on two levels, and that maybe he'd captured a scent he didn't like. Then the officer said something and Jim laughed, the generous Ellison laugh that was sometimes granted to others of his kind--badges, the fellowship of law.

Blair, next to the open truck window, heard the laugh clearly and hated him for a moment. It had been his adventure, his wild reckless ride. They'd stolen it from him, without a thought, Jim and Simon and the others.

Jim reached out in a familiar fashion and clapped the uniformed officer on the arm, saying a few words that were unintelligible to Blair's ears, and then they broke apart and Jim walked over to Simon.

Hated him for a moment. But loved him gut-wrenchingly.

All this because he was Jim. And he'd stood there and laughed with someone else, a stranger undeserving of that gift. Blair admitted easily to himself that he was jealous, and dissected his jealousy with a cool eye, peeling down to the gelid organs of spite and longing. He wanted--part of him wanted--to stand by Jim's side not just as a friend or even as a guide, but on an equal level, with badge, gun, and the force of an official position.

Respected.

Trouble was, his aspiration burned neither from love nor innate insecurity, but from pure greed. He was used to measuring himself as the peer or superior of anyone he knew, of being the brains of any outfit, and he had no intention of letting a badge and some extra muscle mass undermine his personal authority. He'd pushed himself into every corner of Jim's life and if not stopped he would keep at it until he assured himself that he'd achieved status.

I really am a son of a bitch, he thought, brooding on his own faults. Worried for Jim's sake, he directed his mood to change; to let brooding ebb, acceptance flow. He was being unfair to Jim and Simon both; he was glad it was over. Let them take care of it, clean up the mess. He would sit in the truck and be a martyr to legal red tape.

The rest he would take care of himself.

A few minutes later, Jim came to the truck and stood next to the open passenger side window, one hand on the edge. His blue eyes studied Blair. "Won't be much longer," he said.

"I'm cool," Blair said, in the spirit of obfuscation.

Jim nodded and moved off; and a few minutes later, true to his word, returned and climbed in the truck. He made it all the way out of the parking lot and a few miles down the road before his head twitched to one side, to look Blair over. Blair sat comfortably in his seat, head back, and gave no ground.

Unsurprisingly, they were at the Wendy's drive-through before either one of them opened his mouth.

"Grilled chicken sandwich, double cheeseburger, two large fries, two ice teas," Jim said to the speaker, ordering without consultation.

Blair almost asserted new and different preferences just to be perverse, challenging, cross. But his glance slipped sidewise and he was moved to dote on the shape of Jim's turned head, the vulnerable line of his neck, his arm outstretched to lay its grip on the steering wheel.

He let Jim order for him, said nothing, ate, listened to Jim eat. Jim was unsettled; Blair could always tell. But Jim could fucking well get it off his chest if he wanted to. No one was stopping him. Great apes did as they pleased. And, frankly, Blair liked getting Jim worked up. His silence and tension were aphrodisiacs. The more tightly wound Jim got, the looser Blair became. He distracted himself with an imaginary plot to hijack Jim. Take him home, tie him to his bed, straddle his hips and ride.

Resentment and sudden desire battled within him. Bemused, he ate a french fry.

When they reached the station, Blair's stomach clenched on itself. After getting out of the truck he stood rigidly in place in the middle of the parking garage. Jim, who'd walked ahead, stopped and looked back at him.

"Come on." He waited until Blair unfroze and reached his side, then touched his back, an escort and a friend.

"We going through booking?" The thought of becoming the station joke du jour--for what had to be the hundredth time--hurt his pride, but he tried for a stiff upper lip.

"Nah," Jim said. They reached the elevator, stepped in. He pushed the button for their usual floor, Major Crimes. "We can do the paperwork in Simon's office."

They strolled down the hall and into the bullpen as if it were any normal day. Swing shift was on, and none of Jim's poker buddies were among the current complement. The detectives he knew best, Lisa Bintliff and Terry Service, both prairie-dogged startled looks at him as they walked in. Blair felt that he could read knowledge and humor in their eyes; his face flushed at their brief greetings. Jim ushered him into Simon's office, told him to stay put, and left him there to wait.

As soon as Jim was gone Blair stood up and thought about wandering off, then hit Simon's bookshelves instead. He grabbed the copy of Verbal Judo he'd been meaning to borrow for two years, started a pot of coffee, and sat down with the book, schooling himself to patience.

"There you are," Simon said, coming in twenty minutes later. He carried a handful of processing equipment which Blair viewed warily.

"You aren't serious," he said. "You're going to fingerprint me?"

"Well, it won't be the first time," Simon said, getting off a jab despite his gravity. "Going to take your picture too." He set his paraphernalia down on the table and went to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Great," Blair said, his earlier anger returning. "You know, this isn't the same as being vetted for a ride-along pass. This is pretty damn serious. I mean, I'd be happy to take a hit or two on my record for public demonstrations, but suspicion of drug trafficking is not something I want to be remembered for."

"When I'm in my dotage, I plan to remember you for your cheerful attitude, Sandburg."

"Funny, funny. Why're you doing this, anyway--Jim too chickenshit to do it himself?"

"He said something about being afraid you'd bite him."

"He should be."

Simon walked along the wall of his office, lowering blinds. "I really hope you're not planning on busting his ass, Sandburg. The man doesn't deserve it. He went to a hell of a lot of trouble to find you. Above and beyond his job."

"Bust his ass?" Blair snorted. "I'm the one getting arrested for being kidnapped." He subsided with a sigh. "I'm not going to bust on him, Simon. Much. But it's freaking me out, being on the other side of the line."

"Look, kid. Don't worry," Simon said, sitting down at the table with his coffee. "We're all a bit punchy, but no one's taking this lightly. We've handed the case to Adams and Brown. Adams is primary--I stopped and had a chat with her, emphasizing the importance of your quick release. We've already conference called with the DA's office. I reached the right people this time. I told them we wanted to cut a deal with everyone who'd take it, and they'll go along with dropping all kidnapping charges for statements and testimony exonerating you. The wild bunch are separated, of course, and pissed at each other--if we put a fast and hard enough spin on the deal, they're unlikely to pick you for a fall guy." Blair leaned forward with his hands clasped across his knees. "But the arrest is still going in my jacket, right?"

Simon made a slight, wincing face that finally betrayed his sense of guilt. "Well, yes. But you can have it expunged. Shouldn't be much of a problem."

"Works for me."

"Good, now get over here."

He went and sat and let Simon fingerprint him, compressing his lips to say nothing as the pads of his fingers were rolled firmly over the ink, then failing as he inspected his grubby fingers.

"I guess I don't merit the inkless version, huh."

Simon snapped him a cool look. "You want to finish this in booking where the system is?"

"Um, no."

"Then put a sock in it."

"You treat all kidnap victims this way?" Blair wondered aloud, then ouched as Simon pressed extra hard on his pinky.

"Sandburg, you probably irritated them into a tizzy. I'm surprised they didn't come by the station to drop you off."

Simon finished up the job, snapped his mugshot, then let him wash his hands. When Blair returned from the men's room, Lilith Waterman, a familiar face from the DA's office, was just sitting down and removing a leather-cased yellow notepad from her briefcase. She and Simon both looked up as he entered.

"You two have met, right?" Simon waved a quick intro. "Lilith Waterman, Blair Sandburg. Ms. Waterman is working with the ADA assigned to the case. She agreed to come down and sit in while I take your initial statement so that we could expedite this."

Blair made agreeable noises and hellos. Waterman, all business, pulled out and thumbed on a small tape recorder, into which she noted the time, date, and purpose of the recording, before focusing on him, her voice neutral.

"Blair, I'd like to remind you that you're entitled to have legal representation for this statement, and that it might be in your best interests. Also, if you'd prefer to have someone other than Captain Banks take your statement--one of the detectives in charge of the case--that would be a reasonable request." She glanced at Simon. "I assume they have no personal relationship to Mister Sandburg."

"No, they don't. But we have four other perps, three of whom are being interviewed right now. . . ."

Blair tuned them out as they wrangled, leaning back in his seat and scoping out Waterman's chalky bosom on the sly. Her upswept hair was secured with a pencil and she wore small jade earrings. He remembered that she'd once chatted with him about applied anthropology, and that her sister was a bacteriologist with the CDC. He remembered also that he'd asked her out and she'd pleaded a previous engagement, in just those words. But he liked her, nonetheless.

"Blair?" Waterman was looking at him blandly.

He jerked to attention, realizing she'd repeated the question about legal counsel. "Huh? Oh, sorry. No, no--I'm fine. I don't need a lawyer. I mean, not yet, at least, right?" He managed a dry, nervous laugh. "And I'm okay with Simon taking my statement."

He ended up delivering it to Simon as planned, Waterman monitoring him closely as he spoke, jotting notes now and then. It was freshly embarrassing at times to confess his behavior and motivations; his interest in Iris, his fear, and what he viewed in retrospect as his relative passivity during the abduction. To his relief, Simon didn't ask him elaborate questions and the interview clocked in under an hour. He was relegated to detention again when they left, and lay down on Simon's couch to watch TV.

"Glad to see you've made yourself comfy, Sandburg."

Blair startled awake, leaping upright on the couch and breathing erratically. Simon, cigar lodged in one corner of his mouth, stood within the doorway with Jim and Joel behind him. Seeing the effect he'd had, the captain appeared apologetic; but he was not prone to mushiness.

"You can go. DA's office has signed off. We've got an officer here to take you home."

Blair nodded and wiped a bit of grit from one eye. The wall clock showed he'd slept hours. "Officer Jim, isn't it," he joked back lamely, as he shook off his bad dreams. "I follow all your cases." He stood up, rubbed at his hair, and looked up to find all the others watching him with concern they immediately concealed, their faces altering minutely, their various movements aiming for casual.

"Hey, Blair." Joel smiled and patted his shoulder when they met in the middle of the office. His touch was friendly. "I hear you had quite a ride."

"Yeah, pretty crazy." Blair smiled crookedly in return.

"You gotta watch it with the ladies. Try to pick a nice girl for a change."

"Um, sure." Blair stood with his hands in his pockets. The other men were clustered loosely around him, tribals intrigued by their pygmy captive. Blair frowned. He had plenty of questions to ask, but the atmosphere was stifling and he was tired; he wanted to get resituated on his own territory, such as it was. "Listen, I have this big dinner I was making for Iris. Most of it was in the fridge when I left. Should still be good. Unless--" He looked at Jim.

"It'll still be there, Chief." He glanced at the others. "Come if you want," he said in an offhand way. "Bring your own beer."

"I have wine," Blair broke in. "To go with. . . ." He trailed off, shrugged.

"Sounds good," said Joel. "Tyra's at church tonight for choir practice."

Simon chimed in, and they planned to meet later, giving Jim and Blair some advance time, and everyone else some time to regroup. Every man in the room except Joel gave off the whiff of someone yearning for a shower, Blair included. He left as he'd come in, Jim walking him down the hall, this time with an arm slung lightly around his shoulder for most of the way. Jim amazed him. Blair had no idea how he reconciled his contradictions; how he could be so paranoid about his sentinel abilities yet so oblivious of the inferences people might draw from his public displays of affection. If Jim hadn't been so deeply habituated to his bisexual closet, a casual observer might think him completely out.

He smells good though, Blair thought, noticing it again. He smelled of a day's sweat. He smelled raunchy and fuckable. He let Jim see his thoughts as they rode down together in the elevator. Jim met his gaze with a sedate veneer and a carnal edge to his jaw.

"So did everything work out?" Blair asked.

"Pretty much. They were just getting started on Parkman's interview when we left. He'd been in the ER to have his arm looked at. That's quite a number you did on him."

"I tried. I hope he gets tetanus."

Jim smiled. "Johnson started dealing soon as he got his lawyer. Iris too. Vaughn hasn't been very chatty, but he'll come around."

"Who's Vaughn?"

"Your pal with the curls." Jim tugged Blair's for emphasis. "Charles Vaughn."

Blair mused on that, quiet until they hit the road. Jim was eagle-eyeing him again, sidelong, as he drove. "Did you hear the whole story?" Blair asked.

"Pieces."

He pieced out the rest in far less detail than his formal statement, answering Jim's questions as they arose, and that carried them to their building, up the stairs, and through the door, at which point Blair veered for the bathroom and locked himself in.

"I call dibs," he murmured, knowing Jim would hear him. The shower was modern plumbing's crowning glory. He pruned up, shaved his face at leisure, then vacated the bath in rolling plumes of steam. Dressing in clean clothes was another high point of his day, ranking in the top five so far, along with trunking Iris, tonguing Jim, french fries, and hydrotherapy. When he popped open a beer and swallowed, he added number six to his growing list. He stared into the open fridge, sucking at his beer, idly trying to decide if he'd round out the top ten with four orgasms, or three orgasms and a handful of kalamata olives.

When Jim came out of the bath fifteen minutes later, the mortuary remains of the previous dinner had been scrapped and a new assemblage was in progress. Jim, towel at his waist, padded around the counter and picked from a bowl of mixed fruit.

"You don't have to go to a lot of trouble, you know. Cops aren't known for their culinary discernment."

Blair cut his lashes Jim's way. "But you are."

Jim paused with a grape halfway to his mouth, then tossed it back in the bowl. "I really wish you hadn't invited them over," he said matter of factly, as if just realizing this, in a tone so calm and thoughtful he might have been planning an errand. "I would take you on the kitchen floor, right now. I'd fuck you like a dog."

Blair's wrist twitched and the spoon he was stirring with clattered the pot. His dick woke up, heated and achy. "W-we have time," he managed to stammer out. He was so turned on that breathing hurt.

"Yes, but I'm going to make you wait." Jim came up behind him, stroked a hand up under his shirt. Blair made a mournful sound in response. "Then I'll do it right." He stole Blair's second beer and sauntered off, removing his towel as he went. Blair watched him go, licking his lips and tasting his own readiness. Fuck the olives. Four orgasms.

Dinner would be interminable.

C:My DocumentsCompost1997August12.doc

Some days it's not what I expected. Not at all. If I'd never met Jim, never intersected the path of my life with his, would Janet be dead? Would Jim have been the one who somehow met up with her, and told her so casually, so self-importantly, to pay a little attention to her company's involvement in Peru? No.

I meddle without authority, and an old friend gets killed. Wiped out. She's never going to walk into her apartment or office again, never call her mother, never get married. And I'm sitting here drinking beer, listening to Jim watch TV in the other room, trying to figure out when I became so callous that I can live with that. There's a knot of anguish I can feel under the detachment. I want to dig it out and cry, but instead I sit here and stare out the window and type.

Today I am a man. Right. Tough and coplike and adult, pushing through it without tears. I used to think I was a sensitive guy. I used to get teased about it. Now I'm not sure I know what that means, or if it was true when I believed it was true.

I want to cry. But I need to be made to cry.

I don't cry much on my own anymore.

Simon came bearing gifts; his own bottle of wine and Blair's guitar.

"How the hell, Simon." Blair took the case from him and opened it, pleased at the recovery, even though he'd barely given its loss a thought.

The older man smiled. "Stopped by her apartment. They're searching now on warrant. I saw this and had a look. Good thing you had your name inside. I still had to throw my weight around to take it with me."

"Very cool. Thanks, man."

Joel turned up next, dressed down, and of them all the most awake after the day's events. He brought his characteristic geniality with him, and Blair was moved to socialize despite himself, and despite Jim, who flirted with him covertly while maintaining his breeziest, just-one-of-the-guys air--a protective camouflage Blair himself often adopted, which tonight didn't sit well with him. He discovered that he was too wound up to eat dinner, and instead perched on the edge of the sofa apart from the others, handling his guitar and thinking of when he'd received it; the far and complicated past mixing with the day's events in his mind.

The other men were chowing down with the vigor of a successful hunting party. Blair supposed they'd earned it. It was nice to have friends who gave a shit, who'd track you down when you went astray.

"Blair, you've outdone yourself this time, buddy," Joel said between bites of dolmeh baadenjaan and morasah palow. "This stuff is great. There's only one problem. Um, I'm not getting turned on, man."

Simon oohed a laugh, which irritated Blair. This was merely the latest in the evening's series of juvenile ribbings which had reduced his entire experience to the level of sitcom humor. "Ha, ha, ha. Very funny, very funny. It's almost as funny as being in lockup for four hours."

"You were in my office the entire time watching TV," Simon replied dryly.

To Blair, it seemed that any earlier concern was now totally eroded by levity. "I got booked, I got fingerprinted, I got photographed. Do you know how humiliating that is?"

"It's just procedure, Chief. You had a half a million dollars' worth of smack in the trunk of your car. Lucky for you, Iris was more interested in putting Parkman and Chance away than having her revenge on you."

Jim was being reasonable and distractive, a warning in its way. Blair got the message. It's over, you're safe and sound. Let Simon get his digs in. Don't dig back.

Simon chuckled again. "If she hadn't corroborated your story, right now you'd be in a place with sweaty guys and no TV."

"Where they'd take away your guitar strings," Jim added.

Thanks for the support, Jim old man. Blair went to the kitchen, speaking conversationally as he did.

"Anything but that. You know, I should stay in touch with her. I mean, she's still pretty young, you know. What she needs is a positive influence in her life." He brought out a dish of date cakes and handed them to Jim, hoping his needling was making it through the other man's hide. "Here's some dessert. A role model. . .people change, you know?" He returned to his place on the couch, took his guitar in hand.

Jim said over his shoulder, "Why don't you do yourself a favor, Romeo. Get some therapy."

Oh yeah, he was needled and needling back. Blair lazily stroked his guitar strings as the other men forked up the dessert and made appreciative noises, and on Simon's inquiry shared the recipe with facetious tongue and straight face.

"Well, actually, I take some dates, I put them in water till they get really nice and moist, then add lemon juice and sugar, then I stick this underneath the sink for a few weeks and let it get real moldy. You know when the fur starts growing on it? Stick it into a blender, put maple syrup on it. There you go." He riffed with placid ease on his guitar as the men at the table exchanged glances.

"Um, you are just kidding--right, Blair?" Joel managed to sound dubious but hopeful.

"Well, I left out the maple syrup this time."

"Right," Simon said, then shrugged. "Oh well." He forked up another bite.

"Now where'd you learn to play the guitar like that?" Joel asked as Blair segued into "Black Magic Woman."

"I was at the 1968 Monterey Pop festival and Woodstock."

"In the womb?" snorted Simon.

"Actually, prenatal cognitive development has been widely established, and they say that musical intelligence can be facilitated before birth. Of course, I was eight months old by the time we hit Woodstock. Man, that was a crowd."

Simon looked at Jim. "Is he for real?"

"Some would say so," Jim said, finally resuming the diplomacy that would ensure he got laid. Blair riffed approval at him, at which cue Jim rose and began clearing the table, darting tiny glances Blair's way as he did.

It took half an hour to pry Joel and Simon from the table and shove them off, even after it been cleared of every last plate, wine bottle, and edible crumb. When they finally deigned to decamp, Blair washed the stacked dishes while the three cops stood in the doorway, shooting the bull until it was staggered and bloody. He turned the radio on to 101.5, the Living End, and cranked it up just high enough to cut into conversation. "Do unto others what has been done to you," he sang sotto voce beneath the music, as he smashed the cutlery around and rattled the Pottery Barn plates within the suds. He could feel the others eyeballing him, and looked up winningly.

"Hey, drive safe," he said.

"I guess we'll be going now," Simon observed.

More farewells, more yadda yadda, and then they were out the door, and Jim was deadbolting it behind them. Blair snapped off the radio at once.

"Care to be more obvious?" Jim asked.

"Hey, they're great guys. And now I want them off the premises."

Jim nodded. "So I can fuck you like a dog."

"Right." Blair abandoned the dishes, peeled off his gloves, and washed his hands. He brought himself over to Jim, hands wet and soap-scented, and patted his cheeks. Jim flinched slightly and wrinkled his nose, then Blair pushed his hands up through Jim's hair and dried them there with feline kneading. Jim at first gave him a patient look, then slitted his eyes and released whuffs of incited breath through his nostrils. He liked that.

"It's been a hell of a day," Blair said, nuzzling Jim's chin and working around to the edges of his lips.

"And then some." Jim gripped his face, thumbs fitting along his sideburns. His blue eyes studied Blair, had an entire conversation with Blair's eyes on some other level.

Blair held onto Jim's waist with both his hands and stroked him up and down one side; the other man twitched. Then Jim kissed him, manipulative, tilting Blair's head to just the right angle, lithe tongue flexing inside his mouth. He wielded the kiss as a prerogative. One hand slid up behind Blair's head and worked his hair free of its tie with rough tugs that made his eyes sting. His other hand steadied a grip around Blair's throat. Blair made ragged noises of pleasure.

When his hair was loose, they wound their arms around each other. Jim's hand wed the small of his back. His thumb--god, he loved Jim's rudely skilled fingers--rubbed knots there, making his skin scream in a circle, a localized storm of fire. His entire body leapt upwards against Jim's, and tried to topple him down. Jim grabbed his ass through his jeans and pulled him close in quick humping motions that he used when he was being deliberately dirty. Blair's knees unlocked and he let Jim secure him in place.

Jim's lewd tongue danced another minute in his mouth, then he undid their kiss. "Upstairs," he ordered. His face was chafed red with arousal, eyes glittering. Not at all nice any more, not at all patient.

"Just take your dick out," Blair countered. "Let me get down on my knees and suck it."

The taut angles in Jim's face shattered and reformed. He shoved loose of Blair and reached down to unzip himself. Blair swayed, almost imperceptibly dizzy, and watched the darkish length of his cock appear in hand, withdrawn from the parted jeans and white briefs, indecently bared for him. Porno Jim. God, yes. The thick column strained upright and Jim jacked it to greater hardness and then released it. With the fabric of Blair's shirt twisted in his grip, he manhandled him down to his knees. Immediately his cock rubbed itself against Blair's cheeks, balls smacking his chin. He pried Blair's mouth open and cupped his jaw, while his other hand rested on top of Blair's head, fingers threaded through his hair. He shoved himself inside without request, cock sliding across waiting tongue, and Blair, exultant and throbbing in every particle of his body, let him.

It was difficult to suck when his mouth was getting fucked, but Blair accommodated until Jim's uneven thrusts slowed into more luxurious use. Jim was staring down at him, watching his lips as he always did; he was a man who liked getting blowjobs--and he took them as he should, with a classic pose of entitlement. The arrogant cant of Jim's hips thrilled Blair and he dug a handhold into the meat of his glutes, urging him deeper, mind flashing through a choppy reel of the day's events, gun clicking at his throat, bullet whisking past his scalp, bringing the board of nails down on Parkman's arm. He shuddered and glazed Jim's dick with saliva and worked the point of his tongue against the underside of its crown.

Jim cried out and his hands tightened agonizingly, needily, on Blair, and then his trim hips were jerking, come shooting breakers against Blair's throat. He pulled out to the tip and Blair laved him clean.

"Christ," Jim gasped, his head falling back to display a smooth bow of neck. "Fuck."

Blair grunted and sat back ass on heels for a moment before staggering to his feet; Jim remained handfasted to him the entire time, helping him rise.

"Upstairs," Blair said, now that he'd established the upper hand. He walked off, unbuttoning his shirt with shaky fingers as he went. Jim followed, flowing up quietly behind him as they reached the bottom of the stairs and then holding him still to maul his shoulder.

Blair wrestled free and leaped up the stairs two at a time, reaching the top with a laugh. Jim was right on his heels and solidly behind him again, and had grabbed him between the legs before Blair knew what was happening. Blair slumped with a groan and rocked himself into the cradle of the other man's hand. Jim's other arm wrapped like a restraining bar around his waist, and then--strong bastard--Blair was lifted and tumbled forward onto the bed.

"Umph," he said conversationally, before rolling over on his back and levering himself up on his elbows. Jim was undressing, yanking his shirts off over his head, wadding and chucking them at the floor. His dick remained out, half-mast from his open jeans. Then he shucked those off too, and stood naked and buff with his arms folded, eyeing the sprawl of Blair.

In return, Blair slid back and laced his arms behind his head, spreading his legs wider.

"You didn't get lucky with your girlfriend, did you," Jim said smugly.

"Being held at gunpoint kind of puts a crimp in the Sandburg libido, if you want the truth."

"Hmm."

"Hmm?"

"I'll remember that." Jim stroked himself idly, free hand fondling his balls.

Blair wriggled his toes and scissored his knees with invitation. "Why don't you return the favor, Officer Dick?"

Jim came over to stand between his legs. Blair lifted his feet off the floor and tied his legs around Jim in a bow, hugging the backs of his knees. Lips masked upon amusement, Jim untied himself and raised Blair's legs with a manacling grip at the ankles and brought them to rest against his chest. Blair ground the balls of his feet obligingly against Jim's nipples, then toed them, biting his lip and frowning with concentration at the task.

"You're damn cute when you're horny," Jim noted in a friendly fashion.

"I'm always horny."

"Q.E.D."

"What does that mean?" Blair said disingenuously.

Jim looked caught off guard, then his eyes narrowed. "It means what it means."

"Which is?"

Hesitating, Jim appeared to fish in memory. "Quad erat. . .demonspawnum."

Blair snickered as Jim accompanied this with a tickle on his left calf. "You are such a faker." He felt great, but his cock and balls ached for release. He began to kick at Jim. "Come on, Jim, do me." Not receiving direct obedience, Blair reached down and undid his jeans; he arched with difficulty and lifted his ass off the bed to snake out of them. Cooperative in his low-key way, Jim helped by holding his legs steady and then, when Blair whuffed with frustration and glared up at him, he dragged the denim skin off Blair's body. Blair's released feet hit the floor with a thump.

He'd have removed his undone shirt as well, but Jim said, "Keep it on."

"Sir, yes sir." Blair sat up and saluted the flagpole with a kiss. He ate Jim again like candy, and Jim put one of his big hands in Blair's curls, while the other held his dick out for attention.

"You are such. . .a fucking. . .slut," Jim breathed with the erratic cadences of lust.

"God, I love your dick," Blair murmured. He plunged his mouth down on it, watching the wealth of Jim's rod sink between his lips until he almost became cross-eyed. He jerked himself in time with his own bobbing head, then surrendered it with a slurp. "Get it inside me," he commanded, scooting back on the bed to lie down.

"Not on the comforter," Jim complained. "Get up."

"I'm up," Blair sniped irritably, but he rolled off and allowed Jim to tear the bedcovers aside. "Like it would be so tragic if you got come stains on your downy quilt, man."

"Well, not if you take it to the dry-cleaners next time."

"I'll do that between kidnappings."

Jim's head jerked and he knifed a look at Blair. His lips had compressed with tension and Blair realized he'd hit a button.

"I want you to fuck me hard," he said to Jim in his everyday voice. "Make me scream until the neighbors hear, until I can't sit down without thinking of you even when we're in Simon's office and he's bitching you out--I'll just be sitting there remembering your dick in my ass."

"Get on the bed," Jim grated out, jaw tight. Anyone who didn't know him would have thought he was angry.

"I think you should make me."

"Jesus, Blair. Get on the bed or I'll come and make you."

Blair raised his eyebrows and assumed a skeptical face, the kind he gave students who fumbled out tales of hard drive crashes for an extension. "You're such a pussy, you kn--" he managed to get out before Jim was around the bed and twirling him to face the back wall. He was fast and wasn't gentle; he forced Blair's hands high and flat against the brick and knocked his legs apart, then breathed ferocious words in his ear.

"If you move, I'm going to make you beg like a bitch. I'm going to make you crawl and cry for it and then I'm going to jerk off in your face."

Jesus fuck, thought Blair frantically, as his balls tightened and pulsed. He whimpered and turned his face to the wall as Jim moved away. His shoulders trembled with the effort of not bringing a hand down to swipe his drooling dick. One broken sound, a gasp for air that was almost a sob, escaped him.

Jim returned with his dick already sheathed and lubed; his hands, greasy with his preparation, parted the cheeks of Blair's ass but gave no further preliminary as the head of his cock pressed in. Blair stiffened for a heartbeat and then relaxed with another sob of pleasure. It hurt, it fucking hurt, but it rode into him huge and thick and split him up the middle and he cried out it with how perfect it was, rising up onto his toes helplessly, pressing his forehead against the hard wall.

"Son of a bitch!" Jim yelled and Blair jerked all over, heart skipping with the kind of fear that is ecstasy in disguise.

"Oh fuck, Jim, oh fuck, oh god yes--" Blair tried to grind his ass down onto its impalement and breathed wetly; he was crying. When had he begun crying.

Jim shoved forward, entire body launching itself against Blair's back, and with this he was fully inside, balls deep and groaning, his damp hot muscled weight draped across Blair. He breathed and rested for a true half minute, until Blair was strung out and squirming in the meekness of his need, then he wound his fingers through Blair's, lunged once, twice--and Blair came with a wail, shooting spunk up across his own chest. His untouched dick leapt and pulsed, sizzling a brand across his belly while Jim continued to ride him mercilessly. "Oh, motherfuck. . . ." Blair breathed, nearly losing it again as Jim riveted his prostate with cruel accuracy and repetition. Blair's mind melted into the bowl of his skull and he began squeezing himself around Jim's slick organ, working his ass around its fullness. He could feel Jim's face in his hair, buried in its loosened curls; Jim's sounds labored from his throat to become muffled there. His back was beginning to twinge, and his fingers were sore within Jim's, but the rest of his body was buttery submission. He thought Jim might not come again so soon, but suddenly Jim's hips were whipping him forward with awkward desperation and his cock seemed to swell and pulse, and then he was groaning, the movements of his pelvis spasmodic as he released himself in Blair.

A short period of waiting followed, as Jim regained his bearings. Don't zone, Blair thought at the other man, don't you dare. But the other man recovered and slid off Blair by degrees, first letting go of his hands, then gently--with caresses down his side and hips--detaching from his body.

When Blair managed to turn himself around, Jim was dropping the dead soldier in the trash. His skin was flushed, pink with exertion. They didn't say anything, just smiled rather goofily at each other. Jim's eyes had nearly closed, and did close after he folded onto the bed and lay there motionless, a sculpture of spent manhood. "Dead meat," Blair said with tired accomplishment.

Jim hummed low in his throat, but didn't open his eyes.

"Too bad I'm not finished with you yet."

Jim hummed again.

Blair climbed onto the bed and draped himself across his friend's body, cheek resting on the musky juncture of his shoulder, and fell asleep that way.

Friday, September 12, 1997

Jim peeled open his eyes and blinked as he oriented himself. Exhausted but replete, he lay on top of his sheets with a Sandburgian mess of hair fanned out across his shoulder and chest. The lamps were still on, upstairs and down. He turned his head and caught the digital flicker as time changed from 4:02 to 4:03.

He sniffed a few times, cleared his throat, and hauled himself up against his pillows. Blair sighed and rolled off onto his back, giving Jim an appreciable view of the terrain. His gaze roamed with an infinitude of fascination. The other man was so different from himself, in every way that was good. He'd long ago decided he liked Blair's type. Hadn't liked Blair's type before liking Blair; but now. . .yeah, he had it bad. He still hit the clubs once in a while looking for sleek muscle men with hard eyes, and he'd find them and fuck them, and it was good; but it wasn't quite good enough anymore. He had grown accustomed to this. . .this Jewish kid with his blitz of curls and curious face, his perfectly ordinary body with its hair and freckles and moderately endowed dick. Jim liked him. Liked how serious he looked in sleep, the way his lips hung open and showed the white arc of his upper teeth. The slight puppyish fold under his chin. And how when he turned his head ten degrees into the light, he became exotic and Biblical and beautiful. Beautiful man.

He never went looking for that in the clubs. Why bother. He got it here.

After a trip downstairs for water and to switch off the lamps, he reascended the stairs to his bedroom and woke Blair up. It took a while, which was fine with him. He ran his face along the other man's chest, cheeking his chest hair, licking traces of semen from his skin. Blair grumbled in his sleep and pushed at his face. Jim kissed his fingers.

"Whrrrrr. . ." Blair said.

"Hmm," Jim replied. He worried at Blair's left nipple, licking it stiff, biting, tugging it away from the nest of light curls then releasing it to repeat the process. It crinkled on his tongue and he lost himself in its small, crumpled fineness for an unmeasured time before he refocused and felt Blair caressing his head, palming the short hair gently.

"Other one."

Jim hefted himself a half foot over and obliged. Blair stretched sleepily beneath him, crackling at the joints. He switched grips, resumed stroking Jim's head with one warm hand, slung his other arm across Jim's back and rubbed between his shoulder blades.

"It's four o'clock," Blair said, voice dry and thick, intensified to a lowness that pitched woo to Jim's ears and woke a flush along his skin. "Didn't you have a stakeout?"

"Covered," Jim said. "Dolinski took it." He rested his ear against Blair's chest, absorbed its cached beat.

"He ought to, the big slug. So, you going in tomorrow--today?"

"Yeah. . .you?"

"Why not." Blair sighed. "Back from my road trip. Back to work."

Jim raised his head and propped himself up on his arms. "Take a day off. You don't have class on Fridays."

"Guess I could do that."

Jim hitched himself further up Blair, the segue of thigh to hip coming to rest across his partner's interested dick, himself a skew of muscle against muscle. He tented his upper body protectively across Blair with chest and arms. Blair cocked his head on the pillow. Jim could feel the deep thumping of his veins through his own leg, belly, everywhere their bodies met.

"What are you thinking about?" Blair asked.

And as if on cue Jim thought unexpectedly of Carolyn, who'd sometimes ask the same question immediately after sex--sometimes, for crying out loud, during sex--when in both cases he had nothing in his brain except a loose pinball of a thought rattling around and hitting the blinking lights as it passed: good yeah good. Unless he was thinking at that moment of a hoagie or a good night's sleep, in which case there was no honest answer a man could give to such a question. With Carolyn he'd felt challenged to come up with something romantic. With Blair, something interesting.

"I was thinking I'd like to hit Vegas, become a showgirl." Jim salted the words with his irritation, but lightly. "What the hell am I supposed to be thinking?" His cock hiccuped with interest against Blair's abdomen.

"Think whatever you want. You don't have to tell me, man. Just keep it all tucked up in there until you stroke out from the stress. When you're a non-verbal vegetable I'll take good care of you. All this practice will come in handy then."

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that." The words came out more admiringly than Jim had intended.

"Not yet," Blair said. "But if you want." He moved his hips in a giving grind.

Jim returned the motion unhurriedly. "Nice or nasty?"

Blair's eyelids blinked with the smooth roll of a doll's, and the horizon between his heavy lips straightened. Jim could smell the languid heat of him. A tropical beach hippie, washed up on his bed.

"Be nice to me. . .slowly."

He stretched his arms back above his head and the scent from the hollows of his arms exhaled to Jim. Jim's nipples contracted to points as scent pulled a thread through his body. He kissed his way into the small flourish of hair on one side, and tongued it relentlessly and roughly, cat on catnip, ignoring Blair's soft keen. He rubbed his face into that sharpness, then lapped upwards to Blair's neck where his pulse jerked with excitement under the skin. Scraping his teeth across veins and tendons he lavished himself on the other man's throat.

"You're going to leave marks," Blair complained breathlessly.

Jim moved to cover Blair, chest to chest, hips to hips. He pinned the other man's shoulders and chewed the hot drape of skin across his collar bones, where the curls of his chest began appearing like ivy climbers on a wall. His dick rubbed Blair's, dry hot kindling. Jim broke off to spit in his hand and reached between their bodies with slick fingers. He aligned their dicks and welded them together with a sliding grip until slow torture became ecstasy. Blair moaned. Jim teethed his nipples again, and he moaned with more aggression.

They moved around a lot on the messy bed, jockeying for position. Jim without trying could have named a dozen other lovers with whom any unusual maneuvers would had been awkward. With Blair, it was all good.

Usually.

"Ow," Jim said, as Blair's kneecap, hard as a turtle, bumped his nose. "Watch it, Chief, watch it." He pulled the sturdy body down the sheets until Blair's warm breath clouded his cock, until Blair's cock rose in front of his lips. He pushed his lips down along it and heard Blair gasp, a moment before his own cock was engulfed with skilled sucking. Blair's hot little tongue wrestled with the blunt head of his organ, then lured its length further into that mouth; on release, his tongue slid with the precision of a wet paintbrush down the underlying vein where Jim's pleasure was thrumming. Jim tried to reciprocate. Tried to remember to breathe.

"Oh, baby," he groaned in worship when Blair speeded up his attentions. He propped himself up on one arm, abandoning his share of the job and trying to lunge forward. Blair's breath rasped like a file through his nose as he sucked, and that sound rasped Jim's ears in turn and he grabbed Blair's meaty ass and bit his thigh. Blair sizzled around him, then slid off.

"Do me, do me," he said, snaking away to sprawl on his belly, thighs splayed apart, face turned to one side on the pillow. His shoulders and back dimpled, making his trapezius a broad shallow valley, his spine a river that poured into the delta below.

Jim climbed astride and dug his thumbs into Blair's neck.

"Oh, man. Oh. . .man. That's better than sex." He straightened his head and pushed his face into the pillow with whimpering sounds.

Under Jim's hands the warmth of skin over muscle softened, and under its mantle he could feel the clean lines of bone, smooth and unyielding. He slid his fingers through the soft grassland of Blair's scalp, kneaded his shoulders, massaged lower along his ribs. When Blair was subdued to a quiet storm, Jim draped himself down on the bed behind the other man, laying his head to fit the small of his back. Blair moved to a diagonal stretch to give him more room on the bed, and Jim moved heavily with him, the python length of his body resting between the other man's parted legs. He lingered for a while on the backs of Blair's thighs, rearranging the light hairs into patterns with his tongue, kissing the reddened skin around his bullet scar. When Blair moved restlessly, Jim tongued between the cheeks of his ass, licking away the faint taste of soap to find the musk underneath and then drilling down into the tightly muscled hole, opening it up with slick, forceful stabs, gliding across residual lube from their earlier session.

Blair had pushed up to give him access and was unrolling low, crazy tones of pleasure. The ring of muscle loosened then snugged helplessly against Jim's tongue, over and over, as he teased it. The younger man's thighs were shaking, his balls tightening. Jim stopped and let him draw back from the edge, then slid a hand under him to jerk his cock with a swift rhythm, gnawing roughly at his balls while he did. Ass and thighs flexed as Blair twisted to push into his hand.

Jim rose, keeping a hot grip on his partner. He would have killed to get his dick inside again, if he hadn't wanted it so bad himself. He slapped Blair's ass once, then released him. "My turn," he demanded, arranging himself as if to do push-ups, then settling to his belly.

"Selfish bitch," Blair muttered, but he came to Jim readily and opened him up. Jim shuddered as the other man's jaw prickled against his balls, lips and tongue working him gently. He broke out in a clean sweat, already aching, the hair along his thighs stiff and articulate with nerves where Blair's fanned curls clung. When Blair, long and tortuous minutes later, slid his dick inside, Jim's brain was swimming drunk out in dark headwaters.

He grabbed the railings behind the bed and absorbed the fullness inside him, twin weight to his own stiff cock below. Blair's damp warm hands clung to his cheeks and held him wide open as he rode, cowboy style, bucking and prodding his prostate, fingers sharp as spurs in his flesh. Jim managed, with lopsided and practiced skill, to grab hold of himself and match that painful sweetness by stroking the notched ache under his cockhead. More than once he almost came, but stopped short.

They struggled upright together, until Jim knelt with his head against the railing and one hand still wedded to his dick, Blair lazily fucking him from behind with soft little grunts and sighs. Jim went deep into himself as well, indifferent to whether he came back, or came. Every time Blair's swollen length bumped wickedly against the hot spot inside him, Jim hitched a breath and his consciousness thinned further, out over a broad spangled darkness. Eventually he could not continue touching himself, and his hand fell slack; he grabbed for the rails and held himself there with submissive grace that he knew turned Blair on.

"Oh, fuck, Jim," Blair choked out. He worked his hand down between them and around the front to grab Jim's dick. Jim could feel Blair's bone-heavy wrist stroking between his legs like a second cock; face rubbing his shoulders, nipples etching his sensitive back, both of their bodies slippery with sweat. The younger man was losing his rhythm, humping erratically against Jim's ass, cock a thick live wire seeking the single connection in a tangle of nerves that would complete his circuit, and then he found it and the breaker tripped inside Jim as Blair shot within the painful confines of latex, a stifling ecstasy Jim knew well and could almost feel mimicked in the tensing of Blair's fingers on his cockhead as his own come jetted free, hitting the railing in front of him, spilling into the shadows below.

Minutes later, through a granular differentiation of light and darkness, he stared down into his living room as if from a hayloft, at the geometrical confines in which his furniture was arrayed like silent animals. He could see a few wet drops on the hardwood floor. Essence. He'd once heard a serial killer call it that.

Blair had withdrawn, leaving him draped on the cool rails, first with his cheek to the painted metal, then his forehead. The crack of his ass felt hot, the breach of him sore. Strange, that there was this opening to his body, through which he took shits and passed gas, and most of the time he gave it no thought, or treated it as an abstraction, as he would any subject of discomforting locker-room humor. It was either an epithet or utilitarian as plumbing. And then, Christ, he got laid and he didn't have a fucking clue how his body could feel so good, brutally good, like a shotgun of pleasure striking home inside his guts and blowing his head clean off. Too fucking embarrassing, to think about it too much.

He turned around. Blair was strung out like a junkie on the bed, head backwards, floating in bliss. His eyes were closed and his arms akimbo but limp, strong tangible hands resting on the edges of his belly as if he felt something moving within. Mercurial hair strewn across the sheets. Blair Sandburg, ragged and heartfelt, in his bed. Jim felt eight years old, fourteen, twenty, getting something he'd always wanted but couldn't put a name to. An odd sort of comfort, sexual, and beyond sex.

And then Blair opened his eyes. The blue creature looked at him, lucidly but as an alien. Jim gazed back. He remembered a time once when he'd been in an airport waiting room at three a.m., plane delayed, Blair sitting next to him with no intention of leaving until Jim was safely on his way. Insane kid. No one around. Snowstorm outside. But the announcement system kept talking to itself, asking for anyone to report irregularities they may have seen to security. Blair made stuff up. Driving him up the wall. I saw a midget with a suspicious suitcase duck into the bathroom. I saw one of those ashtrays move a minute ago. Should I say something? Do you think I should let them know, Jim? Huh? Fruitcake. How'd he get teamed up with this kid, he'd wondered then. You didn't pick your partner, though. And his flight had been cleared, and he'd stood and readied himself to board. Middle of the night, darkness, a little light snow still falling outside, the airport empty except for a handful of people, some snoozing, some awake but not really awake, placid zombies of the night shift. And Blair, looking up and him and smiling, wide awake, those blue eyes ridiculously frank and intelligent even at that hour. He'd said something light and unmemorable. Remarks you make when someone is about to take a trip; reassuring, humorous. Spinning into the dark like snowflakes. Jim had clapped him on the arm, left and boarded the plane. And from the plane had seen him, at the windows, watching, face erased of animation. Worried, maybe. Impossible to tell. Face blank and distant, Blair wrapped in his own thoughts.

And now he stared at Jim, eyes a mix of inextricable colors. Blue sky, sea below, algal greens and browns strewn in.

"Will you punish me?" Blair asked.

It sucker-punched Jim; he hadn't had time to prepare.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now. It's been a long day. Why don't you give yourself some time to recoup." He tried not to let obdurateness and anger show, but his tone was the one he used when pressed; rising flat from behind his tightening ribs. He was honored. He was angry. To punish Blair gave him a rush of power, a sense that he controlled this whirlwind of will and intellect who in truth controlled him.

Blair frowned. "I don't need time."

"Now," Jim said, as if he'd been asked to wash the kitchen floor or take out the trash at this inappropriate hour, for no particularly good reason.

"I know it's not the end of the month. But it would help."

"Great. Help. That's what I'm here for, isn't it." Jim looked away from Blair. He was aware of his own used nakedness, the rumpled bed, the clock ticking off its minutes with plastic regularity on the night table. It would have been silent, if he could have switched himself off. It was never truly silent any more, but it was quiet.

"Just yes or no, Jim," Blair said irritably.

Jim fixed him with a stare. "Sounds like a choice."

Blair looked tired, sat up. He was bent slightly, shoulders gleaming with light, freckled. Face snub and terribly young-looking, at odds with that calm, deep voice of his. To others, he looked like an average twentysomething guy with no deeper challenges than juggling jobs, friendships, dates. The worst that could happen, maybe his handful of rubber balls escaped his grasp and fell. But in secrecy, he was complicated, juggling psychic chainsaws. And the shameful thing was, Jim found it a relief--a relief to know it wasn't just him who was fucked up. To know that Blair Sandburg was not what he seemed on the surface; was not simply the soothing, articulate, politically correct, new-aged animal who'd caged himself in civility and good humor and Jim's spare room, but a wild, weird creature who craved control, just as everyone else did.

"You always have a choice," Blair said now, as if it were true.

Jim might have argued that, but he supposed it was true. He could refuse. Things would continue on in some form or another. Probably not unacceptably. But he'd agreed to this course, to Blair on his own terms.

He slid down along the bed, set his feet on the floor. "You're nuts, sweetheart." He could have added, but I love you, but he didn't have to. It was understood.

"Yeah. . .so." Blair rubbed beneath his lip, then flipped back a strand of hair.

"And I'd be doing this why?"

"The usual. Coveting, evil thoughts, bearing grudges. I also, uh, spent the replacement money for the car on my laptop and some books. . .and other things. I fudged the expense report on the Kephart case a few weeks ago. And, you know, everything with Iris."

"Maybe you should let that go. No one expects you to sniff out every criminal chick who bats her eyelashes your way." In a mutter, he added, "Of course, that begs the question of why you can't let it all go." He regretted saying this almost immediately, knowing that the words were a nod to convention, that he was covering his ass in a meaningless gesture of. . .morality, maybe. Good sense that he didn't really have.

Blair's head jerked up, eyes snapping. "Jesus, Jim. Thanks for the headtrip."

Jim rolled his head to one side, looking away from Blair, tense and frustrated. The clock said 4:57. "Never mind. Let's do it."

Blair laid a hand on his thigh. It felt warm and familiar and for a moment Jim resented the easy connectivity of their bodies.

Someone was singing in the alley below, off-key and drunk. The dumpster rattled as the singer or a friend stumbled against it. Jim glanced from the corner of his eye at Blair, who'd gone to his dresser and was handling belts. He was all too real at five in the morning, too much. Jim briefly fantasized about taking a long drive to Canada some night, leaving Blair asleep here in his bed, driving in the dark and the rain past Vancouver and into the soft, cow-chipped farmlands of foreign soil. Deciding to come back when he was good and ready.

"Okay," Blair said, looking at him.

Jim found his boxers on the floor and stood to pull them on, then took the belt from Blair's hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and Blair came to kneel in front of him.

"Have you been bad?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Blair said, breath hitching. He didn't look up. His face was smooth, still.

Jim slapped him once across the face, hard enough only to sting. It would have been easier if Blair had been aroused; if this had been something else, a different kind of need. "What do you say?"

"Thank you, sir." Blair lifted his head slightly. "I'll try to do better."

Jim acknowledged this with only a twitch. "Do fifty push-ups."

Blair moved to perform the exercises with an absence of expression, lost in his own inner space, which was probably not unlike riding out a zone. Jim sat on the bed, folded the belt in two, and periodically gave him an encouraging whack on the back, his ass, the backs of his thighs. Blair faltered a few times, but finished the set. Jim made him follow this with a hundred ab crunches. The younger man had metamorphosized into a flushed, wrung-out mess by the time he finished. Attractive, but no Olympic contender. He needed to start visiting the gym again, Jim thought.

"Get over here," he said.

Blair came and stretched out across his lap, face resting in a valley of sheets, hands bunched on their fabric. His back had a renewed sheen of sweat. Jim began belting him, Blair counting off. The strokes were noisy and rhythmic. Jim was in no danger of zoning. He felt sharply alert, grounded utterly in flesh. Blair's flesh: the muscles of his back, the heat coming in waves off his backside, the reddening skin. He was heavy and tense across Jim's lap. It took him only a little while to falter, a longer while to cry. Fifty strokes, and then they were done.

Jim let the belt drop to the floor. He gave Blair a few minutes to compose himself, stroking the other man's flanks and back gently while his labored breathing eased, then helped him stand. He was tear-streaked and subdued, as if some vast sadness had touched him and was passing.

"Okay?" Jim asked.

"Yeah."

Jim cupped Blair's head, stroked his hair. He bowed his neck so that their foreheads touched in a warm tingling circle. Blair smelled ripe and saline. Sniffing wetly, he withdrew from Jim and went downstairs to the bathroom. Jim climbed into bed, pulled the sheet up over himself. He turned off the light, waited with eyes open to see if Blair would come back.

But his voice drifted up from below. "I'm going to crash down here, Jim." There was a pause. "Good night. . .thanks."

"Night," Jim said, inaudibly to the other man's ears.

Breakfast was pancakes. The mix needed only water. Turn the griddle on, watch the bubbles form, dump on a plate with some bacon. Easy enough.

Blair came out of his room in bare feet, wearing a brown terry-cloth robe so threadbare and so pilled with age that Jim made a mental note to lose it during the next spin cycle. His hair was like kelp floating on the ocean, jaw sandpapery, eyes bleary. He looked rough, as if he'd come off a bender, and his body was a mass of fine hair; hair on his chest, on his calves. He was redolent, masculine. Cute. Pillow creases on his face told Jim that he'd slept on his belly.

"Pancakes, wow," Blair said, cracking a yawn.

"How's your ass?" Jim asked.

"Toasty," Blair said, coming to lean against the counter.

"Good."

Blair made a disgruntled sound. "You weren't so sure last night." He scratched one wrist, stifled another yawn, throat rippling with the effort.

Jim wielded his spatula aggressively against the pancakes. "You could use a sanity check once in a while."

"That's your job, huh."

"Apparently so."

"Mmm." Blair went to get coffee. "Too bad you couldn't save me from Hurricane Iris."

This casual comment offended Jim's protective, not to mention detective, pride. "Well, it wasn't for lack of trying. If you'd just called your ladyfriend a taxi, you'd have been well off."

Blair came up to his side. He picked a pancake up from the closest plate and took a bite from it, ignoring Jim's squint of irritation. "What do you mean?"

"I'm saying that I called, must have been just before you lit out of here, and left a message warning you."

"About Iris?" Blair's voice was surprised.

"No, about Mahatma Gandhi."

"Wait." Blair put the pancake down. "You're saying you called about Iris before she and that goofball kidnapped me?" He seemed unduly excited. "Wow, this is like--this is amazing, Jim. I mean, that's, I don't want to say precognitive, it's too soon to jump to conclusions, but okay, how did you know? Did you get, like, a vision or a flash or what?"

"Yeah, Tonto, I had a vision. So did the Washington Crime Information Center."

Blair's mouth hung open a moment before he spoke. "You ran a background check on her? On my date?"

Jim tossed two more pancakes onto Blair's plate. "Don't get your dander up, Chief. She looked familiar."

"Man, I don't believe you. You really take the cake." Blair paced abruptly, sloshing coffee on the kitchen tile and apparently on his toes. "Shit," he said, dancing off the burn, and sloshing more.

Ignoring the spectacle, Jim went to the table to eat. Blair joined him a minute later, muttering in a dark way about friendship and boundaries and abuses of police authority. Jim let him rant and wind down until, as expected, Blair grudgingly thanked him for the intrusion; then like a whirligig toy making its reascent Blair perked up into a good mood.

Jim kind of hated to go into work and leave him; he covered for this by making Blair clean up the breakfast dishes. He showered, dressed, and left in the usual way, without a kiss. By the time he reached the lobby of the building, three floors down, he could hear the light, unmusical thump of chick rock in the loft. He smiled. The kid was all right.

C:My DocumentsCompost1997September13.doc

Meditated this morning after Jim left. Had Iris on the brain, but also kept thinking of Borneo and thinking back over the past year. An entire year of my life went by in a flash, and I could have spent it somewhere else, enhancing my career. Instead I stayed here, and at times I feel like I'm running in place on the academic treadmill. Running in place on every treadmill, including the Jim treadmill. Meditation accomplishes only so much. I'm not sure that I ever reach a point of being particularly mindful or empty of regret. Of course, it didn't help today that my ass hurt.

Iris called me around noon. They gave her a phone call from the jail and she wanted me to bring her cigarettes and junk food. Chips Ahoy cookies, actually. I asked her how she'd gotten my phone number and she said she'd memorized it. What a waste of brain cells. I did talk to her for a while, then began to get that creepy back-of-the-neck feeling as I listened to her gab on about her problems, and flirt and wheedle. Like, what if she fixates on me. Sends me letters from the pen. Then, five to ten years from now, she comes back and wants revenge and kills my bunny. Or whatever. I asked her not to call me again, and didn't go to the jail. So much for my plans to be a positive influence. I'm such a chickenshit. I wonder if I should tell Jim.

I can't believe he ran her rap sheet. What a dick. But I've never had a friend like that, someone who really worries and checks up on me. And all the other stuff. I keep thinking I should realize something with him, something bigger than this sentinel thing; that there's something more to him than the collection of data and anecdotes I've reduced him to in my notes. I mean. . .what do I mean. He's a friend, he's a good man. I love the way his dick feels inside me. And that he lets me make demands of him and answers them. Not many guys would spank you, just because you asked. Or if they did, it would be some kinky thing to them.

It's this shaman thing. I haven't yet accepted that Incacha bestowed any mystical phlegm on me, that I'm now supposed to become some kind of ayahuasquero and blow magical darts into Jim's head every time he zones. I mean, that's great when you're in the middle of the rainforest and stoned out of your gourd on a regular basis, but it's not as if I can hunker down on the asphalt in downtown Cascade, drink down a mouthful, and then wait twenty minutes to bring Jim out of a zone. If my own methods didn't work, I'd consider it, but he seems to tune into me okay.

But that's all just an excuse. The truth is, I'm afraid to go there. The same part of me that wants to dive deep, to find out how far down it all goes, fears it. How do you go deep when you live on the transient surface of the world the way we do here in Western Civ? Some days I think how great it would be to give up the rat race, the diss, the earned income, and be this simpler man who dwells in the moment, climbing the vine of souls down into comprehension, vomiting and shitting and purging all the uncleanliness from my body, chanting magical icaros until I saw visions. Why should Jim get all the fun trance states, if I'm supposed to be his shaman? And it's kind of an attractive prospect, taking on that role for him, the idea of being an integral member of a tribe of two, cultivating a relationship in which Jim needs me, really needs me, as his spiritual advisor, his personal Jesus.

If I did let go, my obvious fear is that I could persuade myself to give up school and become this brain-burned groupie who did nothing more than follow Jim around and drag him down into a flaky mystical underworld of my own devising. Speaking to the spirits, to the dead. Here's this guy I seduced into buddyfucking, and convinced to spank me; how hard would it be to turn him further from the mainstream? I tell myself he's this dominant, authoritative force in my life, unchangeable as the weather, and I pretend this because I don't want to believe the observer is the primary influence in his subject's life.

And my subject's life is already one screwy mess after another. Now he's got me adding to his problems, not to mention his caseload. Criminals. Dangerous chicks. Guns and drugs. When did I become such a trouble magnet? Should I give up women altogether?

Nah, that's crazy talk.

I look back over what I've written, and keep thinking: there should be a realization. A man gets passed on the way of the shaman, what does he do. He wakes up the next day, eats breakfast. He goes to school, comes home, sleeps. He meets a femme fatale, gets kidnapped, arrested. What does he do. Sleeps, writes, meditates, listens to P. J. Harvey, has a beer. There should be more. More to me than this.

More to Jim, more to me. More to Jim and me.

Sometimes I just don't know.

But I guess I'm thinking about it.

End.

Notes:

This is pretty much the result of a self-imposed challenge to write a good domestic discipline story, or, maybe another way of looking at it, to write a good story that integrated domestic discipline. I worked on this goal with certain guidelines: to make it as in character as possible; to build it around canon; to have some degree of humor; and to make the relationship more or less healthy instead of wrong. (At least, not to write with a premise that they're trying to "escape its trap" etc.) The discipline would be consensual and non-sexual, and adhere to scenarios typical of the genre, but not to its emotional dynamics, which for me have always been the biggest turn-off.

I think I failed in that goal; this is far tamer than what I originally envisioned. However, the betas seem to feel that this is a good thing. ~g~

I don't usually write author's notes about why I wrote. But for this story, I'll say: I was writing originally because the challenges interested me: the challenge of working in a despised genre, of working a J/B relationship into an ep where there's an obvious female interest, and of writing around a script for an episode that has never held much interest for me, except in that it's canon. As I wrote, this became a weird, hybrid beast of a story and maybe not what I'd hoped, but at least it's done. Always a relief.