Archive of Our Own ^beta

Love consists of this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.
-- Rainer Maria Rilke

"Oh, sweetie," Naomi cajoled, "you'll love it here; it's so beautiful. The trees are all aflame with autumn; there's a soft mist in the air; the house is enormous with fireplaces in all the rooms. Come spend Thanksgiving with me and you'll see."

"Mom, I have a job. I have a partner I'm responsible for. I can't just up and go."

"I know they give you vacation days. Even the pigs get vacations."

Blair rolled his eyes at Jim, whom he knew was listening from his desk next to Blair's. He'd given Jim carte blanche to eavesdrop on his mom years ago; it was easier than trying to reproduce her flowery monologs. Jim just raised his eyebrows and smiled a little. Not very helpful.

"Please, Blair? I haven't seen you in months and I miss you. Could Jim come?"

Now Blair raised his eyebrows and smiled a little maliciously. "He sure could, Mom. He'd be delighted." Jim coughed discreetly but Blair ignored him. "It's up to Simon, though. You know that."

"Of course. But take my number. Talk to your captain."

"Okay, Ma. Give me the directions and phone number," and he scrabbled for paper and pencil among the files and shit on his desk.

When he'd hung up, he saw Jim standing next to him. He took the scrap of paper out of Blair's hand. "You really want me to come, Chief?"

"Yeah, actually I do. Looks like a three-hour drive. If only for the company."

"And my truck."

"Yeah. Well. You know I don't like to put mileage on my car." Jim smacked his forehead lightly with the paper but didn't refuse the invitation.

Simon was surprisingly okay with their request for some time off. "Oh, hell, boys," he said, watching the coffee drip. "Jim, you know you're gonna lose time if you don't take it this year. And things haven't been that busy, now that we're fully staffed again. Go, go," and he waved his hands, meaning go now as well as go then. "Tell your mother hi for me."

So they went.

"Jesus, we're not moving to Outer Mongolia, Sandburg," Jim said, hefting a second box of books into the bed of the pickup.

"You're just whining because I'll be reading instead of focusing all my attention on you."

"One, I'm not whining. Two, I don't need your attention on me."

"One, you are, too. And two, you can't stand it when you're not the focus of my attention."

"Bullshit."

"No shit. After years of being the object of my study, you love it. Can't do without it. Gotta be the center of my universe."

"Sandburg," Jim said, leaning against the truck and crossing his arms to glower at his roommate. "What are you saying? Are you serious? You think I liked being the subject of your diss?"

"I'm not saying it; I know it. And you miss it. Thus your grumbling about the books."

Jim shook his head and headed back upstairs for their duffel bags. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Glad I give your life some amusement."

"Not that much amusement," but Jim could tell Blair was laughing now, so it was okay. He rubbed Blair's shoulder and gently pushed him a step ahead of him.

Loaded with the supplies that Naomi had requested (an awful lot of candles, Jim reflected, and all that yarn didn't bode well for any upcoming holidays), they left right after work Friday, stopping for a bite and a bathroom break ninety minutes or so later. It was already dark by then; sunset was around four thirty, and the last of the twilight faded by five.

The last hour of their journey was spent in silence. Too far from any town for radio reception, they'd opted not to listen to the tapes Blair had packed. Instead, they sat in silence, letting the workweek seep away from them.

Blair was waiting for his mother. He'd done that his entire life, and he reckoned he'd continue to wait for her, until she was, in some distant future, forever gone from his life. He was used to waiting for her. In some ways, he counted on waiting for her. Waiting for Naomi was better than waiting for Godot, because she actually turned up occasionally. And those times gave a shape to his life, an irregular regularity he found comforting.

So he sat patiently in the truck, riding shotgun as always, watching the scenery roll past as they climbed into the foothills of the Cascades and left the Sound behind. Jim was silent beside him, another comfort in his life. All in all, he was a happy man.

But all-in-all wasn't entirely. Not quite. He wasn't questioning the universe; shit happens, the circle turns, blah blah blah. He believed all that. But he did have this feeling of lack, that something wasn't quite in the place it should be. He wanted to talk to his mom about that. Preferably when Jim couldn't hear.

And he was disturbed by the death of Sally Snow. It had been so sudden. Working with Jim, first as an observer, then as his partner, he'd seen the aftermath of much violence: Susan Frasier's death was only the first of far too many. But never before had he seen life slammed out of someone he knew; never had he seen that which had made his young friend the unique person she was explode across the hood of a car. He didn't think he could tell his mother that; it was too much, far too much. Maybe Jim, though.

He glanced at Jim and discovered that he was being watched. "What?"

"What what?"

"Why are you looking at me?'

For a minute, Blair thought Jim would start another absurdist dialog, but he saw Jim shelve that notion. "You're too quiet, Sandburg. What's up?"

He looked out the passenger window. "Just wishing I had more than a couple days with my mom."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim nod. "Yeah. She does tend to appear and reappear at random."

"Always has," he admitted. "I never knew when she'd show up. It was fun. Like a birthday party that suddenly happened. Never at the right time, you know. Never really on my birthday, or graduation, or a holiday. But she'd turn it into a holiday."

"I can see how she'd do that. The original moveable feast."

"Yeah," Blair smiled. That worked for him. Naomi as a moveable feast. "What do you think of her?"

Jim looked over at him in surprise. "Your mom?" He shook his head, glancing back at the road. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Just what you think."

After a few seconds, Jim said, "I envy you your relationship. She's just nuts about you. Even when she does stupid things, and don't get your dander up, you know she does. Even when she does stupid things, it's always out of love for you. She'd take a bullet for you, Chief."

Unexpectedly moved at Jim's words, Blair just nodded.

"I like Naomi. That doesn't mean I wouldn't like to wring her neck at times. But hell, I want to wring your neck, and I love you."

Blair thought his eyes might fall out. He was stunned and immeasurably touched. "Jim, I, gee. Thanks. Yeah. Uh, me, too."

"I know," Jim said smugly. "You pretend to be this touchy-feely guy, so in tune with your feelings, Mr. Minor-in-psychology. But I bet you can't say it."

And Blair knew Jim was right. He couldn't. He was too embarrassed. He looked again out the passenger window, trying to think what to say. "Maybe. I do, though."

"I know." Jim sounded slightly less smug, so Blair turned to look at him. He was smiling.

"You're such a prick."

"I know that, too," and they both laughed. "Hey, pour some coffee, would ya?" So Blair pulled the thermos out of the box at his feet and got them both cups.

At last, Jim sighed and glanced at Blair, who appeared to be dozing lightly, waking whenever the car bounced his head against the passenger door window. He smiled at his friend of so many years. They had a turn-off to find, though, so he touched Blair's shoulder. "Hey, Chief," he said, and laughed when Blair snorted in surprise.

"Oh, man," he said, and Jim could feel the slight increase in temperature as he blushed in embarrassment.

"Sexy sounds, Sandburg. Bet the ladies love it."

"Asshole," Blair said without heat, and cracked his back. Jim knew that Blair knew that drove him nuts. "What?"

"Get out the map. Bout time to figure out where to turn." He turned on the map light in the cab, automatically adjusting his vision.

Blair rooted around in his increasingly disreputable backpack; Jim kept threatening to trash it, but both men knew it carried significance as well as supplies. In fact, Jim had bought a replacement for Blair for the last night of Hanukkah; it was boxed and hidden at the top of his closet upstairs. He figured that Blair would be carrying a backpack to his retirement dinner and beyond; might as well have a nice one.

"'Kay," he finally said, pulling out the creased paper and holding it to the light above him. "We pass Mount Vernon yet?"

"Yeah. You were sawing zees. We've already turned inland." Jim risked a glance at the map, Blair angling it so he could see better. "We're looking for the little turn off, the one to Cloud Mountain."

Blair brought the map nearer to his face, finally pushing his glasses on top of his head and peering closely at it. "I can't believe this is my writing," he groused. "Okay, I see it." He dropped his glasses down and switched off the light, squinting to see out the windshield. "Turn on your brights for a minute. There doesn't seem to be anybody coming."

"Not for miles in either direction," Jim agreed as he pulled out the light switch. They rode in silence for several minutes and then Jim grunted with satisfaction. Cloud Mountain, five miles.

"Now, we don't actually go into Cloud Mountain," Blair reminded him. "We're looking for a road to the right, that goes up the mountain. Mom says there's a big oak tree there that has a cross nailed to it, and flowers, and popsicle sticks. Somebody smashed into it, I guess."

Jim glanced at him in irritation. "Popsicle sticks?"

Blair shook his head. "Just reading my notes."

Jim shrugged. He kept the brights on, driving a little more slowly. Sentinel senses were pretty useful, but they wouldn't slow the inertia of a quickly moving, fully-loaded pickup. Another few minutes and he saw the glitter of nails from the cross. He slowed further and carefully took a sharp right that seemed to go straight up the mountain. "Jesus, no wonder they missed it."

"Bob and Claire. Forever loved. Nineteen-ninety-seven," Blair read aloud as they passed the grim memorial. Then he, too, turned his attention to the narrow road ahead of them. "Mom says it goes up for a bit, then levels off, but that when it does, it gets real windy. So you might," and he grabbed the dashboard as Jim swung the car to the left suddenly, "you might want to slow down."

Jim had to agree; he just might want to slow down. Naomi hadn't been kidding about how winding this road was. Clearly, no tree had been sacrificed in its making. Rather, the road snaked around the large cedars and oaks. The top of the pickup regularly brushed against their low branches.

"Did you check the odometer? We go for a little over two miles," Blair reminded him.

"I know, Sandburg," he said, slowing even more. The road was almost completely covered with fallen cedar needles and drifts of gold oak leaves; he could hear them crunch under the tires.

"Okay, okay, here!" Blair almost shouted, and Jim turned left this time, at a mailbox labeled Cloud Mountain Farm. A small wooden sign further identified it as having apples, apple cider, and blackberries for sale. The drive was cobblestoned, he could tell by the vibrations, but he couldn't see anything under the thick layer of leaves. Then he glimpsed a light ahead.

With relief, Jim pulled up in front of the large house and turned off the engine. Spotlighted by a porch light, Naomi was out front, wearing jeans and several layers of sweatshirts; she looked like her son. Standing underneath enormous peeling white birches, she was wielding an ax, working on making kindling from large rounds of cut oak. Jim didn't believe someone as delicate and as ditzy as Naomi should be permitted near an ax, so he leapt out of the truck and rushed to her side. "Let me," he insisted, gently taking it from her. She smiled gratefully, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and then turned to Blair.

"Mom." Blair hugged her tightly. "I wish you could stay a few days."

"I'll be back, honey. We'll have all of Thanksgiving together."

He pursed his mouth, but nodded and remained silent. "Hop in," he instructed. "Jim?"

"You pull her around, Chief. I'm gonna work on this a bit more." Jim wanted to give them a little time alone. Maybe because his own mother left so many years ago, he empathized with Blair's desire for some time with his mother. He was determined to see he got some at least today and over the holiday, when she'd returned.

He turned back to his task, enjoying the feel of the ax in his hands and the smell of fresh-cut cedar and oak. Not a task to zone out on, though, so he didn't let his senses stray too far, but listened to his friends.

"I'm so glad you're here, darling," he heard Naomi tell Blair. "I've missed you so much."

"This doesn't look like you, Naomi," Blair said, doubt coloring his voice. "So far away from other people, chopping wood."

"Oh, sweetie. Don't you remember the summer we spent in the Smoky Mountains? We never saw another soul except when we went into town on Saturdays." She kissed Blair again, running her hand through his hair, and then turned to Jim. "Put down that ax, Detective," she said, dropping her voice to sound official. Jim obeyed.

"Yes, ma'am?"

She held out her arms to him. He smacked the ax into the heart of the large block of oak and hugged her tightly, lifting her up a foot or so off the ground. She squealed with pleasure; all women did, he thought, laughing. They kissed and she smiled at him. "Thank you for coming, for bringing Blair."

"My pleasure, Naomi. Now, do you need more kindling tonight, or should we start unloading the truck?"

"Would you mind chopping more? I have plenty of wood, it's just that I'm not very good at fires and need a lot of kindling." He picked up the ax again, promising himself to leave enough kindling to last several years, regardless of how poor a firemaker she might be. "Oh, thank you. Blair, let's drive the pickup around back and I'll show you where the kitchen is." She climbed into the cab, scooting into the center of the seat, and waited for him. Jim clapped Blair on the back and sent him off.

"Did you notice the birch trees, sweetie?" he heard her ask Blair as they drove away.

Blair knew what Jim was doing and loved him for it. Love. Wow, that had been a surprise. To hear stoic Ellison casually say, "I love you." He liked it very much, though.

"Yeah, I saw the birches. Why? Should I read anything into them?"

"Well, you just look around and let me know. Now, here, follow this drive to the garages, then circle around and back up," Naomi directed him.

"Jesus, Mom. How big is this place?"

"Oh, you'll love it. It reminds me of Narnia; all the closets seem to open into other rooms, and passageways go on forever." Blair reached the garages; they looked like something out of the movie Sabrina. Following Naomi's instructions, he circled downhill of them, then drove behind them and back up the steep hill. The garages were clearly pretty new, but the first bit of house they saw must've been a hundred years old.

"Yes," Naomi agreed when he mentioned this. "It was the first place built on the property. It's just a big rectangle, made of stones they picked up from the grounds. Then the next owners built onto it, and the next onto that. It's like four houses in one, really, stepping up the hill. Okay, here, stop."

Here was next to short wooden stairwell leading to a wide cedar veranda that ran along the back of the newer portion of the house and around one corner. The full-length windows were gleaming with light and Blair could see into an immense kitchen. "Wow."

They ferried the boxes of food and yarn and clanking bottles of wine and beer into the kitchen, dumping them on the round white-tiled kitchen table and the marble-topped counter. Jim arrived, sweaty and satisfied with himself, to help. To his obvious surprise, there was an enormous sofa in the kitchen. A white sofa. "There's a sofa in the kitchen," he told Naomi, frowning; she just smiled. Blair went back out for their duffel bags and his backpack. When he staggered in, Jim grabbed the two duffels and left him the backpack as they followed her up a wide, well-lit hallway painted ochre, red, gold, and blue. "Chief, did you see there was a sofa in the kitchen?" he was asking to Blair's amusement, when Naomi pushed open double doors into a large bedroom.

"Here," she said proudly. "Jim, I thought you could stay here, and Blair," she led them further up the hallway, "this is for you." She opened another set of double doors into another enormous bedroom.

"Holy cow, Mom. Who lives here?"

"Do you remember the Sant'angelos?"

"Mom!" Blair's eyes widened in shock.

"No, sweetie, Lou doesn't sell dope anymore. He went into day trading and made several millions, then stopped. Now he and Lydia are sailing around the South Seas. And they asked me to stay here till they return."

"Sandburgs? Anything you want to tell me?"

"Oh, Jim," Naomi said charmingly, putting her hand on his forearm. "It's just that Lou used to do some illegal things. But not any more, not for years, I swear. The statute of limitations has long since run out."

Blair looked askance at Jim, who shrugged and tossed Blair's duffel onto his bed and headed back down the hall to his own room.

"Jim," Naomi said, surprising him by coming directly into his room from Blair's, "I forgot to tell you your rooms are adjoining."

"So I see." Blair knew from Jim's voice that he was concerned about the Sant'angelos and their law-breaking past; he smiled to himself as he tossed his pack and duffel onto the enormous bed.

Blair also knew, though, that Jim had always found it difficult to be angry at Naomi. He, as did her son, found her too sweet and too appealing to be cross with for long. To both men's detriments. "Okay, Naomi. I'm not here as a cop. But if I see something illegal . . . "

"No, really. That was years ago." She smiled at him, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. Blair came up behind her and put his arms around her waist.

"I'm hungry," he whispered, and kissed her powdered cheek, loving her familiar and much-missed scent.

"Come on. I have vegetable soup on the stove, and cold tongue sandwiches waiting for you."

"Mm, tongue. Yum," Jim said; Blair was pretty sure he was only partly joking. He followed mother and son back into the kitchen. "I should get a shower," he apologized, but Naomi waved her hands at him.

"Sit, sit. Such a pleasure to see you again. I'm so glad you could come."

"Yeah, well. Simon owed us. We've worked Thanksgiving for how many years, Chief?"

"All of them, it seems."

Jim nodded. "Yeah. I can't remember a time when I didn't have Thanksgiving dinner either at the station or after putting in a full day. I will say that the bad guys tend to stay home on Thanksgiving. Of course, the uniforms are busy with domestic calls, but Major Crimes tends to be quiet."

Blair frowned a little at this; he wasn't sure he wanted his mom to hear about domestic violence. But she was just nodding her head wisely, sipping her wine. "I've heard that before," she said to Jim earnestly. "That big football days are bad for wives. Is that true?"

"I think it's more big drinking days, but since they tend to correlate with big football days, yeah, it probably is."

"And what about full moons?"

"Oh, yeah." Jim took a sip of beer and sat up straighter. "Naomi, the things that happen on full moons. Everybody's a little crazier, common sense seems to fly out the window. Maybe there isn't any more crime, but it's weirder crime, you know?

"Like this one time, Major Crimes was called in because people were throwing their coffee on all the Starbucks' windows. Can you believe it? A whole herd of anti-Starbuckians or something, buying, I don't know, Seattle's Best Coffee, I guess, and then throwing it on Starbucks. What a mess."

"Well, I think Starbucks' coffee tastes burnt," she said, "but I wouldn't throw coffee on their windows."

"That's the difference between you and them under the full moon. You go elsewhere; they throw coffee."

"What's the moon tonight?"

Jim looked at Blair. "A waning gibbous. The new moon's on the twenty-fifth."

"How do you know stuff like that?"

Blair just shrugged, enjoying the attention. Naomi said, "He always did, Jim. Even as a little boy. Sunrise, moonrise, what planets were visible." The pride in her voice, as ridiculous as it was, pleased Blair enormously. He took a hurried sip of wine.

He really wasn't sure how he knew. It was just one of those things some part of his brain automatically kept track of. For the first time, he wondered if it had to do with his interest in sentinels. Maybe in pre-literate times sentinels might have needed someone to keep track of that for them? So they'd know when to hunt, when they might be attacked? Funny. That had never occurred to him before.

When he came out of his mini-zone, he found Jim and Naomi deep in a discussion of the benefits of feng shui.

"But think about it, Jim, it just makes sense that how a room is laid out would affect how you feel and perform. If the sun is shining in your eyes, it's hard to see, you tense your face, it affects your entire body. And that's just one example."

"Then pull the blinds. I want things the way I want them, not the way some stranger thinks they should be. It's my home, after all."

She raised her eyebrows. "I only moved the one couch the one time."

He waved his beer bottle generously. "Oh, hell, Naomi. You can move my couch whenever you want." They broke into laughter at that point; Blair was a little uncomfortable. Was there sexual innuendo in Jim's phrase?

Naomi jumped up. "Let me heat the soup. Blair, would you get the sandwiches out of the fridge?"

Blair thought his stomach did a backflip. "Jim, you're gonna love my mom's tongue sandwiches."

"And wait till you see what I have for dessert."

Blair looked at Jim, who smiled back at him, then toasted him with his beer. "I'll love it, Chief. I guarantee you."

And you love me, Blair thought, surprising himself, and smiled back. "Yeah."

When Naomi had kissed them both good night, Jim had tried to retreat, to give them some time alone. But she apparently needed to meditate, so he had Blair to himself for a while. They left the adjoining door open while they unpacked. Each bedroom had its own fireplace and bathroom, and both bedrooms and both bathrooms had enormous windows looking out into the forest beyond. The moon was waning gibbous, Blair had said, which meant there was plenty of glowing moonlight washing the trees. Jim saw a deer stepping delicately into an herb garden, and another one nibbling on a rose bush. A raccoon scuttled across the yard, and possums huddled at the roots of an oak.

"Jim? Jim?" He became aware of Blair's warmth next to him. "You zoning there?"

"A little," he admitted, and gestured out the window of the bath. "It's really pretty out there."

"Well, I'll have to take your word on it tonight. Tomorrow you can show me. Listen, I want to take a bath, but this window makes me nervous. Do you see any curtains or anything?"

Jim flicked the light switch on and investigated, but whoever designed the bathroom either had no modesty or was convinced the forest took care of any need for privacy. Blair sighed. Jim knew that Blair was a modest man, always a bit uncomfortable out of his layers of clothing. "Tell you what. Let's use some of the candles they've got sitting out. Those apple ones smell really good."

So they settled into their respective bathrooms, undressing by the flickering candlelight, Jim happily sniffing at the green apple scent released by the candles. The water was hot and plentiful, so they bathed at the same time. Jim could hear Blair splashing in the other room and had to laugh. At least for a sentinel, it was as intimate as if they were bathing together.

When he was wrapped in a large terry robe he'd found hanging behind the bathroom door, Jim came to the door to Blair's room. Blair was sitting up in bed, already under the covers, scrubbing at his hair with a towel and trying to read a paperback that kept falling over. He watched Blair for a few seconds before saying, "Good night, Chief. Sleep tight."

Blair looked up, smiling at him. "Yeah. You, too, Jim. See you in the morning."

"Not if I see you first," Jim promised as he shut the door. Then he reconsidered and left it open just a crack. Just in case.

Blair was still sleeping when Jim got up the next morning. He quietly peeked through the adjoining door, to make sure he was okay, before slipping away into the kitchen. Naomi didn't seem to be up either, so he spent a few minutes hunting up coffee and filters, then fixing himself a bowl of granola and yogurt. Granola and yogurt, he thought as he crunched happily; if my friends could see me now.

Coffee in hand, he stood at the sliding glass door onto the back veranda, looking out into the small yard. Someone had planted roses at the perimeter, small hardy bushes the deer had ravaged. He decided to go for a walk when he finished his coffee.

Hearing a noise, he turned to see Naomi yawning. "Oh, bless you, Jim," she said, heading toward the coffee. "It's a terrible addiction, but one I'm not willing to give up just yet."

Jim smiled; he'd heard Sandburg say the same thing many times. "How long have you been here, Naomi?"

Breathing in the steam from her mug, she paused before answering. "Almost two months. I arrived the middle of September. They were leaving the day I arrived, so I got a whirlwind tour and a dozen lists of things to do. So far, I've enjoyed myself. I've been painting and knitting. Reading. Oh," and she blushed slightly, "writing down what I can remember of things Blair and I did when he was a little boy. I thought he might enjoy that."

Jim thought about his long-missing mother, about his fragmented memories of her presence in his life. "I think he'll love it, Naomi. You know he adores you."

She blushed even more, looking into her coffee. "I know. And I know I don't deserve it." She looked up; he heard her heart rate increase and she took a deep breath. "Are you angry with me, Jim? You've never said."

He felt almost shocked by the question. If she'd asked him that eighteen months ago . . . but she was asking now.

Finally, he said, "Not any longer. I should've known better. He's my best friend."

He turned his back to her, embarrassed and a little ashamed. "I'm more angry at myself, Naomi. I feel that I forced Blair into giving up everything." He stopped, choking on the bitter words. Out of a sense of obligation, of duty, he continued. "If I'd listened to him, we could have figured something out.

"So, no. I wasn't angry at you. Or at least not for very long."

She stood next to him, also looking out into the pale dawn beginning to color the frosted lawn and trees a delicate pink. "I was angry. At myself, for not respecting his privacy. Not treating him with the respect he deserves. At you, for treating him so badly. At my friend, the publisher, who was such an asshole." Jim raised his eyebrows; he didn't think he'd ever heard Naomi say "asshole" before. "Now, I'm just ashamed."

"He's a good man, Naomi. You did a good job raising him."

"You take care of him, Jim. I need to know that in his new life, there's someone watching over him."

"With my life," he promised, and meant every word. She nodded, still staring outdoors.

"Mom?" They both turned. Blair was wearing thick white socks, red plaid boxers, a ratty white tee shirt, and his curly hair stood straight up.

"Yes, sweetie?"

He walked over to where they stood and kissed Naomi. "You okay?"

She put her arms around him. "I'm fine." She bussed his cheek noisily, and he laughed.

Jim smiled as he watched, sipping his coffee. "So. What's on the agenda today?"

"Well, first I want Blair to put a robe on, before he catches cold. Then we'll have breakfast. And then I want to show you the place."

"Where are you going, anyway?" Jim asked, covertly watching his partner finish the coffee, then peer mournfully into the empty carafe.

"I have friends in Taos who're exhibiting their photographs. It's an important exhibition; buyers from New York and London are flying in. We've been friends forever, and I'd love to be there for them. But the show is only a few days long, so I'll be back in time for Thanksgiving, and we can celebrate here."

Jim smiled as he moved to make another pot of coffee. "We'll have a turkey and all the trimmings ready for you, Naomi."

"Oh, Jim, thank you!" He felt her arms come around his waist and hug him, as Blair had hugged her last night. He leaned back a little, enjoying the warm sensation of her body against his, and then turned to kiss her fondly. Behind her, Blair was watching them carefully.

"Come here, Chief," Jim said, and held out his arm. Puzzled, Blair stepped closer until Jim enveloped both him and his mother in a quick hug.

Jim arrived thirty seconds before the EMTs. Blair was sitting on the hot asphalt in front of the Cascade PD, covered in the child's blood. Bright red arterial blood. It had soaked into his white tee shirt, his jeans, his hair. He held the little girl's shredded body. Before him, kneeling in the street, Maeve Gallagher screamed and screamed and screamed.

Jim almost fell out of the truck in his rush to reach his partner's side. The paramedics dashed around him, pushing him aside to take the little girl from Blair. Oh, Jesus. It was Sally Snow, the little girl Blair had befriended after finding her in a crack-house. Jim put his hands on Blair and pulled him away, touching him cautiously, sniffing, checking and double-checking. But Blair's injuries were all invisible, internal, emotional. The child's foster mother never stopped screaming.

"What happened? What happened?" Jim found himself asking compulsively as he patted Blair's chest and back for injuries. Blair just shook his head.

"I, I'm not sure. I was going out for a bagel run. It must've just happened." Jim turned to look, stepping between Blair and the mangled body, now swarming with paramedics all talking intently, one on a cell phone, one holding Mrs. Gallagher as she sobbed. Two patrol cars were blocking the street and a uniform directing traffic around the block. A few yards away, an elderly Caddy sat, its hood smashed into a telephone pole that now tilted rakishly; through the glare of the afternoon sun, Jim's vision let him see the blood and bits of clothing and skin on the pole and car.

He turned back to Blair, studying his friend. Blair was pale and sweaty, but calm. "You weren't hurt." He shook his head. "Okay, Chief. The paramedics have things under control. Let's get you inside and out of those clothes." Get that blood off you, he added silently.

"I'm okay. I'll need to make a statement." Jim didn't push Blair any further; their years together had taught him when to back off, and he recognized the resolve in Blair's voice and tilt of his head. He left his hand on Blair's shoulder, though, as they waited their turn.

Blair was unusually quiet on the trip back from Mount Vernon, where they'd watched Naomi climb on the Greyhound to Seattle. Jim knew Blair missed his mother; hell, he missed Naomi, as quirky and annoying as she could be. But she was important to Blair, despite or maybe because of her quirkiness, so that made her important to Jim.

"Listen, Chief. Is there anything you wanna do while we're at the farm? I know you brought a lot of books. Do you need me to leave you alone at set times, or for so many hours a day? You wanna do some hiking maybe? What?"

Blair smiled at him, a gesture Jim found himself anticipating with pleasure. "Let's just play it by ear, Jim. Whatever you'd like is fine with me. I wanna do some reading, but it's nothing. I, uh, thought I might write up how we broke the Burnes murder. Simon suggested our procedure might be useful. Since it didn't, you know, involve your senses directly."

Jim nodded. It had been good, clean detective work that had brought in the scumbag Barney Burnes. A lot of hard fucking work, but no senses except common had been involved. "Yeah. Good idea. I'll help you." He grinned at Blair to show that he was kidding, but Blair started nodding his head excitedly.

"That'd be great, man. Thanks. Yeah, we'll both write it up and I'll submit it to Criminology Monthly." Jim was going to argue, but the look on Blair's face persuaded him otherwise. And if Simon had suggested this, who was he to argue.

But when they first got home, Jim insisted they really explore the house and grounds. "I never got a good feel for this place," he admitted. "It's too big, and too weirdly put together. If we're gonna take care of it, I wanna know what we're in for. Plus," he added, knowing this would guarantee Blair's approval, "we should see if there are any potential problems for Naomi, up here all alone."

So they started in the oldest part of the house, the stone house, that they'd noticed their first night here. Jim handed Blair a notepad and pencil and carried a big flashlight from the truck.

It was basically one large room, with the northern wall mostly fireplace. Small windows to conserve heat. There was a rough kitchen, just two sinks and a faucet along with an old fashioned pump. A few old overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. A wooden front door with an old-fashioned latch handle. A buck's head on one wall. But the room was clean; no skunks or raccoons had gotten in and made themselves at home.

One wall had been partially knocked down, leading to the next step up the hill. Originally built to be bedrooms for the crowded inhabitants of the stone room, most of the rooms were now used for storage -- books no one would ever want to read again, yellowed pictures from old magazines, a bathroom. Jim felt Blair press up against him in order to peer around him at an enormous claw-footed bathtub of pale yellow enamel, matching sink and toilet, and a tall narrow window looking out onto a vegetable garden, now empty of anything but cabbage and seedy lettuces. "Great tub," Blair said, but he didn't sound anxious to try it out.

"Mildewy, though," Jim said, and they headed up the narrow hallway.

The last room had clearly been the master bedroom at one time but had been refurbished into a living room of sorts. Jim and Blair wandered through the maze of dark, heavy furniture that was, Jim thought, considerably older than the house itself. He thought this portion of the house might have been built in the prosperous years following the second world war, but the mahogany credenza, china cabinet, and buffet were from a hundred years ago.

A large stained glass window high in the southern wall let in glowing blue and green light. Opposite it, a roughly carved stone plaque hung on the wall between two heavy built-in bookcases: a man, Jim thought, with leaves in his hair and beard. He watched as Blair sat on a bottle-green velvet loveseat, tucking his feet up until Jim tapped his shoes. "I like it here," he said, and Jim nodded. He sat next to Blair and pulled his feet up to his lap.

"Yeah," he finally said, leaning back into the soft material. "Looks as though someone loved this room." The loveseat was unusually deep and well-cushioned; both men settled back, listening to the silence of the house. Only an old clock ticking somewhere broke the silence. When Jim listened closely, he could hear the wind sighing through the cedars, and the hooting of a distant owl. Nothing else, even to his ears.

When he looked at Blair, Jim discovered that he'd dozed off. Jim made himself comfortable and decided to wait until Blair woke. He closed his own eyes and leaned his head back against the top of the loveseat. He felt too heavy and relaxed to move.

He woke when Blair jerked. "Whoa," he said, and pulled his feet off Jim's lap. "Falling down dream."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Blair rubbed his eyes. "How long did I sleep?"

Glancing at his watch, Jim discovered they'd sat there for nearly forty minutes. "We must've been tired."

"Duh. Like we ever get enough sleep."

"This is nice here."

"Yeah. My favorite room so far."

Jim looked around again at the dark furniture, papered walls, and large fireplace. "Let's come back tonight, after dinner. Start a fire."

"Better check that chimney first."

Jim nodded, but for a sentinel, that was an easy task. "We'll finish checking out the rest of the house tomorrow."

"Sally!" Blair greeted the little girl with pleasure. "What are you doing out in the street by yourself?"

"Waitin' for Auntie Maeve," she said, and stared pointedly at the glass doors behind him. "She said she'd be right out. She's gonna buy me doughnuts."

Blair had to smile. "Doughnuts are my friend Jim's favorite food. You like them, too?"

"Auntie Maeve said there are a million kinds."

"Just about."

"Sally!" her foster mother called, leaving the Hall of Justice where, Blair surmised, she'd been with Children's Services. "Oh, please, sweetie, don't come out here without me. You're too little to be wandering the streets of Cascade."

"That might be a good idea, Sally." Blair felt incredibly old as he agreed with Sally's aunt. When did he become a grown up?

"Yes, Auntie Maeve. But I want to see a million doughnuts."

Mrs. Gallagher rolled her eyes at Blair and he smiled in sympathy. Jim'd probably like to see a million doughnuts, too.

"Have a good time," he called, turning to go into the Hall of Justice. He had a meeting with one of the ADAs, to go over his testimony for court next week. Sally waved excitedly, then took her foster mother's hand and skipped beside her, no doubt as happy to be leaving Children's Services as she was to be going to the doughnut shop. Blair watched her little sundress bounce as she danced down the street, before feeling the smile fade from his face. He wished he were going to the doughnut shop.

The next morning was even greyer and colder than the previous; Jim studied the sky from the kitchen's large, uncurtained windows and wondered what the weather would bring. There was a radio next to the sink, but before he could turn it on, Blair erupted into the room.

"Jesus Christ on a crutch." He headed determinedly toward the coffee, not even looking at Jim. "It's colder than a witch's tit. Than a well digger's ass. Than --"

"Got it, Chief," Jim said dryly, and took another sip of coffee. "Let's switch you to decaf, okay?"

"Sorry." Blair smiled charmingly at him, a sleepy good-morning smile that made Jim realize how exhausted Blair must've been the past few months; he hadn't seen that smile in a long, long time. His heart twisted for his friend and partner. Jim remembered too well the difficulty adjusting to military life, and later to the very different rules of law enforcement.

"You look good this morning," he said, and felt himself blush. Hurrying to cover his embarrassment, he added, "I thought we could explore the grounds this morning. If you'd like. Maybe see the apple orchards."

"Oh, hey, yeah, I would like that." Jim thought again how long it had been since he'd seen Blair with that much energy in the morning. Since a camping trip last summer. Maybe. In their years together, Blair had always walked the edge of exhaustion: in school, at the academy, and now in Major Crimes. But only recently had the exhaustion been so apparent on his face. In his body. "Naomi said there was cider, too, stored somewhere."

Jim nodded. "Yeah. There's a cellar or something, built into the hill. She told me about it when she was showing me where the water and power cut-offs were." Blair drank deeply; Jim couldn't understand why he wasn't burning his tonsils with the hot coffee.

They bundled up immediately after piling the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, a luxury they didn't have at the loft. Blair looked like a walking pile of laundry, he had so many layers of clothes on, plus that ridiculous Elmer Fudd hat he wore on stakeouts. Jim smiled secretly but said nothing, too relieved to see the playful Blair re-emerge after a long hibernation.

There were ten acres of apple orchards on Cloud Mountain, all dormant now after the harvest and press. They strolled through an old orchard, the trees gnarled and twisted, and then through a much younger one. Most of the leaves had fallen, and the ground was mounded with drifts of crunchy yellow leaves. Jim sorted through them until he found the perfect apple leaf and tucked it in his breast pocket, then searched until he found another for Blair, who took it solemnly.

They located the double wooden doors to the cellar and pulled them open to find half-gallon jugs of cider. Jim sniffed one cautiously; not hard, he assured Blair, and they carried two back to the house. The cider was icy cold and very sweet. Its flavor brought back memories of childhood to Jim: his mom getting apple cider for Jim and his friends while they played basketball in the driveway. An after-school drink for Stevie. Halloween. He didn't ask Blair what it reminded him of.

Blair kicked at the deep drifts of dried apple leaves, enjoying the fragile crunchy sound of them beneath his feet and the yellow dust flying up as he stomped along. His breath streamed behind him like a contrail in the gelid air. He didn't much like cold weather, but he could appreciate its beauty, and this was very beautiful.

He covertly watched his friend striding ahead of him, slowing to study an especially contorted branch, a blackbird watching him, or mice hiding in the roots. Jim's face was relaxed, with a slight smile as he lost himself in the pleasures and the freedom of the day. Then Jim turned to smile at him, and Blair found himself helplessly smiling back, a lightness filling his heart.

They each carried a plastic half-gallon jug of the cider they'd found in the press; he and Jim had already tasted it, pouring the aromatic icy liquid into their palms and drinking like dogs and cats. Blair's hand was still sticky from it, and when he licked his lips, he could taste the sweet drops left there. As sweet as the day, as sweet as their freedom from routine.

But when Jim swung back around toward the house, the smile left Blair's lips. How could anything taste sweet in this world? He'd seen too much to believe in the possibility of sweetness. Yet he was happy here, he was, he insisted to himself, and being with Jim made this happiness possible. And being with Jim meant learning to coexist with death and violence as much as with sweet apple cider and walks in apple orchards with best friends.

They came into the yard just then, past the deer-eaten roses and gopher-dug lawn and up the veranda's steps. Blair turned and looked out at the land, caught in the silent chill of an early winter. For so long his heart had felt nearly frozen; he'd been through so much. He wasn't the young man with bouncing curls he once was; he'd never be that man again. Then he turned and looked at Jim, knocking the earth off his boots before stepping into the house. He needed to talk to Jim. Jim would know what this was about.

Jim sighed deeply and looked up from his book. It was getting too dark to read even for him, but he was reluctant to flood the room with artificial light when the fading rays of the evening sun were so warm and soothing. He tucked an apple leaf into the pages to mark his place and shut the book, setting it on the round, scarred maple table next to the wing-backed chair he sprawled in.

The low angle of the light picked out for him details in the room he'd never bothered to notice before. Dust motes floated through the honey-colored light, drawing his attention up to the white plaster ceiling, to a circle of five molded pineapples in the center of the room, surrounded by molded loops of grape leaves. The sun dropped lower and a sudden gleam caught his eye.

Looking to his left, he noticed mixed in with the books seven small bottles of colored glass. Each bottle was roughly the same size and shape, about five inches tall, but a different color and with a different shaped stopper. He stood, stretching his back muscles, and went to them. About eye-level they sat, dusty and clearly untouched for some time, maybe years, surrounded by cracking leather books, the gold-leaf titles flaking with age. He wondered if they belonged to the former drug-dealer, Mr. Sant'angelo.

Jim gently touched the first bottle with a cautious forefinger. It was green, and the stopper a dog's head. Pewter, he thought. Peering more closely at it in the dusk, he realized each bottle was labeled; small pewter signs hung from delicate chains around their necks. The dog-bottle's sign read -- he lifted the tiny thing carefully -- Strength. Stamped into the pewter in a flowing script.

Next was a cat-headed amber bottle; its sign read Cunning. Then a blue bottle with a woman's face smiling sadly: Melancholy. A red one with an extremely erect penis and two tiny testicles bore the sign Concupiscence. Jim couldn't resist; he gently took that bottle down to study the embarrassingly accurate genitalia. Seeing his fingerprints on the dusty glass made him replace it quickly.

The fifth bottle stopper was a pewter hand, outstretched; the violet bottle bore the label Kin. The sixth bottle was pink, its stopper a broken heart, and its sign read Reminiscence. The last bottle was an ugly yellow; Jim frowned at it, trying to read the sign. Prescience. The stopper was a owl's head.

For reasons Jim couldn't have articulated had anyone asked, he picked up the bottle labeled Reminiscence and held it closer to his eyes. He tilted the bottle and realized there was a small amount of liquid inside, sloping against the bottle's walls as he moved it. Curious, he unplugged the bottle, and waved the stopper under his nose. A pleasant, rather dusty scent teased at him and he sniffed at the bottle itself.

An entire bouquet of scents impinged on his senses: he could smell and taste and feel something cool and dry brush against his face. It smelled sweet, and sharp, and herbal, and astringent. His eyes felt prickle; oh, shit, he thought, stoppering the bottle and pushing it back on the shelf quickly. Blair's going to kill me. He rubbed at his eyes and nose, sniffing and swallowing, wishing he had a handkerchief with him.

A wave of dizziness hit him; his stomach twisted in response. The room seemed to spin around him, the pineapples in the ceiling circling madly. He shut his eyes and reached out, grabbing onto a ladder-backed chair that slowly fell onto its side, striking his foot. Then he collapsed, falling right onto his butt, unable to get his hands under him in time to break his fall. Shit. He'd have a spectacular bruise on his bottom tomorrow; at least he hadn't injured his tailbone.

He sat on the floor rubbing the tears that had sprung to his eyes from the sharp pain and the odd odor. He heard the door open and looked up, prying his stinging eyes open enough to see. But instead of Blair's curious face, he saw his mother, one hand on the door knob, looking down at him with affectionate concern.

"Oh, honey," she said in a voice he suddenly remembered from forty years ago. "Are you all right?" She came to him, her long dress murmuring with her movement. He stared at it in fascination, forgetting his stinging eyes. It was a deep red, a pattern of peonies picked out with gold thread. He put out a finger to trace the ornamentation, falling deeper into the embellishments of swirls and curlicues.

She wrapped her hand around his finger and brought it to her lipsticked lips for a kiss. "Jimmy," she whispered sadly. "Not now, sweetheart, okay?"

He looked up at her face. He had her nose, he realized, and the same color eyes. Her hair was a lighter brown than his, almost blonde, long and wavy, like someone else's, but he couldn't think whose. Her sweet features were concerned and she slipped her arm around his waist.

"Tell me you're all right," she begged, and he smiled up at her in love, with so much love and longing. "Jimmy?"

"Mom," he whispered. "I miss you so much . . ." and to his consternation, his eyes shut from the sharp pain of the bottle's contents. He felt her shaking him gently, saying his name again and again. He sneezed powerfully and rubbed his eyes; a kleenex was pressed into his hand, so he blew thoroughly and mopped at his eyes. "Mom, I," he said, opening them again, but now Blair had him by the shoulders, looking at him with the same expression of affectionate concern.

Jim looked around him, feeling almost frantic at the loss of his mother's presence. But night had fallen; the room was dark except for an elongated rectangle of light falling from the hallway. "Fuck, Jim," Blair said in his familiar baritone. "You scared the shit outta me. Are you all right?"

Jim couldn't answer. He felt as though his heart had been rent in two. He leaned against Blair's sturdy shoulder and scrambled clumsily to his feet. "Thanks," he said, his voice husky. "Just, I don't know, got dizzy."

"Shit." Blair kept a firm grip on Jim and helped him back to the easy chair. "I'll get you some water."

"No, wait." Jim looked up at his friend, at his curly hair and wide blue eyes. "I'm okay. Well, my butt's sore," and he shifted even in the comfortable seat, "but that's all." His stomach growled, and Blair smiled.

"Dinner's ready," Blair said, and Jim stood up again, leaving his hand on Blair's arm.

Jim didn't tell Blair about the bottles.

Blair kept an eye on Jim after he'd fainted in the reading room. He'd heard a heavy thump and gone down to the older part of the house, one of the few rooms in this weird place besides the kitchen where they both felt comfortable, and had been shocked to find his friend sitting on the floor, eyes red.

He got Jim settled on the sofa in the kitchen, beer in hand; he seemed unusually wound up and Blair wondered what had really happened in the reading room. But he was content to listen to Jim while he set the table and set out dinner -- sloppy joes, not his favorite, but something Jim loved. He tidied up his work and got Jim to the table, still talking, after putting a cushion on the seat of the wooden kitchen chair. Jim blushed but, typical for him, didn't refer to its presence. He did, however, sit on it.

So far at the house, Blair had been working diligently on the paper he hoped to submit to Criminology Monthly. Writing, cooking, eating, cleaning up afterwards, and keeping the fires going were his primary activities, mostly done at Jim's side. A comfortable and even comforting place to be.

But now -- he shook his head as he dried dishes, one ear listening to Jim's analysis of the publisher's motivation for bringing out early writings of Jack Kerouac, the other attuned to his own concerns. Writing the article helped him keep his mind off other aspects of work, but those aspects kept infringing on him, forcing him to pay attention to that which he'd rather ignore.

Wish I were as good at repression as Jim is, he thought idly, gazing around for any more dirty dishes.

Blair had been a cop now for eighteen months. Eighteen hard yet rewarding months of being on the street, hip deep in the mire that all cops have to learn to tread. They'd warned him the academy; Simon had warned him; Rafe, Henri, and Megan had warned him; and Jim had taken him camping and then, while standing a few feet apart fly fishing, Jim had mixed advice about tying flies, casting the line, and dealing with stress all together. Blair had listened earnestly; he believed his friends, he did, and he didn't want to act the rookie.

But it was different, he sighed, folding the drying towel over the oven door handle and heading up the beautifully painted hall to prepare for bed. No matter how many times he'd been warned, despite his almost four years as an observer, being a cop was different. The best description of what to expect had come from a stress management consultant who'd spoken at the academy. You'll shut down, she'd warned the cadets of Blair's class; you have to. No one can be a good cop without shutting down big chunks of your personality. It's how we stay emotionally healthy.

The problem is, we learn too well how to shut down and then we bring that behavior home. We shut down to our families, our friends, and ourselves. And you will do so, I guarantee it. You'll get home, open a beer, and sit in front of the television, silent and sullen. That's okay; that's part of the process.

Where we go wrong is when we don't recognize what we're doing and correct it. Because we can't stay shut down all the time. Doing so will adversely affect our job performance and our family life. So I'm telling you now: knock it off.

That got a laugh.

No, really. Knock it off. When you remember this afternoon while you're staring at the tv, grab the remote and shut it off. Get up and kiss your spouse. Take your kids out for ice cream. Help your neighbor trim his trees. Reconnect. That's all we can do: connect. Or you lose your very self in the job and then, my friends, you cannot do your job.

Blair realized he needed to knock it off. But he wasn't sure how.

Jim found himself drawn to the reading room. Sometimes Blair would accompany him, and they'd sit in companionable silence, reading or dozing the late afternoons away. Jim would look up and find Blair asleep, head fallen backwards onto the green velvet loveseat, mouth open, snoring softly, and he'd have to smile in affectionate amusement at his friend.

But several times, while Blair was busy drafting the paper for submission to Criminology Monthly, Jim would, rather guiltily, wander away to stare at the bottles. He was especially curious about the blue one, Melancholy; the pewter woman's face attracted him. His experience with the bottle labeled Reminiscence only increased his curiosity and finally, just before lunch on their third day in the house, he picked up the blue bottle and cautiously unstoppered it.

This time, he told himself, I won't get too much. Just a whiff. He cautiously held the open bottle away from him and sniffed at the cork. He sneezed violently, and sniffed again.

He felt as if he were walking through silk, or softened water, or thickened air. He watched his own hands insert the cork back into the bottle and slide it between its mates; they moved as if in slow motion. He sank slowly to his knees, and then sat, still feeling the bruise from where he had fallen the day before. He rested his hands on his knees and stared at the woven rug beneath him.

He saw himself as a little boy staring into the lighted windows of his childhood home. From the backyard, standing in the damp grass, its sweet scent rising around him, he could hear his father shouting at his mother as she wept. Stevie was upstairs, hiding in Jimmy's room, behind the desk where he did his homework. Jim could hear Stevie's breath, ragged and erratic.

"Grace," his father said, and stopped. Jim could hear his dad's heart pounding, his mother's soft exhalations, her tears dropping like pearls onto the collar of her dress.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I can't do this anymore. Bill, I'm sorry. It all just hurts too much."

"Please," his dad said in a strangled voice. "I can't live without you. I won't."

"You have to," his mother said, still whispering. "The boys will need you. I love you, Billy, and I love them, but I can't do this anymore."

He heard his parents embrace, heard their clothing rustle as they pressed together. "Please, please, please," his dad said as quietly as death.

Tears rolled down Jim's face as he realized he was still sitting in the reading room, staring at the carpet. He wiped them hastily, glancing at the door, hoping Blair wouldn't find him again. As he brought the hand that had held the stopper to his eyes, though, he again felt the slowing, a deliberate retardation of movement and breath and time.

He stared at the door and watched it swing open, revealing Blair, but another Blair. His hair was shorter and streaked with grey, as was the trim beard he wore. "Hey," Blair said, and smiled at him. "What're you doing on the floor, old man? You've fallen and you can't get up?"

Jim couldn't help smiling up at his friend; the affection in Blair's voice was as palpable as the carpet beneath Jim's hands. Blair moved slowly in front of him, holding out his hands. "Come on, get that cute ass up," and Jim obediently grasped those hands and levered himself to his feet. To his shock, Blair kissed him on the way up, right on the mouth, quickly but fondly. Jim kissed him back, lingering, delighting in the unexpected permission while simultaneously surprised at his sudden pleasure.

They stood holding hands for a moment and then he stood alone, heart-breakingly alone, his hands empty and his lips cold. And he bitterly regretted the loss of contact, the loss of Blair.

This time he wiped his face on his shoulder and went to find a bathroom to wash his hands and face in. Then he went to find Blair, who was still slumped over the desk in the new study. Jim stood behind him and began rubbing Blair's shoulders. "Oh my god," Blair moaned. "I'll pay you; I'll do dishes for a year. Just don't stop." Jim didn't say anything, just kept working the tight muscles under his hands, enjoying the feel of Blair's shirt slipping over his skin, his skin over his muscles and sinew.

When Blair had relaxed, Jim said, "Stop working for a while, okay? This is supposed to be a vacation. Let's go for a walk." Blair sighed and tossed down his pen. Jim patted his shoulders and stood back, then went to fetch their jackets.

They left through the kitchen door. It was even colder today, the sky a steely grey that reminded Jim of the grey in Blair's hair and beard, but when he glanced at his friend, he realized again it had only been a dream. Hallucination. Whatever.

The desiccated leaves crunched beneath their feet, their dry scent filling Jim's nose. They headed toward the old apple orchard, following the deer path through the blackberries and roses. "Just three more days," Blair surprised him, and Jim felt a wash of melancholy over him at the thought of leaving this place. "I'll be glad to see my mom again, but kind of sorry to have to leave."

Jim knew he should say something. What he wanted to say was how much he was enjoying having Blair's attention , how much Blair's company meant to him. Instead, he said, "Yeah. Nice here." He rolled his eyes at his laconism and determined to try again. "I've really enjoyed it, too, Chief." He pinched his nose and remembered the bottles. Decided to try again.

"Listen, Blair," and at the use of his first name, Blair looked up at him, curious and surprised. "I, uh, found something. In that reading room. Like you to look at it."

Blair nodded, raising his eyebrows, but remained silent.

"These bottles. With labels. I opened a couple."

Blair smiled. "Like Alice? Did you get big or small?"

"Asshole." They smiled at each other and Jim felt relieved. "Littler, actually." He enjoyed how large Blair's eyes got before they narrowed in suspicion. "No, really. They gave me, I don't know, dreams, maybe. That I was a little boy again."

"You're shittin' me."

Jim shook his head, still smiling faintly. "No shit, Sherlock."

"Like visions? What you saw in Peru?"

Jim shrugged, not looking at Blair. They strolled on, their breath steaming in the icy air. "Maybe. Didn't seem like that."

"So this really happened?"

"Yeah." When they reached the orchard, Jim stretched up and pulled down a last apple, small and crisp. He rubbed it vigorously between his hands and took a bite, then offered it to Blair, who put his hands over Jim's and then also bit into it with pleasure. It was sweet but a bit dry, with an overtaste of dust and rain, at least to Jim's senses. They ambled on, sharing the apple, not talking anymore.

Jim knew what he wanted then; for the first time in his life, he was absolutely sure. To be partnered with Blair, to be almost an extension of his friend. His observer. His partner. He glanced at Blair a bit shyly, wondering if he knew what Jim was thinking and whether it would be okay with Blair if he did know.

Blair stared at the bottles, not touching them. "So you've known about them for two days?" Jim didn't answer; Blair had heard. He was just revving up to scold Jim for keeping them a secret. "You could've poisoned yourself, Jim; what were you thinking?" Blair shook his head in annoyance. "Goddammit, you always have to be fucking Batman."

Jim smacked the back of Blair's head, lightly, but so he'd know he was nearing some line Jim didn't want him to cross. Blair looked at him irritably but said no more.

He crossed his arms and tilted his head. "Reminiscence and Melancholy," he murmured. "Which one were you going to try next?"

Jim noted that Blair hadn't asked him whether he was going to try another. "Uh, Prescience, I thought."

Blair nodded. "Good choice. That would be mine. Uh, you let me know if you decide to try Concupiscence, 'kay?" That made Jim laugh, although part of him speculated on what might happen if he did.

When he did.

He carefully lifted the bottle labeled Prescience from the shelf and tilted it; a tiny bit of fluid still remained. "Put that down," Blair instructed him, and Jim obediently replaced the bottle.

"Why? I've tried the others."

"Yeah, and you could've been lying in here dead while I'm putzing in the kitchen. You don't know what's in them." Blair shook his head. "I can't believe you'd try them. You. Of all people."

Jim knew Blair was right. He sighed and stepped back, closer to his friend. "Still," he murmured.

"No. Just tell me what happened."

Blair lay in bed, puzzling over Jim's behavior. He could hear Jim moving around in his own bedroom next door; their adjoining door was cracked open, the result of some misplaced sense of protection on Jim's behalf. Although Blair did find it comforting, in a way he refused to analyze.

Instead he tried to imagine Jim opening bottles and snorting their contents. The behavior struck Blair as more than unlikely; it was out of character in the extreme. So there was something going on in Jim's life, in his head, evoking anomalous behavior, and it was his job, as Jim's observer and partner, to analyze and diagnose and -- and what? Solve the problem, he supposed.

A coyote wailed distantly, the saddest sound in the world. Blair snuggled deeper into his warm bed, and watched the embers in the fireplace. What an amazing place this had turned out to be; fireplaces in almost every room. Bathrooms with floor-to-ceiling windows but no curtains or blinds. And, as Jim kept repeating, a sofa in the kitchen. Blair smiled sleepily and rolled his head to one side so he could see the door to Jim's bedroom. Only a dim reddish glow, so Jim was undressing in the dark. Of course, to a sentinel, it might well be as bright as day.

The coyote howled again, and another one joined in, their voices tangling together in the night. Jim poked his head into Blair's room, surprising Blair. "Everything okay?" he whispered, although there was no one else around for miles.

"Just checking on you. Thought the coyotes might bother you."

"Nah. I'm okay." Blair struggled to sit up. "Wait. Jim."

Jim hesitantly entered Blair's bedroom; no doubt he knew what Blair wanted to talk about. He looked as guilty as Blair had ever seen him. Blair scooted over and smoothed the quilt, obviously making room for Jim to sit. He hovered near the bed for a few seconds before doing so.

"Explain to me your thought processes. Why did you open those bottles? And after you knew what would happen, why did you do it again?"

Jim studied the dying fire, its rosy light playing across his handsome face. He shrugged. "Don't know that I can explain it, Chief. Just." There was a long silence that Blair forbore to break, wanting Jim to wrestle with the problem. He knew from experience that any answers he got would be more honest that way.

At last Jim sighed deeply, almost a moan. Blair sat up even straighter and touched Jim's shoulder with one hand. To his surprise, Jim leaned into his touch, so he put both hands up and began gently rubbing Jim's back. "God, that feels good." Blair kept rubbing, biting his lip so he wouldn't interrupt.

Jim turned so his back was to Blair, and Blair understood this as both an invitation to continue rubbing as well as a position that would let Jim speak more freely. A naturally loquacious man, he found it difficult to understand Jim's reticence and wanted to encourage him to speak. Unfortunately, the most effective technique was silence, and that was as alien to Blair as explanations were to Jim.

So we both struggle along, he thought ruefully, finding a knot in Jim's neck and smoothing his hands over it, while he waited impatiently for his friend to find his center and the courage to break his long-held silence.

And finally he did, softly, hesitantly, reluctantly. "I saw my mom." Blair understood much with those four words, and part of what he understood was why Jim had permitted himself to try again. An absent father, an absent mother; between the two of them, they could barely piece together a traditional nuclear family. We're both damaged, Blair thought, not for the first time, and surprised himself, and no doubt Jim, by sliding his hands down from Jim's shoulders into a loose embrace around his chest.

"Aw, Jim," he murmured, and Jim's head dropped. Blair leaned his own head against Jim's back and listened to his heart and lungs, slow and restful sounds. He wondered if Jim found as much comfort in their touch as he did.

"Just wanted," Jim started, and then stopped abruptly.

Blair squeezed lightly. "I know. It's okay."

"Blair." Jim turned in his arms and Blair let his hands fall away to the bed, empty again. "I'm going to do it again. I know you don't approve, and maybe it's illegal, but I need to."

Blair nodded. He'd known that the minute Jim had mentioned his mother. Awkwardly, he patted Jim's hand where it lay on his knee.

"Go to bed, Jim. Just promise me you won't try it without me there to watch."

"To supervise."

"Well, duh."

Jim reached up and patted Blair's face, a gesture almost as old as their friendship. It meant thank you, I understand, you understand, that's life, shit happens, and maybe even I love you, Blair knew, smiling fondly at his shy and fucked-up friend.

"Good night."

Jim nodded and went to his own room, leaving the door ajar again. Blair lay back into his bed and listened to the coyotes cry in the cold and lonely night.

"Go sit in that chair," he instructed Blair, wanting him to remain an observer and not a participant. Then Jim sat on the floor, still careful of the bruise on his rear, before cautiously unplugging the bottle labeled Prescience.

"Talk to me," Blair warned, and Jim nodded his head, then brought the cork near his nose. He sneezed.

"Shit. Smells," and he sniffed again, moving the cork a little nearer, "smells like . . . " but words left him. Like dust, he wanted to say. Like sage brush. Like the ocean when he was surfing in Hawaii. He moved the stopper away from his face, pressing it with difficulty back into the bottle and setting the bottle on the floor.

Again he felt the abnormal slowness, a heaviness. When he looked for Blair, though, he was gone.

Jim pulled himself to his feet and walked through the loft, looking for his friend. Blair's little room was now lined with books and boxes, dusty and unused. Jim turned and walked into the living room. On the coffee table was a scattering of small flyers, about four by six inches in diameter, with a sketch of Blair, and words beneath his smiling features.

He picked one up and brought it near his face. "Memorial Service," he read. "Rainier University will honor the late Captain Blair Sandburg at a memorial service this Thursday afternoon in the Native Plant Gardens. Please come with a story to share about this remarkable man and his late partner, James Joseph Ellison."

Jim sighed deeply when he saw his own name, happy to see that Blair had outlived him. He wondered who was taking care of the loft in their absence. And he wondered in what sense had he been -- would he be -- Blair's partner.

When he looked up, Blair was sitting upright in the wing-backed chair. "Well, what? Come on, talk to me, Jim."

He sighed again and looked away. His voice seemed to have disappeared. Blair came over to him, crouching beside Jim, his hand on Jim's shoulder. "This was a stupid idea. I can't believe you, of all people, wanted to do this. Mr. Conservative, Mr. If-I-find-anything-illegal-I'll-bust-you. For god's sake, Jim; are you still in there?"

"I'm here, Sandburg," he finally growled. "Here, sit." He grabbed the owl-headed bottle and quickly twisted the top off, waving it once under Blair's nose before stoppering it and setting it down. He helped Blair sit on the floor and watched as Blair's face relaxed and his eyes grew dreamy.

For two or three minutes they sat there, on the floor of their borrowed house, Jim watching Blair watch something he couldn't see. To Jim's distress, tears filled Blair's eyes and his lips trembled with some emotion he could only guess at. He gently wiped a tear from Blair's cheek before it could seep into a sideburn.

Blair returned to himself; Jim watched as it happened, Blair settling back into his body, into the present. His expressive eyes focused on Jim and he swallowed with difficulty. Jim studied him sympathetically, leaving one hand on Blair's shoulder and the other cupping his face.

"You were gone," Blair whispered, and put his arms around Jim's neck.

"I know," Jim whispered back, and embraced his friend, welcoming him back from some distant painful future. "I know. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

After his unwilling experience with Prescience, Blair bundled up and went for a walk, trying to ease the grief he'd felt earlier. It was cold and the wind was picking up; it pricked at his eyes and brought tears he blinked away. He pushed through the blackberry canes to the old orchard, following the deer path. The world was muted in iron greys and dying browns, the dry leaves whispering in the wind. He watched his boots as they marched along the narrow trail, enjoying the crunch of the crisp soil beneath his feet.

When he looked up, he realized he'd walked right through the old orchard, to the oldest part of the farm. The trees were enormous, their leafless branches stretching out like long questing fingers. Like Ents, he thought, smiling. The orchard was bordered by forest: oak and birch primarily, with some cedar and a few spruce trees gleaming silver-green amid the sere brown.

An especially fierce gust of wind pushed at him, hard enough that he took a half-step forward. He heard a rustling behind him and turned in time to see a slight movement at the edge of the forest. "Jim?" he called, but his voice died in his throat. Jim would never sneak up on him like that. He'd stride through the orchard, not hide behind an oak tree. Blair swallowed and turned to go back to the house, keeping one eye on where he'd thought he'd seen something stir.

As he drew parallel to that spot, he heard the rustling again, louder. His heart was pounding and he drew himself up to his full height. "Who's there?" he called, trying to sound confident. "Do you need some help?" He rolled his eyes at his bravado. Who would be in the woods on a day like today? And so far from town or another farm?

He walked more quickly, heading diagonally through the orchard, toward the house and away from the forest. He wished he had a walking stick or something in his hands. Maybe I could toss old apples at them, he thought, a crooked smile appearing as he recalled tossing baseballs at bad guys. Now that would be a story for Jim.

When he looked up, he saw something directly ahead of him, just where the blackberry bushes met the forest. He froze. His face felt flushed and his mouth dry; his blood roared in his ears. He wanted Jim.

What he was looking at -- he wasn't sure what he was looking at -- but it appeared to be a man. But it must be, his rational mind insisted, just an unusually shaped tree. Those old apple trees and the ancient oaks had pretty twisted shapes; he was just imagining one as a man. But he seemed to be dressed in green, a single spot of color in the grey and brown early winter world. No, it must be a blue spruce tree. No man looked like that, or stood so still.

He stared at it, willing it to resolve into a tree or bush or anything except a man, dressed in green, with branches curling from his wild hair and beard. You're not there, he thought; you do not exist.

"Blair!" He turned his head to see Jim bounding through the blackberries, getting caught on the long thorny canes, tugging at his snagged jeans and coat as he rushed toward Blair.

Immediately Blair's heart began to slow and he took an enormous breath. When he looked back, the man or whatever it was had disappeared. All he saw was a gnarled elder oak tree in front of a vivid blue spruce. "Shit."

"What?" Jim was beside him now, patting his back anxiously. "I could hear in the house that something was wrong. Are you angry? I'm sorry I did that, Chief. I know it was wrong."

"No, no, it's okay, Jim," Blair tried to reassure him while fighting off his attentions. "Really, I'm okay."

"Then what?"

He shook his head. They staggered against another fierce gust of wind. He took Jim's arm and tugged. "Let's get back. I just saw something from the corner of my eye and freaked. It's okay. Come on," and he tugged again. Finally, Jim started moving back, eyes searching the area around them, looking for what might have frightened Blair.

"I don't know, Chief," he said as they stepped onto the yellowing grass of the house's back yard. "I don't think there's a soul closer than a couple miles from us."

"It was nothing," Blair insisted, and forced the memory of the green man's attention away. "Let's get out of this wind; it's making my ears hurt." That was enough to get Jim focused on something else, and he herded Blair back into the house, scolding him for going out in such weather. Blair relaxed under his loving irritation and care.

Blair and Jim drove into Cloud Mountain early one morning four days after Naomi had left for Taos, ostensibly to pick up supplies but really to explore the area. After finding the important places -- a coffee house, grocery store, and bookstore -- they'd separated. Blair had insisted he go to the hardware store for a can of WD-40 for the squeaking shutters that had kept Jim awake the prior night, "because you'll never leave and I wanna work on that article," he told Jim, while Jim was assigned the grocery store, "because you'll buy weird shit," he'd told Blair.

Blair sat in the coffee house waiting for Jim when a pretty girl of eight or nine with long blonde hair came in, carrying a bulky brown paper sack of something. He watched as her grip shifted on the bag and it tore, sending cans of soup and a bundle of green beans to the hardwood floor.

"Here," he said, sprinting to her side, "Let me help," and together they gathered the escaping canned goods and produce. He helped her turn the bag on its side and roll the edges together into a package she could carry.

"Thank you," she told him earnestly, blushing a bit.

"You're welcome. You sure you can carry that?"

"Yes, sir, I can. You're not from here, are you?"

He shook his head, smiling at her. She was plump, her face round with pink cheeks and interesting grey eyes. "My name is Blair Sandburg. I'm staying up at the Sant'angelos' home for a few days."

"Blair! From the Gaelic, meaning 'child of quiet fields.'"

Behind them, Jim laughed. "Naomi missed that one," he said, and Blair turned in mock annoyance. "This is my friend, Jim Ellison."

They smiled at each other, then the girl said, "My name is Fanchette Laurendeau."

"Nice meeting you, Fanchette," Jim said. "How do you know what Blair's name means?"

"My mother is into gene--" She paused, her eyes flicking upwards and her mouth pursed in thought.

"Genealogy?" Blair asked.

"Yeah. Genealogy. And her family is from Ireland. I've been there," she added proudly. "My cousin is named Blair, except," and she blushed a little, "'cept she's a girl."

Jim laughed again and clapped Blair on the back; Blair smiled as a woman about his age came over to them.

"Fanny, where've you been? What happened?"

"The bag tore, Mom. Blair helped me, only he's a boy, not like our Blair."

"Thank you." Fanchette's mother smiled at them and ushered the girl into the back of the coffee house, talking to her in a low pleasant voice. The little girl looked over her shoulder and smiled flirtatiously at them.

Blair felt Jim lightly touch the small of his back and he pulled out the truck keys. "Child of quiet fields, Chief?"

"Gotta ask Naomi if she knew that when she named me."

They turned toward where they'd left the truck, Jim handing him a bag of their own groceries. "Damn, it's cold."

"I think so," Blair agreed. "Let's get home and start some soup or something."

"Or something," Jim agreed, still smiling. Blair knew he'd be teased about the quiet fields bit again.

Before Jim turned up the steep road to Cloud Mountain farm, Blair had him stop. From the cab of the pickup, they studied the cross and flowers nailed to the enormous oak. "Popsicle sticks," he murmured.

"Yeah, what's with that? Can you see how they're marked along the edges?"

"Marked how?"

Jim shook his head, mouth pursed in annoyance. "Like, notched." He looked at Blair. "What's it mean?" But Blair could only shake his head in return.

That night, Blair woke Jim with his restless sleep, crying out softly to someone locked in his dream-filled mind. Jim woke him carefully, dragging him from the misery he'd been embraced by. When Jim returned to his own bed, Blair lay awake for a long time, listening to the light wind creep around the house and its gardens, trying to calm himself.

He'd dreamt of the little girl, Sally Snow. Her quiet presence was with him every day, but seemed especially strong tonight. He'd liked Sally, though he hadn't known her well. He liked her direct way of speaking, her pale blue eyes and pale skin. Fanchette, he realized, had reminded him of Sally.

Sally stayed with him that long night, bloody and broken and inescapably dead.

Jim prudently sat on the floor first, carefully holding the blue bottle, Reminiscence, away from himself. Just in case. After all, he was disobeying instructions from Blair not to do this alone; he didn't want to fall and break his neck. Blair never would forgive him that. Once he was down and leaning against the bookshelves behind him, he worked the stopper off and sniffed tentatively. "What the hell," he muttered, and took a good healthy snort of whatever was in it. Then he stoppered the bottle again and set it on the floor at arm's length from him, also pushed against the bookcase.

By the time he released the bottle, the air around him had thickened and gravity seemed to have increased exponentially. He couldn't have moved if the house burst into flames. He slumped back and waited.

Up the long hallway from the reading room, Blair stirred uneasily in his slumber on top of the laptop. His nose wrinkled and he sighed.

He was running through the streets of Rome, heading to Vatican City. He remembered these sidewalks, the tiny fruit-and-vegetable storefront, the little alimentari where he'd had such wonderful panini, a favorite gelato stand, and a store selling the cell phones everyone carried, even the oldest nonnas.

He flew down the Via della Fornaci, dodging gawking tourists and quick-moving Romans, coming to a sudden halt at a stoplight where he huffed impatiently and pushed his hair out of his eyes. An elderly woman chatted amiably at him in Italian, complaining about the traffic, he gathered, translating as best he could from the rapid Italian into his much better Spanish. At last the light changed and he dashed across the street and leapt up to the sidewalk. There ahead of him were the gates to the Piazza San Pietro.

The bored Swiss Guards in their ostentatious pantaloons eyed him incuriously as he slowed to a brisk walk into the piazza, passing under Bernini's enormous colonnade. A hundred pigeons burst into flight as if shot into the brilliant blue sky. It was late afternoon and the shadows fell deeply across the piazza, chilling him after his run. He walked up the steep steps to the basilica, pulling his hair back into a ponytail and straightening his clothing.

Once at the massive doors he paused for a few seconds, looking around for help but seeing no one. Surprisingly, the basilica was nearly empty of tourists; only a cleaning crew worked, polishing the bullet-proof glass in front of the Pieta. The basilica was, Blair knew, a holy place, and although he did not share Catholics' beliefs, he recognized that this site had been home to many religions and many temples. He could feel the power soaking into him, right through his running shoes. He took a deep breath and entered.

No matter how often he came here, he never ceased to be amazed by the scale. He craned his neck, looking up at the domed ceiling, the carvings, the statues, the velvet curtains concealing a private mass. When he reached Saint Peter he stopped to touch his toes, awed that centuries of human hands had worn them away to nubs.

He found an official-looking man dressed in a suit standing with his hands crossed over his stomach, and asked, "Where can I light a candle?" The man looked at him uncomprehending, so Blair said, "Candle? Bujia? Cierge?"

"Ah, si." He pointed to a discreet wooden sign that read "sacristy." He was to light candles in the sacristy? He peeped into the large round room lined with the long dark red vestments of cardinals and the black robes of priests. Several priests were there, dressing each other, speaking Italian, German, British English. However, to his right was a small counter with a box clearly for money. No candles, though. A young priest noticed him and smiled.

"Can I light a candle here? Candle?" The young man nodded, still smiling, and pointed at the box. Blair pulled out coins and bills from his jeans pocket, feeling awkward. He glanced up at the priest, who pointed again at the slot, and stuffed in some of the colorful money. "Grazie," Blair said, and the priest nodded.

That was it? They'd light the candle for him? Well, that was a letdown. At Notre Dame, San Marcos, and St. Paul's, he'd got to actually light a candle; here he just stuck money in a box?

He left, feeling oddly disappointed, and decided to climb to the cupola. It cost a bit, but not much, and he was certainly dressed for it, unlike some of the people he'd seen climbing the stairs on earlier visits. The basilica was still strangely empty so there was no line to the grotto and he was able to reach the top fairly quickly.

When he emerged, he discovered the sun had slanted toward the west; the cupola would be closing soon. The sky was a pale salmon and peach, tinting clouds to the east and south. It was chilly up here, not to mention very high. He approached the railing cautiously. Did they have earthquakes in Rome, the way they did in Cascade?

But his courage was rewarded with a view of Rome like no other. Cypress and plane trees were dark shapes on the Palatine Hill while buildings were beginning to be touched by artificial light, gleaming in the early dusk. The air smelled of exhaust and oil and pine. As he stood there, a name and face came into his mind, and he smiled.

He wanted to light a candle for Jim.

Jim sat up straighter and rubbed his face, then looked around him. Blair was nowhere to be seen; he was still alone in the reading room. He took a deep breath and climbed to his feet, then carefully put the blue bottle away, promising himself not to do that again.

He flopped onto the loveseat and stretched out, hanging his feet over the arm at one end. The light in the room had faded, and he could smell rain. No, snow. It was going to snow. Tilting his head, he looked backwards out the window behind him and saw thick purple clouds mounded like whipped cream. The pale sunlight pouring down in diagonals faded even as he watched. The empty branches of a young cherry tree tapped lightly at the window, whipped by a strong breeze. Definitely going to snow.

He sat up and went to find Blair. Maybe ask some questions. Maybe.

Blair was sitting at the big kitchen table, looking sleepily around him, his laptop open and humming. "Think I drooled on the keypad," he mumbled.

"Looks like you slept on it; you've got key marks on your face." Jim gently touched his cheek. Blair smiled and yawned.

"Had the weirdest dream. I was back in Rome. For some reason I had to light a candle for you at St. Peter's." He shook his head, smiling. "I didn't even know you when I was in Rome last. And why would I be lighting candles in churches, anyway? What'd you suppose that means?"

He looked up at Jim, his blue eyes half hidden by his heavy lids as he blinked in the gloom of the evening. Jim shook his head, wondering if he should say anything to Blair. Finally, he said, "Go wash your face and comb your hair; you look like hell. I'll fix sandwiches for dinner."

Blair obediently stood and stretched, then headed toward the bathroom. Jim watched his retreating back and wondered who'd been dreaming what, and why. Especially why.

Jim ate quickly, mentally listing all the things he needed to do if it was going to snow. Bring in more wood. Make sure the tarps covering the wood piles were secure. All windows closed and the storm windows tightly fastened. Close off the long hallway down to the older parts of the house so they wouldn't be trying to heat it unnecessarily. Make sure the exterior water pipes were either turned off or well wrapped again the cold He realized Blair was staring at him.

"What?"

"You gotta plane to catch?"

"No, Einstein, a storm to get ready for." He crammed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, rising to stack his plate in the sink as he chewed. "Finish up," he mumbled, wiping his mouth and tossing the paper towel Blair had set out for napkins.

"Hey, wait, let me help."

Jim stopped to look at his friend. "Clean up in here. Close all the doors in the two older parts of the house. Make sure the flues in all the fireplaces we're not using are firmly closed, and all the sinks we don't use are dripping, just a tiny bit. Open the cupboards under the sink so the pipes'll stay warmer." He thought for a few seconds. "If I'm still outside when you're finished, get dressed for snow and come out. We need to bring in a lot more wood and kindling."

Blair stared at him. "What's happening, Jim?"

Jim shrugged into his heavy coat and pulled gloves from its pockets. "Blizzard." Then he went out into the wind.

Thirty minutes later, Blair followed him outdoors. The wind was even fiercer now; it felt as though ice chips were being thrown at him. Dust was flying, obscuring his vision. No, it was snowing. He watched the tiny flakes, almost hypnotized by their nearly invisible eddies and whirlpools. Then he went to find Jim, who was staggering toward the back porch under an enormous burden of oak firewood.

"Jesus, James, you're going to hurt yourself," Blair shouted over the wind, trying to take a log or two from him. Jim turned sideways and stepped around him.

"Get more," was all he said. Blair watched him set the firewood on the porch and then go back for another armload. As he passed Blair, he gently tugged at the hood of Blair's jacket, then stopped and pulled it up over Blair's head, tying the drawstring beneath his chin.

"I can do that," Blair complained, but Jim just raised his eyebrows.

The woodpiles were near the garages, so they had a long way to stagger up the hill against the wind with the firewood. He stayed close to Jim, not wanting to risk seeing anything in the woods again. They brought up more than Blair thought they could use in a week, but he didn't complain. If nothing else, it was a workout, and he'd been sitting and writing for days now.

At last Jim declared they had enough. Now they had to ferry some of it inside to the fireplaces they planned on using if the power went out, and stack the rest just outside the sliding glass doors. When they finally strapped a bright yellow tarp over that pile, Blair thought his back would never recover.

He collapsed onto the long white sofa in the kitchen and watched Jim pull off his jacket in slow motion. Blair saw that his shirt was soaked through with sweat, his short brown hair plastered to his skull. "Go shower," he told Jim, who smiled and knelt before him, loosening the laces of Blair's boots.

"You, too. You shouldn't be sitting on this white sofa as dirty as you are." Blair looked down to discover he was covered in oak bark and pine needles and was shedding profusely. Jim tugged off his boots and helped him stand. "A hot bath for you, I think. Here," and he grabbed two bottles of water. "Don't get dehydrated; this wind'll take it out of you."

As Blair sipped, he had a sudden vision of Sally Snow, sharing water with him as they sat in the lobby of the Hall of Justice, trying to get cool that unusually hot summer day, waiting for Maeve Gallagher to return from the Children's Services office. Sally had tipped a bit of water in her hand and blessed him with it. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," she'd said in her musical little girl's voice, giggling, and then baptized her new doll.

He didn't feel blessed. He felt angry and appalled and infinitely saddened by her death. By all the deaths he'd borne witness to, as an observer and as a cop. As a cultural anthropologist, he'd of course studied funerary rituals of many cultures, some quite horrific. On one memorable occasion, he'd actually passed out during a lecture about a group in India that would break the legs of mothers who died in childbirth and then twist them completely around from the knee down, so when they returned to hunt for their orphaned children, they would walk away from them.

But readings and lectures had done nothing to prepare him for the reality of the blood and feces and urine and indescribable mess of death. He no longer believed in death with dignity; he believed that death stripped one of all dignity, that dignity was a shroud humans clutched hopefully, hopelessly, and he was embarrassed by the lack of imagination that had permitted him to study and observe and not be touched.

Tears filled his eyes and throat; he swallowed them back with difficulty. The last thing he wanted or needed was Jim rushing to rescue him again. For there was no rescue from death. Not even Jim would save him from that inexorable telos.

So he said nothing to Jim, just turned his head aside and obediently went to wash up.

The wind woke Blair, a high-pitched howling that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He lay in bed, watching shadows cast by the dying fire flicker on the walls, and thought about what he might do. He had an idea, but the cold made him disinclined to act on it, as did the storm outside: the wind rattling the shutters, trees scratching at the window, the snow piling up on the sill, and his memory of what he had seen in the old apple orchard. Eventually, he gathered his courage and crept out of bed, tiptoeing past Jim's room, desperately wanting him not to wake. He passed through the kitchen and then down the hallway to the older part of the house and finally to the reading room. If Jim did catch him, he knew there'd be shouting; he just wanted to avoid that.

Jim had done this, he told himself. Besides, I'm not a little kid, knowing the argument was specious.

He turned on a lamp by the bookcase and stared at the seven small bottles neatly lined up. He had to put his face right up to them to read their tiny labels: Strength, Cunning, Melancholy, Reminiscence, Prescience, Concupiscence, and Kin. He knew Jim had focused on Melancholy and Reminiscence in his compulsive search for his lost mother, and both them had shared Prescience.

Not a pleasant experience, he reflected, pausing to wonder if this was a good idea. In his fugue, he'd seen a future without Jim. He'd wandered through the loft, alone and lonely, an old man, knowing that Jim was dead, and hating that he'd been left behind. The thought brought a deep pain to his chest, not unlike what he imagined a heart attack must feel like.

He sighed. He didn't need to know any more about the future. He certainly didn't need to feel melancholic. Nor was he sure he wanted to relive any moments in the past; he was slightly afraid of what his subconscious might choose, especially on such a stormy night.

Instead, he stared at the dog-headed green bottle. Strength. What would happen if he tried that? Just a little? He picked up the bottle, holding it away from his face, and carried it to the loveseat. For a long minute he stared at the bottle, knowing this wasn't a good idea but still needing help so profoundly and so embarrassed by his need that he finally twisted off the stopper and waved it near his face.

It smelled like a dank cave, moist and dark. He slid the cork back into the bottle and set it on the coffee table before curling up awkwardly on the loveseat. By the time he lay down, he didn't think he'd be able to get up again; the air felt thick and heavy. He was barely able to breathe.

He saw water and realized he was face down in the fountain at Rainier University; someone was holding him under. He thought, Jim, Jim, and felt tears in his eyes from missing his friend so profoundly. Then he was gasping for breath as he stared into the unblinking eyes of a dozen television cameras, his mother watching him miserably. Then he was being punched at the police academy under the guise of self-defense training. Then he stood, his weight evenly balanced on both feet, weapon drawn and pointed at a trembling pimply-faced thief with a knife.

And then he walked out the door of the Cascade Police Department and watched as a little girl was swept by an enormous Caddy into a telephone pole, her fragile body crushed and torn open by the speed, mass, torque, and violence of the half second it took to bring the car to a halt. It actually bounced back from the bent and splintered pole, permitting her body to slide into the bloody street.

Blair opened his eyes and saw the room around him, still dark, still quiet. Well, fuck.

Jim was dreaming. He knew it even as he dreamed. He and Sandburg were picking their way through a collapsing house. Not this house, not any house he recognized. The carpet was threadbare and missing in spots, the floorboards under it rotting and broken through; he could see the basement beneath them. He tried not to brush against any of the furniture; he could hear the material and stuffing being eaten by mold and mildew. Worse, disgusting animal heads had fallen into disturbing positions on the floor and furniture. He could feel Sandburg close behind him, hear him swallow back his fear and nausea.

Ahead of him he saw the light of day reluctantly enter the house. He worked toward that light, to the open place where the front door had once been. He felt a sense of urgency to get out and a desire to seize Sandburg and drag him along. The silence and gloom were foreboding, as if there were someone watching, something they were escaping. He moved faster, trusting Sandburg to keep up.

At last he ducked through the damaged doorframe and turned, smiling, to see no one following him. His attention was briefly caught by a roughly carved plaque over where the door would have been: a man's face, his hair and beard curling with oak leaves and mistletoe. Then through a window to the right of the door, he saw Blair's white face, his expression contorted with fear, and then a hand covered Blair's mouth and he disappeared.

Jim leapt back into the house, uncaring of the insecure floor, but no one was there. Blair was gone.

He sat up in bed, heart racing, mouth dry as dust. He took a sip of water from the bottle on the nightstand, and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. Then he reached out with his hearing for the comfort of Blair's heart beat next door and realized that Blair was, indeed, gone.

As he stretched out his hearing further, he heard the violence of the storm outside. The wind seemed to fling itself at the house, shaking the windows in their frames and the doors in theirs. Then he found Blair, down the hill, in one of the older portions of the house. His heart was pounding as rapidly as Jim's had been, and Jim was pretty sure he was crying. He climbed out of his warm bed, dragging his robe on as he went, and started to look for Blair. Jim knew he'd be in the reading room.

Where he was curled up on the loveseat, slow tears leaking from his eyes. Jim knelt before him and put both hands on Blair's shoulders, shaking him gently. "Sorry, sorry," Blair whispered, and Jim sat next to him, huddling together for warmth. Jim slowly grasped that it was very cold, close to freezing in that room, and helped Blair to his feet, urging him to bed.

Once Blair was back in bed, Jim compulsively tucking the covers around his neck, he sat next to him. He didn't have to speak; he could see Blair struggling to answer his unasked question.

"It's okay," Blair finally said, but Jim just raised an eyebrow. "No, really."

"You tried one of the bottles. Jesus, Chief. You make me swear not to and then you do. What's with that?"

Blair actually blushed, which Jim thought was a good sign; Blair was acutely sensitive to any unfairness and could be manipulated through guilt by this sensitivity. He swallowed loudly in the silent night and smiled sadly at Jim. "Sorry," he said again.

"You gonna talk to me?"

"Tomorrow?"

Jim stared down at him. His color was back and he was warm, and not in any obvious physical distress. Jim pursed his lips and finally said, "Will you promise me not to do that again?"

"'Kay."

"No, I mean say it to me."

Blair looked back up at him and then yawned, surprising them both. "I promise not to try any of the bottles again without talking to you first."

Jim knew that was as good as he'd get. He half-shook Blair again, trying to convey so much with that ridiculous gesture, and then got up to put another log on the fire in Blair's room. His back to Blair, he found it easier to talk. "Okay, buddy. We'll talk tomorrow, and you stay in bed tonight. Don't want to get hypothermic."

"Thanks, Jim."

He didn't look at Blair as he went back to his own bed. Through the window, he could see the snow falling heavily, mesmerizing in the white night.

He first met her in a crack-house. Tiny, clothed in rags, her skin was so dark that he thought she might be Latina or Native American. Her hair had been pulled back into a greasy ponytail, and she clutched a battered plastic doll missing one arm

He'd knelt in front of her, crouching to her size. "I'm Blair," he said softly. "What's your name?"

"Sally," she said firmly and held out her hand for Blair to shake. She wasn't much taller than his waist, and the next day he'd discover she had wispy red-blonde hair and pale skin. "You a cop?"

"Yes, I am. Where's your mom?" She shrugged, and fiddled with the one remaining arm of her doll. "Your dad?"

"I don't know, okay?" He realized her eyes were a very light blue as she stared into his. "My mom left with her friend Joanie, but Joanie got sick and her girlfriend took me. I'm just waiting for my mom to come get me. Then we'll live in a nice house, real big, and I'll have a better doll."

Blair nodded, and then reached out cautiously, not wanting to frighten her. "Would you come with me, Sally? You could get cleaned up, some new clothes. Something to eat."

For a few seconds she studied him, her gaze unnervingly adult in such a small body. Then she said, "Children's Services." He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly, but she took his hand and led him out of that awful place. "They make good waffles."

"You mad at me?" Blair asked the next day as they made breakfast.

"Maybe a little." Jim stared at the butter melting in the frying pan on the gas stove. Thank god for propane tanks; if the power went, they'd still be able to heat water and cook.

"Maybe a lot?"

"Naw." He looked at Blair, whipping eggs together for a scramble. "Should I be?" Blair shrugged. Jim put his hand over Blair's, stopping the whisk. "Blair?"

The two men stood in the kitchen, firelight tinting them pink. It was snowing heavily and the clouds seemed to press down on them, hiding the tree tops. At last Blair said, "I'm sorry I tried it. It wasn't very nice."

"What'd ya try?"

"Strength."

"Jesus, Sandburg." Jim tilted the pan, spreading the melted butter evenly across the surface. "You're the bravest guy I know; why'd you wanna try that one?"

Blair laughed, a dry husky sound that caused Jim to turn off the gas and set the pan on a back burner. He took the bowl and whisk from Blair's hands and led him to the sofa. "Talk to me, partner."

Jim stared at him, wondering how to get this most talkative of men to talk. He smiled a little. "Okay, don't tell me."

Blair smacked his upper arm. "A little reverse psychology, Ellison?" They smiled at each other, and Jim felt the warm glow of being known. Then Blair's smile faltered, and Jim's heart went out to his friend.

"What is it, Blair?" he whispered. "What's happened?'

Blair looked down at the shiny wooden floor, rubbing one toe back and forth. Jim heard his heart speed up, just a bit, and thought he spiked a small fever. He sighed. "Just -- work." A long silence that Jim didn't interrupt. He remembered his nightmare: he and Blair in some strange house, and Blair's sudden disappearance. Without thinking, he put out his hand and touched Blair's face, stroking the broad cheekbone and square chin.

At last Blair continued. "You warned me, you know. Remember? When we went fishing? You said the job would change me." Blair sighed again. He said very quietly, "What if I don't like who I become?"

Jim had no answer. In his years in the military and law enforcement, he'd become people he hadn't liked; it was possible. But Blair seemed always to Jim to be so secure in his body and identity. And Jim was so proud of his partner -- his intelligence, his education, his broad experience, his talents. His compassion. A good cop, the antithesis of the badge-heavy asshole Jim had once been.

He thought first to say: I like you, but instantly realized that would divert attention from Blair, from Blair's fears. He fell back on his strength, his most reliable way to speak, and put a hand over Blair's where it lay on the sofa, slowly stroking a thumb over the back of Blair's hand. He felt Blair's muscles relax a bit, then brought his other hand back to Blair's face. "How do you think you're changing?" he finally asked.

Blair shrugged with his whole body, almost a shiver, as if someone had walked over his grave. "Dunno," he breathed.

"Yes, you do." Jim sat nearer, and slid his arms around Blair, who came into the embrace as if coming home, wrapping his own arms around Jim's back and locking his hands together. Never let go, Jim thought, resting his face against Blair's temple.

"Yeah, I do." Jim didn't release Blair; he knew it was easier to speak like this. "That little girl at the store. She reminded me of Sally."

Jim held on tighter, remembering that afternoon. The blood on the street and sidewalk, on Blair, in his hair and under his fingernails. Bad enough that a child should lose her life for any reason, in any way, but to a drunk who should never have been behind the wheel, who had sobbed with remorse but too late, too late, while Sally's foster mother had screamed with fear and loss and Blair had held the body, so torn open it might as well have been turned inside out.

"Aw, Chief," he whispered, and swallowed his own grief back, knowing Blair would redirect his attention to Jim's distress if allowed. Jim held on tightly, listening to Blair struggle with his breathing. "It's okay to be upset. What happened was terrible, beyond terrible." He swallowed again. "I didn't want you ever to see anything like that."

"But I have to!" Blair pushed Jim away and went to stare out the glass doors at the utterly white world beyond them. It looked like a reverse negative: no black or grey or color, just mounds of white and the slow and slumberous drift of the snow from the snow-colored sky. "I have to. I'm a cop. This is who I am now. It's what I do."

"That's why you tried Strength." No answer, just a slight nod. "Chief, get away from the window. You're freezing." When Blair didn't move, Jim took him by the shoulders and gently shepherded him back to the sofa, then knelt in front of the fireplace and added more wood, pushing the logs into a better formation. When they started to catch, he dusted his hands and sat next to Blair.

Who was staring into the fire as if the flames held answers to his questions. Jim watched him, watched the color slowly return to his face and the lines recede from around his eyes and mouth. At last Blair looked up, a little embarrassed. "It's okay," Jim said again. "You're afraid you'll see so much of, of things like that that you won't be able to care. That you'll turn it all off and then you'll be dead." Shit, Jim thought, I could've said that better. But Blair gave a tiny smile and nodded. "You're afraid you'll be like me."

"No, Jim, that isn't it at all. I, I admire you," Blair protested, but Jim held up a hand.

"Well, I'm happy to hear that, but you know good and well what a prick I can be. How many times have I told you to step back emotionally? And you have to, to a certain extent. But Blair," Jim shifted his position on the sofa, so he faced Blair squarely. "You know how much I owe you. You, you keep me grounded. You keep me from just, I don't know, floating away from the terrible shit we see.

"And right from the beginning you did that. You're a great cop, Blair, and a good man, and I admire you."

Jim stared at Blair, willing him to believe, while at the same time feeling tremors of shock at the passion in his own words. "You don't need any more strength," he added softly. "You're fucking killing me here." Jim shook his head. He wasn't making any sense. He reached out again, scooting nearer to Blair, and pulled them together. Touch couldn't be misunderstood, couldn't be twisted to mean something other than what it was, the way words could.

Blair leaned heavily against Jim's chest and then rested his head on Jim's shoulder. For nearly a minute they sat in silence, then Blair, his voice muffled by Jim's body, said, "Breakfast will never get made."

"It can wait a minute more. Blair," Jim leaned back a bit, so Blair would look at him. "You need to see a therapist when we get back. No, Chief. I've been where you are. I'll go with you if you want, but you need to go."

Blair sniffed and nodded. "Yeah. Probably."

Jim pulled him back into a hug. "No probablies." They sat quietly, watching the fire from the safety of each other's arms.

"Naomi won't be able to get in, will she."

"Even if she were, we couldn't get out today," Jim said. "Think you can reach her by phone?"

Blair bounced up, apparently recovered, though by now Jim recognized sublimation when he saw it. "I'll try. You finish breakfast."

"Yes, sir." Blair smiled beatifically at Jim, who caught him by the shoulder. They stared at each other for a few seconds and then, a little embarrassed, Jim let him go to find Naomi's number in Taos.

Jim stared out the window; they really were snowed in. Snowbound. He smiled at the thought of being stuck here with Blair. For the winter. Simon would just shit. There was a radio on the kitchen counter; he flicked it on and hunted up a news station.

"What'd Naomi say?" Jim asked when Blair returned, smiling.

"You didn't listen in? You know that's okay. Her flight was canceled; can't get into Cascade."

Jim gestured at the radio. "Storm's supposed to blow over tonight. We might be able to get out tomorrow, if the plows come up this far. Thought I'd call the Cloud Mountain sheriff's department and find out."

Blair began seasoning the bowl of eggs he'd left. "What a road to have to plow."

"We can dig our way out to the main road, then maybe use chains to get out. But unless it's plowed, we'd never get back in."

"Wonder how much snow they get up here usually? Seems like a lot, this early in the season."

"Yeah, the radio called it a freak storm. Most snow this early since eighteen eighty-eight."

"Cool."

"No, cold."

While Jim made his rounds, like a dog checking the perimeter of its territory, Blair tidied the kitchen and thought about working on the article again. Somehow, it didn't seem very appealing. What did seem appealing was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. Preferably with Jim at the other end of the sofa.

So he started a fresh pot and found a Charles de Lint novel in a bookcase in his bedroom. When he got back to the kitchen, Jim was on the back porch, stamping his feet and brushing snow from his shoulders.

"What'd you go out for?" Blair asked as he quickly slid the glass doors closed behind Jim.

"Wanted some fresh air. Shit, it's cold. Must be in the teens." He squeezed his nose. "My nose froze."

Blair laughed and said, "Take off your boots," then sat on the sofa, pulling a blanket brought from his bed around him. "You can share my blanket," he offered seductively, making Jim laugh.

"Coffee?"

"Seemed that kind of day."

Jim studied Blair, who felt himself blushing under the steady gaze of his friend. "I see where this is leading. A leisurely day in front of the fire, reading and sleeping." Blair smiled at him, really wanting Jim to join him but a little shy to ask him outright. Jim tousled his hair and Blair ducked away, making a face. "Let me get my book."

Blair cuddled back, listening to Jim's movements through the house, the fire as it settled in the hearth, the tapping of branches against the windows. He did feel a bit better, after talking to Jim. But only time, he knew, would remove the pain of holding Sally's body, and only experience would allay his fears.

Jim surprised him by flopping over the back of the sofa onto the cushions, grinning at him, his battered Portable Jack Kerouac in one hand. He surprised Blair even further by grabbing Blair's feet from under the blanket and pulling them into his lap and tucking his own feet under the blanket. Blair smiled at him as Jim, big Jim Ellison, actually snuggled back into the sofa, an affectionate grin aimed at Blair, his warm hand over Blair's left ankle.

"Hey," Jim said softly.

"Hey."

"We're stuck here, at least for the day. You okay with that?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

Jim studied Blair intently; Blair could feel himself blush under the attention. Their earlier discussion, the relative silence of the snow-covered world, the concomitant physical and emotional distance from their usual life, their isolation and the knowledge that they were snowbound gave the moment an even greater intimacy than Blair could remember. More than any time in the truck or loft, or in his old office at Rainier, or out camping, he felt connected to Jim.

Jim's steady gaze contributed to that sense of connection, Blair thought, feeling his own attention narrow to just Jim, to just his friend and companion. Without forethought, he suddenly asked, "What are you thinking?"

And Jim smiled at him, slow and sexy and very pleased. "I want you to be as happy with yourself as I am."

"As happy with myself as you are with me? Or as you are with yourself?"

Jim actually looked mischievous. He pinched Blair's little toe. "Both."

Blair laughed even though he found himself near tears. "I don't know what's happening," he said a bit breathlessly.

"I do," Jim said, putting his book down, looking closely at Blair. "Come here." He slung his arm around Blair's shoulders and tugged him nearer. Blair obediently scooted closer down the sofa and they wrapped the blanket around them both, feet propped up on the hearth. "I'm gonna tell you a story."

"A story," Blair repeated blankly.

"Yup. And I want you to listen. Once upon a time, I was a young man in the military. Younger than you were when we first met. I was posted to a part of the world I'm not supposed to admit I ever visited, on an assignment that never was assigned."

"Covert ops."

"Maybe. Doesn't matter. What matters is how young and alone and scared I was. But I had a job to do and I did it. And when it was over, when I was someplace safe, I threw up every time I thought about it. So I got drunk enough that I couldn't remember and threw up because of that. Lost five pounds in two days," he added, "and I was pretty skinny back then. Anyway, I didn't know what was happening. It was as though a window had opened onto a part of the world I not only didn't know existed, I didn't want to know existed. And that window couldn't be shut."

"What'd you do?"

Jim shrugged. "Drank myself stupid. Went to confession." He blushed and glanced sideways at Blair. "Got, uh, fucked." He stopped and swallowed, loud enough for Blair to hear, who was watching him with his mouth slightly open. He shut his mouth and tried to look unsurprised.

"Did any of it help?"

Jim shrugged again. "It all helped a bit, in its own way, I guess. But nothing really worked. I shut down. And you pretty much know the rest, Chief. Nothing really woke me up. Incacha, of course. And then you."

Now Jim was really blushing; Blair could practically feel the heat of his flushed skin. "I helped?" he whispered incredulously.

"Oh, come on, Sandburg. You know it. You saw what a jerk I was. You wrote about it: fear-based responses. You're an expert on early Jim Ellison."

Jim turned to face Blair again, his hand gently stroking Blair's arm. "You have to connect, Blair. You can't lose that connection. You helped me. I'd be, well, I'd be honored if you'd let me help you."

Blair stared at him. "How?" But Jim didn't answer, just smiled at Blair, who felt his own face begin to blush. Jim tugged him even closer and he rested his head against Jim's shoulder, watching the fire and drifting. Finally, Blair said, "This helps." He felt more than heard Jim's laughter.

Blair dozed there, resting against Jim, feeling safe and taken care of. When he woke, Jim was looking into the fire, now burned down to a gentle glow. "I want to try Kin," Blair said.

Jim nodded. "Yeah. I know." They sat for a few minutes longer; Blair as relaxed as he'd been in years. Then they rose and went to the reading room, Jim leaving his arm around Blair.

Kin was in a violet bottle, the stopper a pewter outstretched hand. Jim handed it to Blair carefully, as if afraid of the contents. Then Blair sat on the floor and Jim folded himself next to him. "You gonna do this, too?"

"You aren't leaving me behind," Jim said, but he was smiling. Blair nodded and unstoppered the bottle, then held the cork out to Jim to smell before sniffing it himself. He inserted the stopper back, set the bottle down, and took Jim's hands in his. By then, he felt as if weights had been attached to his body, he was so heavy and slow. He saw Jim's face relax, all the tension flow out of it like water, and Blair's eyes closed.

He was lying in bed, in the loft, but upstairs, in Jim's bed. Except he knew it was his bed, too, now. He stretched and flexed his feet, looking up at the skylight where rain was pounding. There was a muffled thump and he turned his head to see Jim toeing off his shoes and undressing. He flipped back the covers and Jim crawled in, smiling.

"Hey," he whispered, and bent down to kiss Blair, who met him happily, Jim's mouth warm and moist and familiar to Blair, in a way no other had ever been. "Sorry I'm late," he breathed when they separated.

"Welcome home," was all Blair said before leaning up to kiss him again, and then Jim's hands were on his body, touching him with knowledge and confidence, urging Blair closer, arousing him, soothing him, letting him know he was loved and treasured.

Blair felt tears in his eyes, but he put his arms around Jim's neck and kissed him more passionately, rolling his body against Jim, finding the expected hardness against his thigh. He began rocking against Jim, who moaned softly into his mouth and shivered before rolling onto his back and pulling Blair on top.

"I want you so much," Jim whispered in his ear before licking the outer shell and biting the lobe. Blair cried out in delight and straddled Jim, thrusting smoothly against him. "Please, Blair," Jim gasped, and Blair opened his eyes to discover his face was wet with happiness as he clutched Jim's hand in the icy reading room of their borrowed home.

"Oh, god, Chief," Jim whispered, and pulled Blair into his arms, just as he had in their shared vision. "I want you so much. Please let me take care of you. Not just now, till you feel better, but forever."

"I don't know what I'm doing," he murmured, resting more of his weight against Jim.

"'S okay. We'll figure it out. We always figure it out."

And then, to Blair's pleasure but not his surprise, Jim folded his arms around Blair's shoulders, pulled him up, and kissed him. Right on the mouth. A sloppy, happy, suggestive kiss, and whoever would've thought that someone as tidy as James Ellison would be so messy a kisser? Blair kissed him back soundly, sliding his legs around Jim's waist thinking: In for a penny, in for a pound.

Instead of reading, Blair thought dreamily, I think we'll kiss the day away.

They wandered back to the much-warmer kitchen, lying together on the big white sofa, shyly exploring each other's bodies. "So. We're kin," Blair murmured, and Jim stroked his ass, letting touch be his answer again. But I need words, Blair thought; as good as his hands feel on my body, I need words.

As if he'd read Blair's mind, Jim murmured, "Kin. How can we be kin, though?" He kissed Blair's cheek and ear, before returning to his mouth. "I love your mouth," he said softly, and Blair felt himself blush.

For long minutes more they kissed, reclining on the sofa, Blair draped over Jim's legs.. Blair finally said, "When we saw the, the vision or whatever, we were, uh," his blush deepened. "We were in bed."

Jim grinned at him. "Bonking like bunnies."

"Maybe you bonk like a bunny. I bonk like fucking King Kong."

Jim burst into laughter. "That make me Fay Wray?"

"You don't look very Fay."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "You're sittin' in my lap; we're kissing; we're dreaming of, uh, I don't know. Whatever. Don't you think that's a little fey?"

"Shut up and kiss me. Kin me."

"How can we be kin?"

"Jesus." Blair sighed, and put his hands on either side of Jim's face, holding him while he kissed him. "Kin means related through blood or marriage."

Jim stared at him, only inches a way, and then suddenly blushed as deeply as Blair had. "Oh."

"Oh." Blair started kissing him again, lightly on the lips until Jim opened his mouth, and then more aggressively, sucking on his tongue, pressing his lips against Jim's, against his cheeks and chin before returning to his mouth.

Suddenly Jim pushed him onto his back, his legs automatically wrapping around Jim's waist. Jim looked him in the eye and said, "I fucking want you."

Breathlessly, Blair said, "Okay." And Jim sat back and began to strip Blair, pulling off his shoes, unzipping his jeans, pulling his shirts off right over his head without unbuttoning them. Within a few seconds, Blair was naked on the couch, trembling in anticipation. Jim's predatory smile both aroused and concerned Blair, who ran a hand down Jim's chest and then began unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it down over his shoulders.

But Jim shrugged off his hands, leaving his shirt half on, half off, and crawled down the couch a bit to begin sniffing at Blair's crotch. "Hey, that tickles!" No answer, except Jim began to lick and nibble at Blair's inner thighs, his testicles, and the soft skin behind them. Blair spread his legs wantonly and felt his hips thrust. Jim put his hand into Blair's pubic hair and gently pulled on it, combing it with his fingers, while he continued to snuffle and lick at him.

Finally, he licked the base of Blair's penis. Blair moaned and tried to point himself at Jim, who grasped his waist firmly and held him still. Then Jim put his head over Blair's penis and began to lick and suck at the head. "Oh, shit," Blair muttered, and Jim sank onto him, not deep enough, never deep enough, but enough Blair started to thrust into his mouth, disbelieving that it was Jim's mouth even as he watched himself enveloped and released.

They lay on the couch, awkward, a bit uncomfortable, Blair trembling with the exertion and excitement, Jim cautiously enthusiastic, both men shy. Blair put his hands on Jim's head and rolled his hips up, straining for more sensation, more connection, more and more and more.

Like dancers, they shifted positions, Jim rolling onto his back and Blair levering himself over Jim, so he could push deeper into Jim's mouth and throat. Jim's hands massaged his thighs and testicles; all the sensation overwhelmed Blair, and he felt himself straining toward the next push, and the next, until he froze for an instant and then came. Jim swallowed his semen; even in the haze of orgasm, Blair felt Jim's throat and mouth working. He felt dazed with pleasure and slightly embarrassed.

At last he sat back, resting lightly on Jim's chest, looking down into his face. Jim raised his eyebrows and Blair laughed. "That was different."

"But was it any good?"

Blair scooted down until he was face to face with Jim. "Oh, yeah," he whispered, and kissed him, a little shocked at the flavor of Jim's mouth. While they kissed, he slid his hand down between them, unzipped Jim's blue jeans, and grasped his penis firmly; Jim moaned into Blair's mouth and now it was his turn to push and strain and twist and lift, and Blair enjoyed every movement and every moment until Jim came in Blair's hands and on his own stomach. Heedless of the mess, Blair flopped on top of Jim and rested. Jim was a pretty big guy; he could bear Blair's weight for a few minutes.

When he awoke, he was alone on the sofa, the blanket carefully tucked around him. Jim was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, reading Kerouac. Blair peered at him over the back of the sofa; Jim looked up and smiled. And Blair fell in love with a man he'd loved for years.

"Get your ass over here," he suggested as seductively as possible, and Jim put down the mug and the book and came straight to him, unbuttoning his wrinkled shirt as he did. He sat down facing Blair, the smile still on his face.

That night, as a last-quarter moon gleamed through the uncurtained window, they slept in the same bed for the first time, making love as carefully as virgins, as passionately as grown men, as sweetly as two people deeply in love.

In the heat of the chapel, Jim listened to the familiar cadence of the rosary, led by a priest with a distinct Irish lilt to his voice and a very slight lisp. He and Blair were at the back of the chapel; Sally's foster mother, Maeve Gallagher, had hugged Blair and thanked them both for coming.

He fingered his mother's rosary, smooth and cool beads of jet, as he recited words as familiar as his own name. Blair stood quietly, hands folded, observing, yes, but obviously caught in the same calm. He'd never been to a rosary, he'd admitted to Jim, but he wanted to go to Sally's.

Sally's death had been hard on Blair, Jim knew. He could still see Blair's shocked white face, vivid over his bloodstained tee shirt, as he'd knelt in the dirty street and let the paramedics take her shredded body from him, awkwardly trying to fold the torn blue sundress around the little girl's body, as if to protect her modesty. There are some things we're not meant to see, Jim believed; or rather, he believed it about others. He accepted whatever horrors the world revealed to him almost as his due, as if he were somehow responsible. Blair had gently and frequently pointed out the irrationality of Jim's behavior to him, and even though he agreed with Blair intellectually, emotionally he'd been trained from an early age to expect --

Expect what? Horror? Blood? Violence? His family life hadn't been marred by obvious violence. His father hadn't beaten him, starved him, locked him in a closet. Just froze Jim, entombed him in silence and silent anger.

But there were some things that Blair wasn't meant to see. And this had been one of them. Jim mourned another loss of Blair's innocence as much as he mourned the loss of a child.

Jim swallowed, his voice suddenly thick with grief, as he tried to imagine losing a child. He felt Blair's warm presence at his side and knew again what a gift Blair was in his life. Unconsciously, he shuffled nearer, until their arms and shoulders touched; Blair glanced up at him and Jim saw the shimmer of tears in his friend's eyes.

He stood quietly, telling the rosary, wondering how to help his partner.

The next morning, Blair woke, a little raw in spots, a little groggy, but satisfied with himself and with Jim. He climbed on top of Jim again, remembering how comfortable he'd been there yesterday, but Jim was quicker and had more room this time, and flipped him onto his back, his biceps and deltoids bulging as he maneuvered Blair in the bed.

"Breakfast first," he said firmly, and then nuzzled Blair's heavy beard before springing out of bed. "You shave, okay?"

Blair stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I'm thinking about growing a beard."

"Too late, Sandburg. You had your chance." Jim pulled a sweatshirt over his head and then went into Blair's room, returning with fresh boxers and a tee shirt. "Breakfast."

"Yes, sir."

"Ooh. I like that." He grinned at Blair and raised his eyebrows. "You try that in bed and see what happens."

"I am in bed."

So Jim jumped back in and started maneuvering him again, clearly enjoying the physicality of their new relationship. He pushed Blair's legs apart and then lifted them to his shoulders, then grasped Blair by the hips and pulled him onto his thighs. Blair shook his head and laughed but didn't struggle. It felt too good, being touched, being played with. It had been too long.

But Jim's stomach growled, and then Blair's did, so they were persuaded to leave their very messy bed, even though Blair at first refused to put clothes on, just pulling his old blue robe on and heading toward the kitchen. "Why get dressed?" he asked Jim rhetorically, snugging the belt around his waist.

"So I can undress you," Jim leered, and Blair leered back but went to his room to change into blue jeans and several shirts. By then they were both too interested in coffee to do more than lean against each other and study how the snow had hidden the backyard and veranda. The wind wasn't blowing this morning, but enormous drifts had mounded up in the night, and the snow was almost level with the veranda.

After breakfast, Blair again cleaned up while Jim made his rounds. When he came puffing in, face pink from the cold, he said, "Gonna clear up today."

"Your sentinel senses tell you that?

"Them and the blue sky I saw in the west. Call your mom; we can pick her up tomorrow, if she can get into Cascade." Blair folded the dish towel he'd been using, smiling to himself. "What? What?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Just struck me funny, hearing you tell me to call my mom."

Jim snagged the dish towel and flicked it at Blair's ass; he leapt out of the way just in time and the towel snapped noisily but harmlessly. "Put down the weapon," he said, raising his hands as if to calm a crazed killer.

"Call your mother and I might." So Blair went off to call Naomi, dodging another flick of the towel, leaving Jim to clean up the snow he'd trod in and build up the fire in his bedroom.

Naomi was her usual irrepressible self, laughing at Blair's story of the snow, teasing him about the warmer weather in Taos. He pressed the phone tight against his ear, willing her to come back; his heart was lighter today, and he wanted to share with her his new relationship with Jim. But not over the phone.

"Tomorrow," she promised, and blew kisses over the phone line, making him laugh even more.

"Tomorrow, mama," he agreed, regretfully breaking the connection. Jim was no longer in the kitchen when he returned, so he wandered up the long hallway to their bedrooms, wondering what he'd discover today.

As he knelt before his bedroom's fireplace, Jim smelled Blair, a rich and heady aroma combining both their essences. "What're you doing in here?" Blair called, lounging against the open door to Jim's room. The door was painted a deep reddish ochre and Blair's blue eyes looked very bright against that background.

"Gettin' ready."

"For?"

Jim just looked over his shoulder at Blair, who smiled and shut up. "Get over here."

"I'm not that easy."

"Yeah, you are. Get over here." Blair stared at him, that slight smile still curling his Etruscan mouth, and then pushed off the door with his shoulder. He sauntered to Jim, who had to smile in return and stood, dusting off his hands before sliding them around Blair's waist and holding him by the hips.

They studied each other for a moment. Blair's arms were still folded across his chest. Jim shook him gently and he relaxed, dropping his hands to rest them over Jim's before leaning up for a kiss.

Jim saw Blair's lips part, his head tilt, his eyes close, and he thought he'd zone forever, lost in that moment. He bent his own head and met Blair for a long kiss, one that began gently, a soft stroking of Blair's lips with his own, nothing more, and then slowly grew into something much more.

He pulled Blair closer, nudging his legs apart, and heard Blair sigh or moan, a little exhalation that turned over Jim's heart at the same instant it hardened his penis. He pushed against Blair, wanting him to feel what he'd done to Jim and received another little noise. He began to back Blair towards the bed, and he went willingly, never stopping kissing Jim even as he sat down. Jim followed him down, climbing on the bed, one knee on either side of Blair's hips, and kissed Blair as thoroughly, with as much intent, as he knew how.

Moving his kisses to Blair's neck and throat, Jim leaned more heavily onto his left hand in order to cup his right around Blair's shoulder, squeezing gently but firmly before moving his hand across Blair's chest, lightly touching first his left then his right nipple, then squeezing his hip again. He very confidently touched Blair's penis through his jeans; Blair made that noise yet again and Jim felt him start to thrust. He moved his hand lower, between Blair's legs, and Blair opened his legs to let Jim slide his hand between them, touching his scrotum delicately. Blair groaned, as if in pain, and pressed against Jim's hand.

Jim sighed, opening his eyes at last. His hand continued its gentle exploration through the rough denim, and he felt Blair's penis fill. Blair shifted to find a better position for friction, and pushed his bottom into Jim's hand, moaning slightly.

"Am I there yet?" he said nonsensically, and Jim laughed, but never stopped his stroking. "Jiiiiim."

"Chief, you could call me back from the dead when you say that."

"You said you got fucked." Jim stopped for a second, surprised, and then began stroking him again.

"You want that?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure." He lay his head on Jim's chest and opened his thighs even wider. Jim's hand faltered, and then slowly dipped down the curve of his ass again. Blair rocked against Jim, and Jim closed his eyes to better focus on the sensation, his penis a little raw from their earlier play, but not too raw to feel good, very good, as he swelled within the confines of his blue jeans.

Jim felt Blair's acquiescence and, as he had on the sofa the day before, began to strip Blair, who lay back, blushing a little. "You like this," Jim told him, "when I take your clothes off for you."

Blair blushed even deeper and smiled shyly at him, lifting his arms so Jim could pull his last tee shirt off. Jim thought his heart was expanding in his chest; he felt overwhelmed by tenderness and desire and love.

When Blair was nude, Jim sat up, bringing Blair with him. His face was almost stern as he looked into Blair's. He left one hand under Blair, fingers very near Blair's opening; Blair wiggled a bit experimentally, trying for more. He wanted to thrust, and to be thrust into. He wanted -- he didn't know what he wanted. He sat down hard on Jim's hand, rocking against the hesitant fingers; the pressure almost hurt, but he still wanted more.

Jim was panting, and he swallowed hard. "This is moving too fast," he whispered, but Blair just leaned back even farther, and he saw in Jim's face the same desire, the same need. He felt almost violent; this was nothing like anything he'd ever experienced before. With each rock backwards, he felt himself soften and open to Jim, physically and emotionally. He wanted to absorb Jim into himself, to absorb Jim's strength and resilience.

"I need this," he murmured, but Jim started pulling back, concern creasing his handsome face. Blair stared at him, a bit frustrated, a bit concerned himself, and then climbed off Jim and the bed.

"Where are you going? Jim called after him, but he just hurried down the long hallway, through the kitchen and into the older part of the house, then into the reading room. He carefully took Concupiscence down from the shelf and carried it back to the bedroom. "Oh, no," Jim said, sitting up straight, "Not that," but it was too late; Blair slung a leg over Jim's and sat down at the same time he unplugged the bottle and waved the stopper between them. He closed the bottle up and set it on a bedside table, moving slower and slower.

They were someplace else, someplace Blair didn't recognize. A large white room, maybe a hotel room, but very expensive. Long sheer white curtains fell from the floor-to-ceiling windows, a warm breeze billowing them into the room. The sound of the ocean pushed its way indoors, and the gauzy air smelled moist and salty and very slightly fishy.

They lay in bed, the crisp white sheets pulled back, a white cotton cover pooled on the furry white rug surrounding the bed; Blair was in Jim's arms, his back to Jim's chest, Jim's right leg over his right thigh. He absently noticed both his and Jim's arms were very tan, as if they'd spent the week on a beach somewhere. He wore a short beard that itched a little.

Jim was deep within him, rocking slowly, so slowly. He looked down, trying to see where they connected, then put his hand down, feeling Jim disappear inside him. His rectum felt full but not uncomfortable; rather, relaxed, with a sliding pressure. It wasn't only sexual, but also comforting, both filling and fulfilling. Together they moved, back and forth, small, subtle movements. His own penis was spent, semen drying on his abdomen. He felt at peace, as if only this moment existed, only the two of them, slightly sweaty, slightly sleepy, moving in the cradle of each other's bodies, had ever been completed in this way.

Jim pulled Blair more snugly against him, his broad, hairless chest warm and sweaty against Blair's back. Suddenly there was a different movement when they came together, a lifting motion, and then Jim gasped and pushed into him, hard, again, and then again, and held onto his shoulders even more tightly, moaning quietly. Blair tilted his hips and accepted even more of Jim into his body, welcoming the intrusion, the connection. Then Jim fell forward, his full weight on Blair.

They lay entwined in each other's arms in the bedroom, once again at Cloud Mountain apple farm, smiling, a little embarrassed. "Wow," Jim said, and Blair rested his head against Jim's shoulder. Wow, indeed, he thought. So that's what it's like. "Hey," Jim gently shook him. "Talk to me. You okay?"

Blair pulled back again, so he could look into Jim's eyes. "Never been this okay," he reassured him, "Might never be again."

"Don't say that. Don't jinx us."

"Superstitious?"

"About some things. We've got a history."

"I'll say." They smiled at each other, then Blair raised his eyebrows suggestively. Jim stroked his bottom, a little more daringly, exploring a bit more with his fingers. Blair wiggled again, and groaned appreciatively.

"So much to do, so little time," Blair murmured, and Jim laughed again.

Blair leaned over to kiss that toothy grin away. When he felt Jim's hips rising rhythmically against his, he felt a frisson of pleased anticipation roll through him. But he said, "It's Thanksgiving, isn't it?"

"Happy Thanksgiving." Jim was kissing him as he said it, and Blair luxuriated in the sensation. "My favorite Thanksgiving ever."

"Even though there's no turkey?"

"Don't set yourself up for jokes like that," Jim suggested, still kissing his cheek and ear.

Blair lay back rather passively, thinking how different this was from anything else he'd experienced. How relaxed. As if he knew they had a long, long time, and permission to do anything they wanted. The pressure of Jim's fingers in him told him that Jim agreed. He closed his eyes.

"Hey, child of the quiet fields," Jim whispered into his damp ear, making Blair shiver. "I need you to tell me: Are you okay?"

Blair heard the underlying questions and concern. He kissed Jim's throat and leaned back. "I can be," he promised.

"If?"

Blair shrugged. "If, if. I can be." He kissed Jim again. He could be, given enough kisses, enough touches, enough time. It was Thanksgiving; time to give thanks. "Are you?"

"Mm, oh, yeah. Yeah." Jim kissed his way from Blair's jaw up to his lips, gently pressing with his tongue so Blair would open his mouth to him. Blair's lips were almost numb, and Jim tasted of toothpaste and coffee, and his mouth was very warm. Blair opened his legs even wider and threaded them around Jim's.

"When are you gonna get undressed?" he asked between kisses.

Jim sat back and looked at him, a stunned smile on his face.

"What? You thought you were getting away with something?" From the slight blush on Jim's face, Blair knew he was right. Oh, Jim, he thought, working at the recalcitrant zipper; who made you doubt yourself. But he said nothing. He used his hands, because Jim Ellison understood touch better than any words Blair might whisper into his ear.

So Jim surprised Blair when he began to speak, and Blair understood that this was a gift to him, one designed for him. "You are so beautiful," Jim whispered, stroking him, studying him, kissing and licking and sucking at him. "I thought you were a striking man the first day I met you. Those girls thought you were cute, not a dork; I lied to you, and I'm sorry, but already I was a little jealous." He kissed Blair's shoulder and sniffed at his armpit. "I can smell you. I'd know you in the dark at a hundred paces. You have this scent -- it isn't shampoo or deodorant, it's just you. I never told you, I'm sorry, but I think it might be genetic, because Naomi has it, too, a little, and a little different, but there's definitely a Sandburg smell." He snuffled again, tickling Blair and making him laugh, and he slung his arm around Jim's shoulders and pulled him up for another kiss.

"I love you," Jim said, and that stopped all conversation, or at least changed it into another language, one both men were fluent in, and this conversation continued for a long, long time. Slowly, Jim's clothes fell off, scattered on the bed, and slowly they lay down, never stopping kissing, and when Blair knew he was there, right there, he put his hand on Jim's chest and leaned back a tiny bit. Jim opened his eyes, puzzled. "I want, I want what we saw. In that white room."

Jim shook his head, a small crease appearing between his eye brows. "Blair," he began, but Blair kissed him quiet.

"I want that. What we had. Please, Jim. Do that for me."

Jim stared at him for a few seconds, and then deliberately slid his hand from Blair's hip over his bottom and down, softly stroking Blair's scrotum. Blair opened his legs and this time he gasped when Jim's fingers touched his anus. "Yes," he whispered, a little afraid; his penis began to soften. He opened his legs wider.

Jim again began to maneuver him in the bed, turning him onto his back, bending his knees and pushing his heels back. Blair felt himself blushing yet again; he was so open. This was as bad as the first time he'd had sex with a girl, all those years ago, when he had been so embarrassed and clumsy. Then Jim lay down between his thighs and began to lick and touch him, and that felt familiar. He began to relax into the sensation, and found himself thrusting, rocking back and forth. Jim's tongue entered him and he cried out with surprise and pleasure, and he heard Jim moan.

He grew dazed with the voluptuousness of Jim's tongue in his ass, pressing himself down, trying for more. When he first felt Jim's finger, he halted, eyes flying open with astonishment. Then he slowly moved back, paying close attention to the warm stretch as he did, and when he began to rock on Jim's finger, he knew what he wanted.

"Just a minute," Jim whispered, and kissed him, then left the bed to return almost immediately, and suddenly Blair smelled apples. He lifted his head to see Jim pouring lotion into his hand and then working his fingers through it. Blair lay back, trying not to tense up, and gave himself over to Jim's care. Again he felt Jim's cautious entrance into his body, this time made easier by the lotion. He giggled.

"I hoped I was the apple of your eye," he said, and Jim laughed, too. Then they grew quiet, and serious; they were making love, which took all their concentration and energy.

"I'm gonna try now, Blair, if that's what you want," Jim said softly, and he shut his eyes and nodded. "We don't have to do this --"

"Yes. Yes, we do. Like in the dream, vision. Whatever." He put one leg around Jim's waist and tried to tug his body towards him, and Jim began to push into him.

Immediately he knew that this was a mistake, that his body wasn't made for this connection. He felt broached, broken, violated. But then he remembered how he'd felt in the dream, and he forced his muscles to relax, breathing into them, visualizing himself opening, opening to Jim. "A mystical connection," he murmured, remembered how Mahayana Buddhism speaks of the Mystery of the Body, the Voice, and the Mind. The universe is one vast, breathing body, he thought, and exhaled deeply, and I am part of that, I am one with the universe, I am one with Jim, and he exhaled again.

"Blair." He opened his eyes to see a very concerned Jim leaning over him, lovingly stroking his hair.

"Please," he whispered. "I need this so much." Jim slowly nodded, and then pulled Blair's legs around his waist and scooted his bottom onto his thighs, as he had earlier in play. Then he began to push forward again, moving deeper inside, while watching Blair carefully. "All of you," Blair said voicelessly, knowing the sentinel would hear. "I want all of you," and Jim put his hands under Blair's hips and lifted. Blair saw his biceps bulge with the effort and his face turned red, but he lifted Blair gently onto himself and then folded over Blair.

It didn't look very comfortable to Blair, but he couldn't speak. His entire attention shifted away from Jim and back to himself, to a few square inches of his body now wholly possessed by Jim. The idea that they were now one overwhelmed him; he remembered vividly the first time he had looked down to see himself disappear into a woman, how despite his eagerness he'd also been frightened, as if he would never recover himself.

He felt like that now: that he'd never recover himself. That he would always be, in some way, a part of Jim, and Jim would be a part of him. A mystical marriage, he thought, remembering again the Buddhist teachings. But then he heard Jim groan, an anguished sound, and felt him begin to thrust. "I have to, Blair," he cried, "I'm sorry," and then Jim fell into his own haze; Blair could see it glaze Jim's eyes. His muscles clenched; he bit his lip; he grabbed onto Jim's arms and held on as Jim pushed and pushed and pushed into him, oh-ing with each movement. It hurt, but not terribly, and again, Blair forced himself to relax, to breathe into the sensation, and then suddenly he felt an electric charge that seemed to leap from Jim straight into his own body, and he cried out, "Yes!" Jim's hands pulled him up and back, and he knew he'd have bruises on his hips tomorrow. Then Jim froze, and with a wild cry, he came.

When Jim opened his eyes, he stared at Blair for a few seconds, and then smiled. "Jesus," he said, and bent over awkwardly to kiss Blair, licking at his lips.

Blair felt a pleasant burn where Jim entered him, warm and buzzing. Now that Jim wasn't tugging on him, he relaxed even more, and for the first time, he began to feel the excitement of doing the forbidden. Of having the right to do something secret and hidden. Of possessing and being possessed in such a dark and clandestine manner. His penis began to stir, and Jim touched him.

Blair felt the thrill of the forbidden even more powerfully -- that his friend would touch him this way. He moved and felt Jim still inside him, deep in his rectum, and remembered the vision. Jim scooted back so he could arch over Blair more comfortably and began to kiss him again, using one hand to stroke Blair's penis, then roll and pinch his testicles, while he braced himself with the other. Blair heard himself panting as he strained toward orgasm; he wanted to be there while Jim was still connected to him, he needed it, he wanted to feel Jim inside and out, he wanted more, he wanted that bond, and then Jim thrust his tongue into Blair's ear and whispered, "Next time, fuck me. Jesus God, I want you to fuck me," and Blair cried out with pleasure and pulsed semen over his friend's hand and chest.

When he opened his eyes, Jim was kneeling next to him, staring at him with affection and some concern; he lay down next to Blair, wrapping his arms around him. "You're a mess," he said, and kissed Blair's cheek. "How do you feel?"

Blair looked at him sleepily and tried to think of a witty comeback, but all he could say was, "In love. I feel in love." Jim smiled and rubbed his face against Blair's. "I am in love," Blair mumbled, before he fell into sleep, and he dreamed of summer days and winter nights spent lying next to Jim.

The sky had completely cleared by the time Jim and Blair stepped onto the dripping cedar deck that afternoon. Jim watched as Blair stood near the railing, staring out toward the old orchard; his heart rate was a bit fast, but that could be from the sharp air. His breath puffed out in little clouds, probably invisible to anyone but Jim.

After a moment he turned back, smiling almost shyly. "Coming?" Jim nodded and started down the steps, brushing the soft snow off the handrail, trying not to slip. He heard Blair right behind him and stopped suddenly, so Blair bumped into him, almost stepping on his heels. "Hey!"

Jim twisted his head back, smiling into Blair's face, at the same level as his. Blair put his arms around Jim's neck and kissed him, his mouth, ear, and neck, his breath warm and moist in the icy afternoon. They thumped down the stairs like that, just a step apart; Jim thought it was a useful metaphor for their relationship, all these years old.

At last they stepped onto the soggy lawn. The snow was melting quickly under the onslaught of the afternoon sun even though the temperature was still near freezing. Blair's arms moved from around Jim's neck to his waist and they slipped and slid their way across the glassy lawn to the deer path through the blackberry bushes. The path wasn't wide enough for two abreast, so Blair fell behind Jim again, his familiar presence there different this time because they remained in contact. Jim liked the sensation of Blair's hands on him very much, and realized he was still smiling.

When they finished prying the sticky blackberry canes away from their jeans and jackets, they stepped into the orchard, the soil crunchy beneath their boots. Soggy dried apple leaves clung to their boots like orange and gold rags of autumn, muffling the noise of their footsteps. Ice glittered brilliantly, refracted into a million rainbows as the sun slid into the west.

Again Jim stopped to pull a small, wizened apple from a tree, rubbing it with his gloved hands. It smelled like apples and snow. This time, he offered the first bite to Blair, who solemnly put his own hands around Jim's to better hold the apple as he bit. It smelled sweet and fresh, a promise of the distant summer. Jim watched as Blair licked a drop of apple juice from his lower lip, then bent down to kiss those lips, tasting apple and Blair, wanting so much more.

They kissed in the orchard for a long time, the apple held between them as carefully as a gem. Jim was breathless when they paused, and impulsively gathered Blair to him as tightly as he could, grateful, grateful for this moment. Blair raised the apple to Jim's lips and he bit, too; it was delicious. As delicious as Blair.

The two men wandered on, nibbling at the apple before tossing the core away for the deer to find later. When they came to the edge of the orchard, where the grass grew long and leafless oak trees shivered, they stood and stared outward together, Jim letting his long sight roam and his hearing stretch out. They were as alone as if they were the last humans on earth.

Finally, he turned to his companion of so many years. "I'm glad Naomi asked us up."

Blair grinned. "And you thought I just didn't want to put miles on my car."

Jim resisted the impulse to lightly cuff him only because he didn't want to remove his arm from Blair's shoulder, but he shook him gently. "That wasn't the reason?"

"No, man. I had this whole thing planned."

"A seduction."

Blair blushed a little, but raised his eyebrows.

"You could've seduced me years ago, Chief. Why here? Why now?" But Blair couldn't answer; Jim's words had silenced him. "What? You didn't know?" He shook his head. Jim kissed him again, turning in Blair's arms to face him more fully. "Oh, Chief. Forever. It's been forever."

But Blair was never speechless for long. "I did know. At some level, I did. And I think," but he paused for moment, until Jim gently shook him again, as if shaking the words from him. "I think what we have is so, so good that in some ways I didn't need more. For a long time, I didn't need more."

"But now you do?"

"Do you?"

So. Jim realized he was going to have to talk now. Not something he was much good at; easier just to lean forward a tiny bit and kiss Blair, nip at his ears and chin, so he did, but then pulled back and answered. "Same. I never felt a rush. What we've had has been so good, so good for me. I mean, there've been some hard times, I admit," and Blair nodded, a bit too enthusiastically for Jim. "But we always got through them. We always will get through them. I guess it just wasn't time."

"Those bottles --"

"No. No, Blair. I didn't need the bottles." Blair raised his eyebrows again, his mouth pursed skeptically. "Well, okay, they helped pushed things along. But we'd have gotten there eventually." After a pause, he added, "Don't you think?"

Blair nodded. "Eventually. And probably pretty soon. I've been, it's been . . ."

The silence stretched out between them, but not uncomfortably. Yeah, Blair had been, all right. He'd pulled away emotionally since becoming a cop, but Jim had expected that. He hadn't liked it much, but he'd known what was happening. But he was back now; different, but the same. Just more. More of himself. And more Blair was better, Jim thought, smiling.

"What?"

Jim kissed him again, lightly. "Welcome back," he whispered, and saw that Blair understood.

"I won't do that again," he promised, his voice ringing with sincerity, and Jim thought it was true. They'd make mistakes, but different mistakes. He could hardly wait to learn what they'd be.

Impulsively, he asked, "What are you going to tell Naomi?"

"The truth," Blair answered in the same tone of voice as if Jim had asked him what year it was. Doubt crept into his eyes. "Shouldn't I?"

"What is the truth?

"What is truth," Blair said, and the doubt fled his face. "For that I should get the Nobel. The truth is you fell in love with me and seduced me and swept me off my feet."

They started walking back toward the rose garden. "Wait a minute. You just said this was all an elaborate seduction of me."

"Wasn't it both?"

Well, okay, Jim admitted to himself, avoiding Blair's eyes for a moment because he knew he'd be busted. Then he peeked at him through his lashes and they both laughed. "Truthfully? I think we were both seduced. By this place, by the storm. By each other."

"By each other," Blair echoed. "Yeah. And by years of cold pizza and stakeouts and ducking bullets and conversation and, and by love." Jim heard him swallow.

"Yeah," he concurred, tightening his grip on Blair's shoulder, and then turning to kiss his temple. "She gonna be okay with this?"

He felt Blair shrug. "I think so. She loves you, I know." That was the first time they'd ever admitted that between them.

"My mother-in-law," Jim said lightly. Blair stopped, turning Jim suddenly. He stared up at Jim, mouth slightly open. "What? What'd I say?" Blair smiled.

"Does that make William my father-in-law?" They began to walk again. "And Steven my brother-in-law? And what the hell is Carolyn to me?"

"What the hell is Carolyn to me?"

"Can I ask why didn't that work?"

He shrugged. "I dunno, Chief. Just wasn't right. Just wasn't you." He felt more than heard Blair's self-satisfied smile at that. "Think we can come back here? Maybe for the holidays? I still have time I gotta take or I'll lose it."

"I don't think I have any time."

"Hell, let 'em dock your pay. We're a two-income family; we can afford it."

"Man, you are -- what are you doing?"

"Planning for our future. Why?"

Blair waited until they'd threaded their way back through the blackberry bushes before turning to face Jim, smiling tenderly at him. "What's changed?"

Jim shrugged again. "Nothin'. Honest to god, Chief." He felt himself blushing; he must be glowing in the late afternoon sun. Blair put his hands on Jim's shoulders and stared into his eyes. "I love you, Blair. I've told you that before. You just couldn't hear me, and now you can. We've been a family for a long time. In my mind, anyway."

Blair continued to stare at him, his expressive face for once unreadable. But his heart rate was calm, his respiration normal, nor did he smell like fear or distress. Jim could almost see him processing this information, matching it to what he already knew, what he'd already guessed, adding two and two and coming up with several billion. His eyes wandered over Jim's face as if learning his features anew, or perhaps seeking a sign. Jim kept his face still, calm, a slight smile curling his lips, the blush still warming his skin.

Then Blair's hands stroked his shoulders, gripping them firmly before sliding up to hold Jim's face. He took a deep breath, released it, and said, "I love you."

Jim turned his head just far enough to kiss Blair's left thumb. "I know."

After a few seconds more, Blair dropped his hands from Jim's face to take one of his Jim's hands in his own. "Come on," he urged, and they hurried back to the house, laughing as they slipped on the slick grass, catching each other to catch their balance. Once on the deck, they kicked off their sodden boots and ran on stockinged feet back to their bedroom, back to their bed, falling onto it with a shout of delight from Blair as Jim twisted him to lie on top. Face to face, they stared intently into each other's eyes, and then Blair kissed him. "Hello," Blair murmured between kisses.

"Hello," Jim whispered back.

Outside, dripping branches of the birch, oak, and fir trees surrounding the house leaned inward, their rustling like whispers of wisdom and love, like spoken pledges of protection.

Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or friendship, is conversation.
-- Oscar Wilde