Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven

Author's disclaimer: Pet Fly, not me. I make no money from this either. I probably lose lots.

Author's notes: Set a year post TSbBS. Takes a small look at the boundaries between worlds. Leave some of your skepticism behind.

Written in present tense for a reason.

These are the people who have my eternal adoration - Molly and Kimberly for timely, necessary comments that jolt me into action; Meg for her pictures showing me Raven, and my sis Resham for encouragement and patience despite all my ranting. Don't kill them, please. All responsibility for this piece still remains mine.

Warnings: m/m, m/f, h/c, violence, bad language, character interpretation that may be contrary to your own.

Mirror-Balance -- Part One

I

/Sunrise or sunset. Call this a sky. Call this the horizon where earth and atmosphere meet. Call this no-man's land where you lie paralyzed, unable to run the gritty mud through your fingers and confirm the sticky clods are crisp with blood/

/Call yourself. Call yourself a name. Lie helplessly and watch the raven-birds wheel overhead, turning in endless circles while you wait far below for their shadow to fall/

/watch them. Watch them watching you. Watch them waiting. Wait for them waiting for you/

/Call if you can. Call this a dream/

/Call this a dream. And wait to awake/

He wakes to the dream again, sitting bolt upright, sheets tightly clenched in his fists.

His throat is tight, but he isn't screaming. His heart is racing and the room is shifting, but he's in his room and the world isn't defined in shades of crimson and black.

Just black. Just night-black and the shadowy forms that wave innocently in the wind are only his clothes for the morning.

Just clothes. Just him.

Blair breathes a little faster.

It takes an effort to disengage one hand from his death grip on innocent cotton, but he manages it in time to stuff his mouth and bite down hard before he can release any sound. The pain doesn't hit until his teeth press down the epidermis, nudging a couple of nerve cells. He forces his mouth to move, to chew down and meet the sinew above the bone, feel the shifting of cartilage and the restlessness of tensile skin.

His breathing slows, clarifying to discomfort and a vaguely throbbing left hand.

Blair lets go, still breathing, calmer now, inhale exhale, feeling the air enter his circulation.

He doesn't close his eyes and chant a mantra, the rhythms of free wheeling birds and strangely silent sky still strong in his mind. He looks straight ahead instead, letting his vision conform to the darkness, letting shapes familiarize and demystify.

After a while he gets up and moves to the kitchen.

The clock on his bedside table reads 4 a.m.

Let's play the game ingenuity. While Blair knows Jim isn't focused on him 24 hours in a day, all sleeping homeowners register motion that seems out of sync with normal background noise. So Blair prepares to play the track 'eager student', a medley of sounds that Jim should be used to after four years of rooming with a teaching fellow. It involves open books and quietly booting up the computer, setting the kettle on to boil and padding about in sock-clad feet.

The kettle hisses softly before automatically switching off. Blair pours hot water into the mug containing bits of lemongrass and honey, adding a spoon as an afterthought.

The spoon clanks as he lifts the cup, so he sets it back down on the counter, waiting until he is certain his hands are steady enough not to drop scalding tea down the front of his Academy sweatshirt. While waiting, he continues to focus on breathing, the soft sound of air moving in and out of his lungs forming a comforting blanket over his thoughts.

Three cups and two hours later, he finally makes it out to the balcony, where the sun is making its entrance. Slightly punch-drunk, Blair's leaning on the railing wondering whether to applaud when Jim stumbles downstairs, mumbling something on his way to the bathroom.

"Hey," Blair replies, half-turning to catch the sight of sweat and sleep rumpled Jim trying to yawn and scratch his stomach at the same time. A feat of motor-coordination impossible before coffee, so Blair has already made him a pot.

It's actually the pot Blair decided not to have, voting in favor of lemongrass tea instead, but Jim doesn't have to know that.

"Coffee?" he suggests kindly to Jim who is fighting the battle of fingers versus doorknob.

"Mm." Jim's teeth are bared in vicious triumph as the door opens then shuts behind him with a decisive thud.

Blair grins and returns to watching the dawn. It rates a six, maybe seven on ten, he decides.

Water is turned off, and the bathroom door opens softly, releasing a gust of steam. Clean-shaven, near-human Jim re-emerges in his bathrobe and cautiously pads towards the coffeemaker. He groans happily at the sight of the full jug.

"Sandburg, I'm keeping you."

"Ah, but can you afford me?"

Jim snorts and pours his coffee.

Silence except for the sound of drinking and the occasional quiet rush of air as a delivery truck passes below.

"Sleep well?" Blair asks after a decent interval.

"Mm." Jim walks over to the balcony, stopping slightly behind him. "You?"

Blair shrugs nonchalantly and they stand for a while in companionable silence. The sun grows marginally warmer and when he glances sideways, Jim is stretching slightly towards it, eyes closed, looking idiotically blissful and completely unaware of scrutiny.

Blair smiles.

Finally Jim sighs and stretches out, almost absently grasping a lock of his friend's hair and twirling it between thumb and forefinger. "Can't get over how short it is," he says wistfully.

Blair freezes; heart beating faster as Jim tugs lightly at the strand he's holding.

(It takes six months for a story to become old news in Cascade, six months before the spectacular humiliation of losing his PhD. candidature faded to old news and Blair could walk relatively unscathed on the streets. Six months of avoiding the pretty gleam of razor blades and attempting not to piss off his partner any more than was absolutely necessary to assert independent alpha male status; six months of going down to the station to please Jim and enduring the general bonhomie of how long will it be before we send Sandburg to the academy and make a real man out of him, not that long, ha-ha-ha...)

Blair cut his hair three times in the six months before his enrollment forms were approved, telling Jim it wasn't symbolic or anything, except that it made it easier for him to walk the streets and anyway, it was something he should be getting used to, wasn't it?

He'd lied then. He's lying now, telling himself he hates it when Jim does that.

He doesn't say anything, as he's never said anything for a year now, only blanketed his mind in a way that's become familiar with over-use. But deep below the rhythm of his breath he can hear the rasp of hair against skin; feel the vibrations transmitted to his scalp and straight down south to his heart and below, completely bypassing brain. Involuntarily his eyes begin to close and he forces them open in shock, trying to keep breathing steady while Jim fondles his hair and softly rumbles.

"Breakfast."

After a while Blair manages a reply.

"Polysyllables before seven. This could be a new record, Jim. Wow. I'll inform the Cascade Times but you have to leave the hair alone." He means the last part, he thinks.

Jim lets go with a final tug.

They stare out into the distance for a while, Blair carefully not thinking.

"Eggs?" Jim's voice brings him back to reality.

"Perfect." Relief makes him smile. Jim smiles back.

"Great. They're in the fridge. I'll have mine scrambled."

Blair rolls his eyes. "I hate you."

Jim laughs and takes the empty mugs inside. Blair follows him, wondering if they have shallots.

Several slices of toast and two egg-sculptures notwithstanding, they make the PD in good time. Jim nudges Blair, who looks up and catches Simon watching them with the 'I have imported beans in my office and you'd better not be sniffing' expression.

They grin and buckle down to closing the Grinelli case, so they can have the report on Simon's desk by 11, which is coincidentally the time the man likes taking a coffee break.

There are worse ways to start a week.

At 11.15 they catch Simon in his office, hand him a neatly typed report and wait patiently until he pours out two cups of hand ground Peruvian import.

Jim sips appreciatively, but tells Simon that he'd be surprised if the beans had ever seen the inside of a South American facility.

Simon blinks and scowls at the inside of his mug. "Those sneaky bastards... I paid a fortune for this!" he looks up in wonder. "How can you tell?"

Jim looks solemn. "I was in Peru for eight years, remember? Their coffee tastes like shit. This stuff is good. QED."

Simon waits, then looks helplessly towards Blair who makes what-the-hell-do-I-know-he's-the-Sentinel motions with his hands. Jim is still grinning as Blair tugs at his sleeve and leads him out of the office.

"That was a bad, bad thing you did in there. Now every time he buys a new shipment he's going to call you in for a taste."

"You think?" smirks Jim as Blair's cell phone goes off.

It's Teresa from last night, confirming their dinner date. Blair smiles, going through the motions.

As their dialogue progresses, his voice softens and his dick gets hard, so he turns away and takes deep breaths, having to finally end the conversation a little sooner than is strictly necessary. When he turns back to his partner, Jim's looking at him with a careful expression that Blair realizes has been perfected over the last three months since he joined as full-time detective, coincidentally about the same time the self-imposed ban on dating Sandburg was officially lifted from the population of Cascade.

"I shouldn't wait up tonight?" Jim says, but the words stick in Blair's hearing, so he shrugs and leads the way back to their desk. After a moment, Jim follows.

The clock reads 11.45.

Jim is actually doing his share of paperwork. Blair leans back and flips his pen on his knuckles, counting the number of times it spins before falling off.

Jim nudges him. "Stop that."

"Nope." But he puts the pen down after a last twirl and leans his hands on the desk. Three sheets of paper slide under his nose.

"Keep yourself occupied."

Blair slides the sheets back to Jim, flipping him the bird. Jim returns the salute and returns to writing.

Blair scuffs his shoes together, then taps his fingers on the desk. He's got a good rhythm going when a large hand descends on his.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Relax, Jim." He pushes free and sends his chair swinging backwards. "Do the paperwork, my friend."

"I would if you could stop acting like you have ants in your pants." Jim scowls.

Their gazes intersect and Blair feels his cheeks grow a little warmer. He holds for about three seconds, which is two seconds too many before looking away, suddenly, unaccountably thinking of ravens and the sick place in his stomach.

Behind him Jim breathes, once, twice, a little heavily.

He doesn't look back until he hears Jim swivel back to his place. Concentrates on anything and nothing in particular, breathing for preference.

When he can't take it anymore he goes to the washroom and stands there, hands braced on either sides of a sink, waiting incuriously for his mind to decide whether he's here to throw up or jerk off.

Finally, he just bends down and splashes his face several times with water.

When he returns to his desk, Jim carefully doesn't look at him, industriously scratching away at his papers.

Blair seats himself and reaches out for the top three sheets on Jim's stack.

Their eyes don't meet, but they complete their paperwork before 5.

They took separate cars to work because Blair knew he'd have to leave earlier. And as he stands in front of his closet, running his hands along shirt after shirt, testing and deciding between textures he tries not to think of the phrase his mind automatically supplies to him.

Separate cars to work.

With an angry shrug he reaches in and brings out a black silk that should do the trick. Teresa likes to run her hands over him, closing her eyes in ecstasy at the feel of fabric.

This is only the second fuck, but he has her pegged and classified, single, not in the market, not intending to change. They're in for release and nothing extra, which suits him just fine, emotionally.

He tries not to think, focusing instead on breathing and getting dressed. Jim is out for the night as well, on town with the guys, who winked, nudged and wished him luck before steering his partner out the door.

Jim wished him luck, didn't he?

He throws his hairbrush down savagely and strides to the bathroom where he must have left his hair gel. Short hair or long, a man's best friend is his gel.

The little box is hiding somewhere in the medicine cabinet, and he roots around till he finds it, in the process unearthing random strips of Tylenol, razor blades, an old hair tie that he must have forgotten to throw away and -

Way back in a corner, a little packet with a silhouetted bunny rabbit, coyly proclaiming 'Extra-sensitive'. A little packet that he certainly didn't buy and for some reason its existence is truly, royally pissing him off.

Extra-sensitive. Touchy-feely.

fuck

He crushes it in his hand, then for some reason, slips it into the pocket of his jeans. Closes the bathroom door and begins the final stages of locking up.

Teresa time.

Teresa...

She lies in bed, waiting as he shucks his shirt, watching with hooded eyes for him to come to her. Blair smiles teasingly, undoing a button at a time, letting her wait, feeling the tension between them build slowly, knowing that this will be sharp, exquisite and exactly what he needs.

There was a time when sensuality was something Blair appreciated in his bed partners. He used to spend hours in the play of skin on skin, teaching or learning, on several notable occasions, how to appreciate the sweet and sour hot spots, the little nodes of sensation that when tweaked, sent bolts of mutually appreciative ecstasy to heighten the sex and simulate, for one instant, a deeper connection. But now...

Right now it's about needing to get his rocks off and getting off hard. It's about delving deep into a sweet luscious body and devouring the experience. Sipping and savoring is not something Blair does anymore. It's for people who can afford a relationship.

Blair has a relationship. He has Jim.

And for sex, there're interchangeable women like Teresa who pretend to ignore his reputation as a fraud, liar and tautological to boot, when in reality, the bad-boy image their mind supplies has them curling in their beds waiting for him to rip their inhibitions from their psyches and throw them right on the floor with their shoes.

He wonders when he got so clinical, for that matter, when did he become some damn sexual trophy - then all thoughts fly out of his head when Teresa kneels, naked and cups her breasts invitingly.

Ah, Teresa...

Teresa slithers to the edge of the bed and begins undoing his belt. Slides the length out and sensuously coils it around her hands before putting it down carefully and reaching up with long, graceful arms to pull him down for a hot, moist kiss that leaves Blair in no doubt that she's in love with the act, if not him for participating with her.

In gratitude, he sucks her tongue into his mouth, gently but hungrily.

Teresa moans and runs her hands through his hair, pulling on the strands. Blair sinks down on the bed with her, running his hands over her back, feeling the soft skin stretch over muscles, down to dimpled contours, grabs her ass and directs her to sit on his lap. She does, still luxuriously tousling his hair.

He closes his eyes and imagines - imagines for a second, just a second, the feeling of warm calluses rubbing against his skin, raking the hair from his scalp with fingers at least as big as his own, the sensation, what it would be like to touch and crush his hands around the muscles of his back, would it feel like velvet over steel, hard and rugged, pocked with scars; what it might be like to run his hands over them, and taste each indentation with fingertips and ask him, very gently, if they hurt so could he kiss them if they still did-

SHIT

Blair's arms are around her, this suddenly nameless, faceless woman, his eyes shut as he crushes his mouth to hers, letting her undress him only partway, enough to let the necessary bits go free, because he needs to be reminded how good it is to cup a woman's breasts in his hand, how soft they feel, and how the nipples rise when they're stroked - not like a man's, at least he doesn't think so but he's never going to get the opportunity to know is he - bucks and lets her climb on top of him, so finally when he drives up hungrily and angrily into her, he can run his hands over her back, her rigid and muscled back, taut with tension as he-she takes him and

fuck

He comes, groaning, one hand grasping her hip, the other fist in his mouth, teeth tightening against skin, roughly but not permanently marking, just concentrating, helping him clarify and define this orgasm as occurring from her muscles tightening around him, her body wet and pliant and willing above him, and, and he drives in hard and upset, knowing, despite everything, that skin has morphed into skin under his hands and hoping, desperately hoping that if he called out a name it was hers.

Whoever she is, still moaning and making little breathy sounds above him.

When she asks him to stay the night, Blair wonders what she would do if he ever said yes to that, what he would do, if he even could surrender in somebody's arms - but that's a moot point and stupid really, because Blair made the choice years ago, leaping off a cliff, off a plane, no, throwing himself at and under a garbage truck, so he just kisses her on the lips and pets her until she falls into a doze.

Jim's asleep, or the loft is dark when Blair reaches home. Asleep probably, the wall clock shows 12.35 in the morning.

Blair takes his clothes off in his room and wraps a towel around his waist. He's already showered, but needs it again, not that Jim would hold it against him if he didn't

liar

but it's become sort of a ritual now. Ritual cleansing. Orthodox Jews have been doing it for centuries and a completely unorthodox Jewish-by-default shaman has to take his rites as and when they come to him.

He stands under the shower spray, holding, in spite of his already shivering body, determinedly letting freezing spikes of water pepper his chest, his back, running over the muscles and into the crevice of his ass, washing away feeling, wiping him clean of sensation, leaving him free of all thought but that it's cold and his dick is shriveling under the icy assault.

He turns the shower off. Wipes himself thoroughly, wondering how the fabric of this towel would feel to hyperactive senses, remembering that they bought these towels together because there was some sort of bulk sale at Worth's and he could tell Jim liked the idea of color-coordinating the bathroom.

Feeling like each loop and thread pushing out from the main body of cloth could and will stimulate his skin if he allows himself to feel, Blair walks into his room and falls naked onto the bed.

He is asleep in minutes.

/when you dream are you the dream or who is the dream who dreams in you... against sand and grit losing texture when you look away, look up and see the dark shapes circle higher in the sky, no shadow, no sound, no feeling or sensation, just the ever clearer shapes waiting watching waiting watching waiting watching waiting watching /

/in eternal stasis is it paralysis or can't you move you can't feel nor dream nor name nor hear /

/wait for them watching you, watching wheeling circling overhead in a pale red sky the color of sunrise and sunset and cloudless somewhere in between and you close your eyes but still can see so you wait to wake and refuse to dream/

/and you wait and you wait and you wait and you wait/

/till finally, you tell yourself, now you will scream/

II

The call comes in at 5 a.m. Blair is ready for it, or so it seems to Jim when he comes downstairs and sees his partner dressed and speaking softly into the phone.

He extends his hearing and doesn't catch the cadences that signal 'Simon', so decides not to listen harder for words. Blair will tell him what he needs to know. Instead he reflexively extends other parts of himself to survey the night, senses that really have no name or definition, though Sandburg would probably call them electromagnetic pulses and come up with ideas to meter his responses -

A flutter in the background and he realizes it's Blair's heartbeat that has skipped momentarily before settling down to normalcy.

Jim waits while Blair completes his conversation, waits, cataloguing with a suddenly clearer vision the subtle signals of another sleepless night - cup, half-full of bittersweet lemon and honey; books, their pages idly thumbed, a scattered blanket, cushions in disarray and in the corner, Blair's PC still whirring softly in the background.

Blair replaces the receiver and turns to face him, voice calm and steady as he says, "That was Homicide, Jim. There's been a murder-suicide in Maple East and they need me down at the station."

"Can't Homicide deal with this on their own?" asks Jim before he recognizes the address and the use of 'me'.

Blair smiles oddly and collects his car keys from the basket by the door.

"Don't wait up, Jim," and he's half way out the door before Jim regains the use of his brain and lunges, snagging a shoulder in passing.

"Shit, Chief!"

Blair is passive as Jim pulls him back, pushing him against the wall, not roughly, but to hold him there. And Jim breathes unsteadily, looking into his friend's eyes, clear and blue, charting the planes of the face, jaw steady, not overtly stiff, expression neutral, everything, in fact, everything in perfect order and untroubled as though the woman dead at Maple East was not or had never been Blair's date for an evening or even - if Jim smells correctly and nauseatingly - his enthusiastic and generous partner in bed.

"Give me a minute to get dressed," he says finally and waits for Blair's nod before releasing him.

"No I didn't know she was married. Engaged, whatever." Blair says to the uniformed officer. "She never wore a ring, so I guess it never really came up."

"We hadn't been going out together long. Can't say I know that much about her."

Jim closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, head against the wall, filtering through the quiet rustlings of the PD at half strength, letting the vibrations of Blair's voice pass through the wall and straight into his skull which feels heavy and over-used.

A softer rumble, which he imagines is the female officer's voice. He doesn't bother to check for words. He knows the drill, and even if he didn't Blair's responses will tell him what he needs to know.

There's a pause before Blair answers. Jim twists his head and wishes Sentinel vision extended to x-rays.

At least his partner's heartbeat is still steady.

"She did ask me to spend the night, but I didn't."

Jim tilts his head, trying to understand how that would sound to an observer. Defensive? Neutral? Angry? Upset?

"No, she'd never asked me before tonight." Blair swallows, but his next words are firm and evenly spaced. "No, I didn't think anything was wrong. She wasn't particularly nervous, no, we were great. She was fine."

"It was only the second time I'd met her... I didn't really want to spend the night."

"I must have left around 11, maybe 11.10 latest. I reached the loft past midnight - I checked the clock."

Normal, Jim decides. Blair's voice is rational and utterly normal. He wonders if that is good or bad.

"I normally check the time I reach home, because Jim has this thing about flushing the toilet after 10." Quick clarification. "That's Detective James Ellison, my partner in Major Crimes. We share an apartment."

A pause, a question, and a longer pause that Jim understands. He presses his head harder against the wall, willing something, he doesn't know what, strength, support, brains, anything, while waiting for the answer he knows will come.

He hears Blair swallow and imagines the look on his friend's face as he says these words.

"She was fine when I left."

The investigating officer is kind enough to stop by Jim on her way out.

"Detective Ellison?"

He gets to his feet.

"You might want to go home. We need a statement. Might be a while."

Jim exhales. "Blair asked you to say that?"

She nods and smiles cautiously. Jim smiles back, which seems to relieve her.

"Were you the officer on the scene?"

She grimaces. "Sort of. I was coming upstairs when I heard the shot. My partner's in Emergency right now, having his ears attended to. He was two meters away when Boysen decided to blow his brains out."

Boysen would have been the fiance. Jim winces.

"Can I go in?" he asks.

She looks at the door and back at him. Shrugs.

Jim thanks her and opens the door.

Blair is sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap. He looks up at Jim, then wiggles his fingers. "Hey."

Jim shuts the door behind himself. "Hey." Takes a seat, wondering how to approach this.

Blair saves him the trouble. "I'm not in custody."

Jim nods. "I know, Chief."

"Ah," Blair drums lightly on the table, then leans back and folds his hands. "You heard. Open and shut case." He exhales and gets to his feet, pacing the five-meter strip between his chair and the door. "They need a statement anyway... could be a while."

"I'm staying."

Blair stops and smiles at him. "I know, Jim." Looks around mournfully. "Think you could spring for a cup of coffee?"

The nearest vending machine is in the corridor leading to Major Crimes. By the time Jim returns with two sodden cardboard cups, the stenographer's arrived and he's not allowed inside anymore.

He sends one cup in anyway and sits in a yellow plastic chair, trying very hard not to think.

It's almost 8 by the time Blair is done and he wants to go straight on to breakfast, insisting he's starving and they don't have time to go home before reporting in for the day.

Jim gives in of course. The most stupid, sick, senseless crime in the history of passion... the least he can do is buy Blair breakfast.

"...pancakes, if you're buying, but with fruit topping only. We're eating healthy, even if we are eating large."

Jim glances at him and notes that his color is even, his heart appears to be pumping correctly and his breathing is so regular a yoga master would be put to shame.

Blair pretends not to notice.

They stop at the elevator and Jim turns with sudden urgency. "Take a sick day, Chief. Take a personal day. Go home. Sleep."

Blair blinks and for a second something clouds his eyes, only for a second, because it's gone so fast. Then he smiles and pats Jim's shoulder. "I'm fine, Jim. Just hungry."

"Then we'll eat, but I drive you home straight after." He crosses his arms and waits for the inevitable retort, but it never comes.

Instead Blair frowns for a moment, considering before nodding his head. "You might be right at that." He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. "I am a little tired," he says, and reaches to summon the elevator.

Jim's gaze is drawn to the hand dangling at his friend's side. Eyes focus, narrowing, at the raised red bruise that wasn't there just a minute ago.

The elevator dings.

"Ride's here," says Blair, hopping in with all the nonchalance you wouldn't expect of a man who just bit his hand hard enough to draw blood.

After a moment, Jim follows.

III

Blair feels light and inconsequential, his body divorced from inner id and fear. He chats breezily with the waitress who takes their order and grins at Jim before launching into a stack of pancakes with appropriate fruit toppings.

He's getting really good at this detach with love thing.

Jim watches him silently. Blair pretends not to notice until his partner changes the rules of the game.

"I didn't know Teresa had a boyfriend."

Blair pauses in the act of flagrantly buttering a pancake. He looks at the knife for a second, up at Jim and down at the knife again.

"Neither did I," he says easily. "We weren't exactly what you'd call close." He looks at Jim's plate. "If you're not going to eat that -"

"I'm hungry, Chief." But Jim doesn't take his eyes off Blair who rolls his eyes and reaches across to put a fork in Jim's hand.

"Here. Eat -"

Jim's hand reaches out at the same time, capturing his.

Blair's eyes drop, magnetized to the sight of hand within hand.

Time stops

"Not what you'd call close?"

...and starts again with the sound of Jim's disbelief.

Carefully edging his hand out of Jim's, Blair nods. "We were just... dating. Nothing serious." No one was going to get hurt

He feels Jim's shock, feels it like a body blow and covers it like he does everything else, with a blanket of breath and a calm that covers, however thinly, the howling wilderness inside.

Blair stares at his pancake and cuts it into tiny pieces with precise movements. He puts one into his mouth, chews, then swallows.

They taste light and fluffy, the way he likes them. An undertone of burnt sugar perhaps, and he reaches out for his coffee to cover the taste.

Mistake.

As he looks up he catches Jim's eye, Jim's careful and expressionless face that is sitting there watching and recording and wondering -

"Is this what this is about, Jim?" Blair says softly. "You think I'm being callous? You think I'm indifferent to the fact that the woman I used to fuck is dead?"

Slight emphasis on fuck. Jim flinches, but shakes his head.

"Callous wouldn't explain this." And he looks straight at Blair's left hand, where grooves too shallow for any normal eye are still throbbing a pale, light red, the look and expression sending a bolt of pure excitement through and into Blair.

Busted

Blair feels his heart beat, sure and steady. He feels the blood in his pulse, the thrum of his veins and dimly, very dimly understands that he's in a state of high excitement. Euphoria. Near sexual in its clarity. The kind of wantonness that makes murderers return to the scenes of their crime, serial killers write books about their lives and one exhibitionist, slightly masochistic detective bite his hand in full view of his Sentinel partner.

Blair looks at Jim looking at his hand, wanting very, very desperately for Jim to look at him with the same intensity.

His wish is granted.

Jim reaches out and takes his hand, gently this time, rubbing his thumb near the area of maximum damage. Blair wonders if he could get away with a whimper, charge it down to pain. He doubts he could explain his erection, however, so he clamps down, dialing down, he realizes mockingly, as he's become so used to.

"Why, Chief?" Jim's thumb is touching him, lightly stroking and for a second, Blair is convinced that hypersensitivity is contagious and communicated tactilely.

Silence swirls, charged and tense with some growing emotion. Jim's eyes darken and he stops rubbing, but his hand remains on Blair's, still touching. Which gives Blair the courage to speak, very softly, but he speaks.

"Take me home, and I'll tell you, Jim."

After a pause that lasts seconds

infinity

Jim nods and lets him go.

In the truck, Blair is definitely euphoric. Light, floating, disembodied yet thoroughly grounded. He feels the seats thrumming beneath him, watches Jim's hands clench the steering wheel and absently notes streets flashing by at regular intervals.

At one of these intervals, he carefully places his hand, palm flat, on Jim's knee.

Jim swallows.

Blair watches Jim swallow, the movement of throat muscles mesmerizing in his current state.

Experimentally, he flexes his palm, then grips a little harder.

Jim sets his jaw and presses the accelerator just a little bit extra.

Entranced and strangely amused, Blair doesn't press his luck, but returns his hand to its proper place.

They make it to 852 Prospect in record time.

/bleed into the grass. Bleed into the sky. Feel the blood in your veins and the power of your heart leach into eternity. Hungry and circling, the scavengers wait for you to die. For you to heal. For a decision to be made, one way or the other/

/she-na Morrigan, the Raven Purdru wheels in the sky above you. Dance to her tune or dance not at all. Wait and watch till your soul bleeds dry. Or take it in your hands and make the leap/

/But you are paralyzed. You lie/

/you lie. You lie/

/Lie and watch the scavengers wheeling in the sky. They shall feast on your corpse or they shall feast not at all. The choice is yours. The choice is yours/

/your choice/

/but who are you?/

/call for yourself. Call yourself a name/

/name yourself. And then. Die/

Blair knows his eyes are bright in the semi-darkness. Their windows are closed, blinds and shutters down. The door is closed and they are alone, Jim and he, standing in the living room while in and about him exhilaration pounds.

Jim is watching him, waiting for his cue.

Blair knows this. He feels it. The power in the room.

His. All his.

For the first. Fucking. Time.

"She asked me to stay with her," he says softly and watches Jim sag, as though hit by a body blow. Blair shakes his head, smiling, feeling his partner's responses, knowing and predicting them as surely as he knows what will happen in a minute, an hour, after five fucking years of dancing blindly around architecture.

Jim Ellison takes orders. He loves taking orders. He finds security in them, in people in authority.

Blair is in charge here. And Jim knows it.

"She asked me to stay the night with her," he repeats and shakes his head. "But I didn't. I never do, Jim."

He watches the strings that hold Jim tighten, watches the tautness in Jim's shoulders, watches entranced as his words breathe action from silence.

"I've never stayed the night, Jim. And I always think of you."

With the same sense of fatalistic glee that led him to jump off a cliff and follow this man through a jungle, Blair pounces.

They fall.

IV

Jim overbalances as Blair jumps on him, Sandburg jumps him and they fall in a crazy tangling heap onto the floor.

Blair rises above him, breathing hard. His hands are braced on either side of Jim's head, his face is close enough to kiss - except they aren't damn it, are they? Are they going to? - and his knees are hooked on either side of Jim's legs, placing their groins in near alignment.

Something is pressing into Jim's thigh. Something... hard and he is going to shut up now and stop thinking because Blair is in charge here and Blair knows it. And all Jim can do is go along for the ride and pray he'll have place to stand when the merry-go-round stops and Blair shoves him off it.

"I think of you all the time," Blair says, his eyes fever-bright, his voice low and husky. "I thought of you when I kissed her. I thought of you kissing me. I pretended it was your hands in my hair and your tongue in my mouth and I never ever fucked her on top because then I couldn't pretend that you were fucking me."

There is something wrong, something sick and wrong about this, and when his brain comes back from the red-hot zone between his legs, Jim is going to tell Blair exactly what is wrong with this scene. But for now, he will just breathe heavily and inhale Sandburg scent, zone on the Sandburg zone and ignore the sick, dropping feeling in the pit of his stomach for the far more beautiful feel of Blair sitting on him, Blair's breath caressing him, feathering his jaw and tickling his nose.

Blair moans quietly, pressing his dick into the juncture of Jim's thigh. "Feel that," he murmurs, arching a little, bending closer so that the words aim straight for Jim's ears, "Feel that, Jim? Feel me wanting you? I want you, Jim, God help me, I want you, tell me you want it too, tell me, man, tell me -" and when Blair suddenly chucks words to demonstrate with his tongue, Jim gets with the program and arches up into the warm, wet, waiting cavern that is Sandburg's, Blair's, his Guide's mouth.

Names, what the fuck are names? Two people can become one this way, a better way than the leaping and merging of animal spirits, when spit and tastes mingle and are exchanged while Blair in his enthusiasm nips slightly at the corner of Jim's mouth and his teeth are getting sharper or something, so now Jim understands the red abrasions at the side of his Shaman's hand and something is knocking on the door of his mind, a big fat something is standing and yelling 'Hello!' but he will attend to it later because he could get used to this, used to the stubble abrading his skin, used to the breath smelling of yogurt and coffee and chopped apricots, used to the hands, used to his hands running through Blair's hair the way he's wanted to since, since forever -

And Blair moans into his mouth, moans and moves, wriggling in enthusiasm, no in, in fear - Jim groans as Blair pulls back, and raises heavy-lidded eyes, panting slightly, trying to keep up with the shift in moods.

Blair is staring at Jim, at Jim's mouth, still wet and sloppy from their kiss, and the look in his eyes, the scent in the room is of hunger, pure, undisguised hunger and Jim's not surprised that Blair is afraid. He's afraid too. He's coming-in-his-pants afraid that this is the shortest, most exquisite ride of his life and Blair will never let him back on the merry-go-round.

Then Blair reaches out with a shaking finger and traces the contours of Jim's lips.

"Aw, Jim..." and Jim opens his mouth, drawing the tip in, feeling Blair freeze, so he sucks lightly, politely, letting Blair know that he's welcome, he's more than welcome to visit, to come right in and make himself at home and he's rewarded soon enough by the sight of Blair's eyes closing, Blair's breath heaving and his free hand traveling carefully down the seam of his own jeans, gently but inexorably drawing the zipper down to - to free

Jim watches Blair, watches Blair open his eyes and watch him watching them as Blair reaches into his jeans and pulls out his cock, grown hard and definitely, most definitely real, releasing a cloud of undeniably male sweat and something heavier, maybe musk, sight and scent sharp and in combination reminding Jim, hitting him with the clear reality of who where what he is and who he's doing it with.

And Blair waits for Jim to draw back, waits for Jim to realize and buck, throwing him off, and when Jim doesn't, merely kissing the rest of Blair's palm which rests against his cheek, Blair sighs.

Blair sighs, so Jim kisses his palm again, lifting his hands to Blair's hips, not holding, not placing, just reminding Blair who he is, and hoping like hell Blair will want to remember.

And Blair lets his eyes droop shut again, palm against Jim's jaw, other hand holding, cupping his cock, feeling its weight as he says sadly, "It's not like making love to a woman, is it, Jim?"

Jim feels his heart grow loud, louder, louder than he's ever heard it, and forces his attention to the matter at hand. "No," he rasps, "no it isn't."

Blair doesn't seem to notice, removing his hand from Jim's face with a pat, using both hands now, slicking them in his mouth first before he cups his dick and makes two fists around it, base and head. "Not like... not like a woman, Jim. When was the last time...Jim? For you, huh? No, don't tell me," as if Jim would, as if Jim would dare, "don't tell me. Let me tell you. Tell you... have I told you yet, Jim?" and Blair leaves his cock alone to blind-walk his fingers up Jim's chest, undoing shirt buttons all the way to expose the flesh beneath.

Warm day. No wife-beater. Jim sucks in his breath at the feel of Blair's naked hands on his chest.

Blair breathes, panting, leaning forward, close enough, close enough to kiss. His fingers move around, getting acquainted with muscles and skin, touching, lightly running over nipples, paying special and lavish attention to the area around them, finally leaning completely down, letting his lips touch Jim and a tentative tongue flicks out to taste.

Jim groans. A name.

"Sandburg..."

"Oh man, no. Not like that at all," Blair's words are hushed, reverent, slightly muffled by his position on Jim's chest. "Not soft, hard. Hard like... like I imagined it, Jim. I always wondered... always wondered what it would be like, huh? You know? Me on you, touching you... when I touch you I don't remember Jim," he says unsurprised. "Knew I wouldn't remember anything, not after you... not after skin on skin," and Blair's cock is spongy hard between their bodies, pressed into Jim's groin, feeding him warmth and definite signals and whatever Jim Ellison is, he's no saint, thank God no, no saint... so he scrabbles between their bodies, relishing the occasional feel of Blair as he tries to unzip without causing a major casualty.

Blair sighs into Jim, eyelashes fluttering against his skin. "Oh man..." he sits up and moves slightly to allow Jim greater access, watching wistfully and intensely as Jim finally manages to release his cock, hard and getting harder, warm-soft steel in his hand, mimicking Blair's position as if to beg, 'share'.

"Oh man, look at that," and Blair begins to stroke himself carefully. "Is that what you want Jim? You want me to put my mouth there? Huh? You want my mouth on your dick?"

Jim's fingers tighten around his cock. "Blair..." he rasps.

"Or, or - or maybe you want to fuck me, Jim?" Blair hisses as his fingers move in reciprocal harmony, as if it's Jim's hand on both of them, or maybe they're really one person because how else would Blair be able to read his mind so easily. Or not... he's never thought about mechanics and ways of loving, only that Blair feels good, that Blair has always felt good, and the day their souls merged before Blair coughed water up onto him, he was thinking how it felt so good, so fucking good that he'd kill, that he'd die, if Blair wouldn't live, because death would be no price to pay to have that communion again. And now, Jim is watching Blair on top of him, fisting his cock, and breathing his name and it should be his wet dream except, except for that something in his mind, standing outside the gates and screaming for attention

and the something is Blair, Blair's voice in fear, and hunger, and needy arousal, but also fear and sadness and lust as he stares at Jim and touches himself, wetting his upper lip with his tongue. "You want me, Jim? How much more do you want from me, Jim? Life, soul, heart, man? You want to fuck me as well? You got all of me and you still want more - how much more, Jim?" He bends down and sucks Jim's bottom lip, kissing passionately for all that it's hurtful, "Why are you in me, man? Why aren't you in me, Jim? Why can't I lose you? Need you, Jim, want you in me, need you touching me - you wanna touch me, Jim? Wanna fuck me?"

"Sandburg -" Jim releases one hand to cup the beloved head against his, run greedy fingers through wisps and curls of hair, stroke and tentatively make circles like he's wanted to forever, moaning all the while, "Sandburg - Blair, damn it, ah no, Chief. God, no."

yes, his mind whispers treacherously. yes, yes, yes, yes to fucking him, yes to him fucking you, yes to fucking anything that keeps you together, so he spreads the hand against Blair's scalp, pressing Blair to his neck, closing his eyes on the feel of lips on his neck, breathing in hitches, as Blair repeats his offer - or is it punishment? And for whom?

"You wanna fuck me, Jim?"

"I want you, Blair," he forces the reply. "I want you... want you anyway." Anyway, which way, but Blair doesn't have to know that.

"I want you." He repeats inanely. "Want you." Looking for the right words, and he thinks he's found them, "Want you... to fuck me," but the last is said so softly he fears Blair mightn't have heard, isn't sure if he has the strength to say it again, but thank God, he feels Blair freeze against him, freeze, then spasm, spasm and begin thrusting, thrusting in pain, in hunger, in reciprocity as Jim bucks against him and their cocks are aligned by merciful providence. Despite being un-slicked, they're not rubbed raw by the few layers of fabric because tactile sensation and roughness are too much for Jim, who is too much for Blair and wet heat soaks wet heat as the two of them shudder against each other. Arms holding. Collapsing. As the barriers that were erected when Blair gave everything to Jim finally, painfully, necessarily are breached.

Coming. Opening. Feeling.

Gone.

Alone again.

The shakes start.

Jim presses Blair to him, encircling him tightly, shivering. Controls himself for a second, then shivers again. Feels reciprocal shakes in his partner's body and rubs his back, rubs in calm soothing circles, trying to impart a security he doesn't feel himself.

Is rewarded by Blair gently pulling up and away from him, looking down with quiet, anguished eyes and a voice that does not beg, or ask, but says as a statement of fact, "Come inside, Jim. Come with me. Now."

Jim doesn't even think. He just. Follows.

Body rock hard and steady while he's still shivering inside.

V

On his back, thinks Jim. On his back would be best. That way he can see and touch and taste Blair, remind himself that this is the man who gave him his life - twice - not that he needs the reminder, but it would be nice to be able to feel all of Blair. He can do it on his back.

"Lie down," says Blair, quietly undressing on the other side of the room, futon separating them. "Take off your clothes and lie down. On your stomach." He pauses, flicker of uncertainty. "Supposed to be easier that way."

Jim inhales, but complies. He can do it with his back facing Blair.

Might even be easier that way.

Fingers shake as he attempts to undo buttons, trying not to think of how he must look, spent cock limp and dangling from the half-open v of his pants, shirt half undone, gobs of semen and sweat everywhere.

The shirt comes off, shaking. He looks around vaguely for a place to put it, feels it taken out of his hands and tossed onto the floor, and that studied carelessness gives him the courage to look at Blair who's sitting on the edge of the bed, stark naked and - Jim sneaks a peek - getting hard, too, his hands braced on Jim's pelvis, pulling Jim closer so he can pull the zipper down completely. Quickly, impartially, then sliding the denim off Jim's hips, Jim intercepting and completing the maneuver, stepping out off and kicking them away, then waiting, foolishly as Blair leans slowly into him, pressing his face into Jim's abdomen, resting his face against the least sticky parts, tentatively inhaling.

Jim breathes. Or tries to breathe, his fists clenching spasmodically.

Blair presses a tiny kiss to Jim's navel, a miniscule kiss, a mere contact of lips, but Jim feels his heart close to breaking.

He doesn't realize that his arms are around Blair, hugging his friend - his friend, he reminds himself, not that he needs a reminder, but this is his friend - hugging his friend for support.

Another kiss and Blair frees himself, looking up with a quiet smile. "On the bed, Jim." Tiny hesitation. Softer tone, "Please?"

This being a request, Jim does as he is asked, keeping one hand on Blair's shoulder, a finger at the side of his jaw, some form of contact as he moves onto the mattress. Blair, being Blair, recognizes the need and clasps Jim's hand firmly, watching him settle, and nudging him into position.

"I'll be right back, Jim," gripping his hand for an instant before carefully releasing it.

Jim lies on his stomach, legs splayed, feeling cool air on his butt and ignoring it in favor of following Blair with his hearing.

He hears the bathroom door open, Blair rummaging inside the cabinet, a soft gulp that might be laughter, might be stifled nausea and soon, the soft cacophony of flesh slapping against floor and cock against thigh that is Blair returning.

He closes his eyes and waits for Blair, feels the shift in texture that indicates Blair has entered the room, opening one eye in surprise, twisting his neck to check when Blair doesn't come back immediately.

Blair is rooting through a heap of discarded clothing, his assets displayed prominently - Jim swallows, throat dry - as he bends down and comes up again, clutching a small box in his hand.

Jim swallows again, recognizing. Condoms.

Reality bites at regular intervals and when it does, it bites hard.

He nestles his head more comfortably against the mattress, feeling the air swirl warmer as Blair approaches the bed, suppresses a groan of amazed delight as Blair runs a hand tenderly through his hair, but oofs in astonishment as Blair swings himself onto the mattress, astride his hips.

Flesh on flesh, and the intimacy of the contact is enough to set his pulse leaping, the strangeness sufficient to restrain arousal.

He could get used to this, Jim decides. Definitely. Used.

"I'm going to open you, Jim," Blair says quietly, and he nods in reply, hearing something being unscrewed and feeling ridiculously glad for the covering of Blair's body on top of him.

A new scent in the air, and a hand between his legs, Blair asking him to

"Open,"

so he does, despite the fist clenching his heart and the shakes he's trying desperately not to let out.

Finger at his hole and this is too much, he doesn't know whether to dial up or dial down; up for preference, but then he tightens, so down then, forcing himself to relax.

"Just relax, Jim," Blair, sounding uncertainly certain, palm caressing the cheeks of Jim's ass, "relax, and uh, let me..."

Jim nods and does. This time the intrusion is easier and he lets himself adjust, realizing with a sudden shock of amusement that his is a Sentinel body, which means hyperactivity everywhere, and perhaps, if he's lucky enough, he's going to find out why thirty percent of Cascade's males enjoy being gay -

Gay

The word renews his shivers, so he concentrates instead on Blair, on the soft whoosh of breath entering and leaving Blair's lungs, on the still pungent scent of their mingled semen, the little shifts as Blair moves atop his legs, leaning this way and that for easy access. And suddenly, it isn't as hard, this finger inside him, this part of Blair - Blair - connecting them, and the thought that Blair wants him, obviously wants to be with him, has thought of Jim while - he can't follow the thought to the logical conclusion, preferring instead to concentrate on the amazing fact that Blair has wanted him, has wanted him for a long time and finally, now, they're here, together

With two fingers and more, stretching and preparing him and as Blair shifts in a certain way, Jim feels a stab that runs through his body like lightning, tightening his balls and making him squeeze.

"Do that again," he breathes and is that his voice sounding so breathless? So needy? Just on the off chance it isn't, he repeats the request, startled to recognize himself, shades of Jim Ellison that he never knew existed.

But Blair is grinning, pressing kisses up and down the column of Jim's spine as he complies, and from then on it's easier, it takes the rhythm of poetry again, of something rare and wonderful, and maybe even beautiful and it helps that Blair has found his voice, that Blair is speaking to him in the tone of husky need that he recognizes now as Blair's 'Guide' tone in a different context.

Make that the right context, because this is the voice, this is the rhythm that he wants to hear for the rest of his life, and as he relaxes into the tone, the flow of the words, he smiles, feeling and hearing his need echoed.

A startlingly different pressure, and Jim freezes.

"Shit," Blair pants. Jim groans and tries to relax.

"Sorry," he mutters, and Blair pats him distractedly.

"No, no, shit, let me think - yea, yea, push down, bear down, Jim, but don't you dial down, I don't want to hurt you, I want you to tell me if I hurt you, but first you got to, got to push, man, yea, like that, only a bit more, almost there,"

"I have had some experience, Sandburg," Jim growls, and in retaliation hears a pop, feels the give and push as Blair slides in, almost halfway, angry and hard inside him, the pain a fiery necessity anchoring him to reality.

"Oh no you haven't, Ellison," Blair snarls, hands moving higher up Jim's back, pressing and contorting the muscles, yet oddly gentle at the occasional scar. "You've never done anything like this before. You've never felt anything like this. Understand?" and Jim nods, muffles yes, because who the hell would do this, let alone want it, this burning in their ass, the slow leak of tortured tissue, the fill and slide of blood against skin

But it's his blood and Blair's skin, and when Blair presses in with renewed gentleness, Jim gives, hell, he arches back and takes him in as much as possible, ignoring the feel of rough cotton against his cock, ignoring the fact that his erection has died and may soon be rubbed halfway to hell, ignoring everything but the feel and knowledge that this is happening, that this is it and after this

After this, Blair will never, never leave him.

Never. Ever.

Ever. Please.

Like that, Jim arches, not sure if it's the adrenaline, the pulse of Blair inside him or the sheer giddiness of the thought that Blair is with him. But too soon for his slightly reviving cock, he feels Blair thrust, anticipates the slight tenseness and relaxes his heart, relaxes his mind, relaxes everything, waiting for Blair to finish with him.

Blair doesn't. Instead he lies on top of Jim, covering every square inch possible, hands roaming down Jim's side, chest hair slightly scratchy and lips sucking lightly, words occasionally coming clear from the press of skin on skin.

"...in you... beautiful...oh Jim, man, you're so goddamn beautiful... feel that? Feel you around me, feeling you, I hear you..."

Jim angles his head and Blair is there, waiting to capture his mouth in a kiss, giving, pouring an overload of sensation; moisture, heat, the taste of fruit and hint of coffee, Jim's own salt and - word he never thought to use for a man - pretty, pretty need, and filters go to hell as Jim basks in the stimulus, feels his temperature rise and his nerves begin to function again, feels his heart expand and his chest contract with what, he is certain as he has never before been certain, is love and lust and a combination of needs.

And Blair kisses him back, lifting his hips slightly, bracing his knees against the mattress to gain purchase before thrusting in again.

Again.

Jim moans, and is swallowed by the kiss.

They kiss again, and again, once more, before the urgency of motion and the necessity of their bodies separates them, Blair pressing his face into Jim's back, kissing the indentations in the shoulders, fingers gripping tightly, spurring him on to completion - and at the instant of his orgasm, Jim feels, Jim hears Blair raise his fist to his mouth and bite down greedily, and wonders if this is how Blair will remember this moment, if this is his way of concentrating reality, with pain and need and friction and blood reminding him who he is with, who he is in, and for a brief moment Jim hopes Blair will want to remember this, before the orgasm from hell overtakes him, overtakes them both, but its Jim who rubs his cock raw in the process.

But who the hell cares, right?

This is right. Or had better be.

He feels Blair's breath on his shoulder, on his arms, on his neck, feels the rise and fall of Blair's chest conveyed through skin, feels and mourns the softening cock inside him but rejoices in the beginning.

It has to be a beginning.

Right?

Right.

Blair slips free.

The clock on the bedside table reads 10.42 a.m.

VI

Blair withdraws carefully, knots the condom and reaches out to drop it in the basket near the bed.

He glances at the clock. 10.43. There are things he should do, he should get up, call Simon, get a washcloth, hold Jim.

He's not ready for anything yet but holding Jim; kissing and running his hands over his back, his shoulders, learning the contours and textures he's been dreaming of so long.

Jim groans and turns carefully, gathering Blair to him, aligning their torsos, fitting Blair's head into the crook of his neck.

"Hold me, man," Blair whispers into the other man's skin, feeling himself relax, eyes closing as Jim grabs him securely, keeping him safe from his dreams.

"You don't ask for much, do you Chief?" Jim whispers, gently stroking Blair's back.

Blair dreams.

/call this a waking dream. Feel the torn fur and the gaping wounds, cast down your eyes from the petrified sky and realize who and what you are/

/you are wounded. You are prey. You finally see/

/ you thought it would be easy. You thought they'd leave/

/try not to look at the sky/

/ you should have stayed the night/

FUCK

Blair bolts upright, his hand heavier on its way to his mouth, accompanied and covered by Jim's larger palm.

Jim holds fast.

"You promised you'd tell me," he says then stops, body vibrating with reciprocal tension.

"Blair?"

Blair breathes, trying to calm himself, refusing to register the presence of flesh against his, the words spoken softly at first then with greater urgency to penetrate the blankness he surrounds himself with. But there's a limit to dialing down, so he wrenches himself from the bed, stumbles to the bathroom and locks the door behind so he can breathe in comfort.

He breathes over the sink, not vomiting even though his throat is dry. Breathes, inhale-exhale, promising himself that nothing has changed, he still is and always was the man who keeps on breathing.

When he finally calms enough to stand shivering and splashing water on his face, it occurs to him mildly that this kind of behavior after sex with Jim might just send the wrong signals.

Sex with Jim, he had sex with Jim, they've had sex, they've done the thing, had sex with Jim...

Certifiable, he's certifiably cuckoo... he just had sex with Jim, what kind of an idiot

Blair shivers, trying to breathe, to calm his mind, thinking of ragged fur and bleeding places that an animal needs to hide from scavengers.

He turns the shower on.

The water is freezing, but Blair was shivering even before he entered the shower.

He stands, hands braced on either wall, head down and eyes closed, letting the water beat on him.

One hand makes the rapid journey upwards, his mouth opening hungrily to press on skin. He tastes his own salt on the reddening ridges where his teeth scored, and the pain makes him stop short of biting, viciously turning off the shower instead.

Fuck

It used to be that he controlled himself through the release that blunt teeth provided, all his pain and fearful agony leaking out in carefully timed doses through the rake of bone against skin. But now...

Now Blair wraps a towel around himself, conscious of the droplets beading on his skin, of the water trickling through the hairs on his chest, catching, dropping, conscious above all that he is going to leave the bathroom and walk across to his bedroom wrapped in nothing but a towel.

He's hoping, as he does this, that Jim's not going to be waiting for him, wanting at the same time for Jim to be there, wanting even more not to need him.

So let's play the game let's pretend.

Let's pretend this never happened.

Only for a little while till he can provide damage control.

It's half-past noon when Blair finally emerges from his room, fully dressed and decent. The kitchen is warm with the scent of steam. The kettle is boiling, his mug ready near it, a sachet of lemon tea already inside.

A shadow falls on him. He looks up and sees Jim descending, fumbling with his watch, fully dressed and ready to go.

Fully dressed. Shit.

Blair stops and stares.

Jim looks at him, slowing his descent.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey." Blair cranes his neck, unobtrusively trying to figure out if that dark shadow under Jim's ear is a hickey.

Jim pulls up his collar.

Damn

"Simon called while you were dressing. I told him you were taking a personal day, but you'd call later." His voice is neutral and Blair nods, thinking, when the hell did you find time to shower?

A flash, maybe a grin and Blair realizes he said that aloud. "While you were dressing, and before Simon called," Jim answers. His face untangles, almost, features relaxing. "I could take the day off," he says, not completing the sentence, painfully not trying to put any pressure on Blair.

It almost succeeds.

"No," Blair raises his hand nonchalantly, as if he can't practically see the currents flowing between them, "no, man, you go ahead. I'll just hang around here and, and get my act together if you know what I mean."

He has a sinking feeling that Jim knows exactly what he means, so makes shooing motions with his hands. "I'll be fine. Go. I'll call Simon."

Jim doesn't wait too long before nodding and moving towards the door. "Eat something, Chief. And...and don't worry about dinner, okay? We'll, I mean, I can order in or something... just rest, okay."

He fumbles for his keys, nearly overturning the contents of the basket before snagging the correct bunch. He stares at them for a while before managing to put them in his shirt pocket, then takes them out again, hooking them through his index finger as he looks over his shoulder and smiles sheepishly at Blair.

Blair can't help it. He smiles back.

Jim grins, a huge, beaming Ellison-baring of teeth, saying "I'll see you when I get back."

Shit

Three seconds are too long. Blair averts his eyes after two.

Jim clears his throat, and exhales.

"I'll be here, Jim," Blair says without looking at him.

The door opens. Shuts.

Blair closes his eyes, trying to remember to breathe.

Let's play nothing happened. Let's pretend it can go back to the way it used to, safe and controlled, the release of pain and the limits of love.

Bullshit.

Beneath the surface his gut clenches, remembering Jim under him, his body as beautiful and needy and yearning as Blair has always imagined it to be. Dreams become flesh...and that, that is just too disturbing to think about, so what Blair really needs, as he leans his head against the cool wall of the living room, is the strength to rear his head back and bring it down hard, maybe cracking his skull open in the process so all of it can bleed out and he won't have to deal with the roiling in his brains because they'll be scrambled anyway.

Whoa. Catharsis already.

Blair smiles grimly, sucking the flesh of his left hand, preparing himself to the point of inflicting pain. He opens his mouth to bite, but even before he can, the memories hit, the fucking pointlessness of doing this now and maybe banging his head against the wall is a good idea because it'll feel so good when he stops.

If he stops...

No one was going to get hurt

Feelings hit, swamping, overwhelming; he clenches his hands and shudders, whimpers forced through his teeth, as finally, after four years of studying it, finally he understands over-sensitivity.

See, this is why he hasn't wanted to feel.

Smell, touch, taste, sound, sound, especially, sound, all the sounds, the sound of Jim's voice breathing his name and begging for more, touch, Jim's touch - and he has to force the rest of it back before he drowns. But he remembers in aching, vivid clarity the press of muscles against his dick, the contorting agony of Jim's beautiful face, the taste of his sweat and the smell of his need and knows for certain that this is it, that any self-control he might have ever had left the building the minute Jim said his name and asked him inside.

Grief

Blair presses his hand to clenched teeth, feeling the coolness of enamel, avoiding the sore part; remembering another kiss on the same surface. Wonders if there is anything precious in the world that he hasn't held briefly before fucking it up completely. Dissertation, home, the love of a friend, family... nope, he runs through the checklist, no surprises here.

Too many thoughts, all too sudden too soon and he can't dial it down, he can't breathe. He needs to walk.

He needs to leave except he promised and what will happen to Jim if he goes?

shit

Blair starts walking, trying not to think. He makes it out the door, down the stairs and all the way to the ground floor before realizing he's left his wallet and keys upstairs.

What the hell, he's only going for a little walk. He might even be back. Soon.

Walking is a pleasure Blair will never take for granted. It's - it used to be a matter of quiet pride to him that he could walk down Prospect and turn the corner to the Avenue without people recognizing him as anything other than Blair Sandburg, that nice detective who lives in the neighborhood and does his part to keep their worlds safe. Not so long ago he cut his hair, wore dark glasses and stopped shopping at the Iranian bakery because people either asked too many questions or didn't ask any.

Blair keeps walking, letting rhythm and breath substitute for thought.

Anonymity is his new stock in trade. It works. It's worth it. Safer this way, not to think, not to feel, worse yet, make others feel for him, because it's safer just to keep breathing and keep living, taking one day at a time. Detach with love, or better yet, detach love. Naomi would be proud of him, or something like that.

Subconscious, thy name is bullshit.

Blair keeps walking, veering south so he can cut across 45th and take the longer route home.

Chicken-shit

His strides grow longer, quicker and heavier.

He runs.

VII

Lunch tastes like ashes in Jim's mouth. Literally, not metaphorically; he can sense each burnt carboxyl group and water molecule straining to let go.

He's given up wondering about limits to what he can sense. According to Blair there are only a few pertinent ones; he cannot and should not attempt molecular analyses since the corresponding electromagnetic spectrum could burn his retinas and mutate his cells.

/"Big, ugly ulcers Jim. Think cancer; play safe - and what was that again about the differences between carboxyl and water? You can taste the difference? What, is one bigger? You feel the extra atom? Oh man,"/

And for a second Blair had looked torn between scientific zeal and protectiveness. But Guide Blair won over Scientist Blair and he'd made Jim promise that except in case of emergencies he'd never go beyond microcosm without professional - read Blair - help.

That was fourteen months ago, when Blair was still selecting chapters for his dissertation and worrying about whether Jim would come in, just for corroboration, Jim, and its been that long since they were friends enough to trade housework for promises they both knew would be kept, regardless.

It's not that Blair hasn't recently come up with new and improved variations on how Jim can use his senses, but they've all been case-related and for the duration only. No more, hey Jim, I have a barometer, whaddya say we go up to the mountains and check your pressure sensitivity gauge. C'mon man, it'll be fun, really and oh, by the way, Simon said we could use his cabin so I borrowed a seismometer and we can do a little earthquake measurement too.

It's a shock to realize that Blair used to have fun with Jim's senses and he's not certain when present turned to past tense. So he ignores lunch in favor of replaying the best of Blair 1996 to present, and that leads to his favorite memories, namely the taste of Blair and the way he smells, or the hitch in his voice when he says 'Jim' while making love.

Making. Love.

Lunch is not the only thing tasting funny in Jim's mouth.

How should he describe it anyway? Jim and Blair have had sex. Fucked. Done the horizontal mambo.

Made love?

/"Is this what this is about, Jim? You think I'm being callous? You think I'm indifferent to the fact that the woman I used to fuck is dead?"

"Callous wouldn't explain this."/

Wouldn't it?

/"I think of you all the time. I thought of you when I kissed her. I thought of you kissing me. I pretended it was your hands in my hair and your tongue in my mouth and I never ever fucked her on top because then I couldn't pretend that you were fucking me."/

His cock still aches. Cotton is a bad idea and if they're ever going to repeat this morning's performance he will insist on satin sheets. Or silk. Or maybe just on lying on his back so he can see Blair's face as he drives into Jim, see and taste the hunger that still resonates in his own hands and makes his knees tremble.

See Blair's face...

/You've never done anything like this before. You've never felt anything like this. Understand?/

Jim looks down and folds his hands on the table. He has got to get over shaking.

"Jim? Are you ok?" Simon leans over his desk, brow furrowed.

"Hundred percent, sir," blinking and wondering how exactly he made it back from the cafeteria. He has a vague recollection of walking, but was that him?

"Uh-huh. You look," Simon gestures vaguely. "Peaky."

"Peaky." Now there's a word. Peaky.

Why are his hands shaking so much?

Simon is saying something about MOs and Jim forces himself to pay attention.

"...know this is hard for you, but I think you should go take a look. Jim? Are you listening to me?"

"Simon?"

His Captain looks uncertain. "You're not up to this, are you?"

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine," resisting the urge to sit on his shaking hands, folding them instead. Then, "Did you say Maple East?"

Simon nods. "We might be collaborating with Homicide on this one, looks like the MO doesn't exactly fit the standard profile. Are you up to it?"

Jim nods. "Absolutely."

Call it perverse curiosity, but at 3 pm Jim is nodding to the uniform on guard at 72 Maple East and replacing the yellow 'Police, do not cross' barrier behind him.

The room is freezing.

Jim shivers, restraining himself, trying not to get personal. But it's already too late; he's defined this and is here because this is Teresa's bedroom, the boudoir of the other person. The other, very dead woman, he reminds himself, just in time to be hit by the sweet nauseating stench of quickly rotting flesh.

Jesus

He wrinkles his nose, trying to ignore the persistence of blood and overtone of tissue that clings to every available surface, including the bed, which has been stripped of its sheets. Probably to cart the corpse, then mentally kicks himself for being insensitive.

/She asked me to stay the night with her, but I didn't. I never do, Jim/

Blair hadn't stayed. He came home. He always came home, and Jim waited for him.

Blair hadn't stayed. What if he had?

Breathe, Jim.

And he does, remembering he has a job to do, firming his control and looking about the room.

A gunshot did this? But everywhere he looks is a thin film of humanity, thin scrapings of blood, tissue and splattered brains. Miscellaneous cells cover the wall as though flung there by an arbitrary hand, and everywhere the pervasive stench of carrion. No wonder Homicide is a little worried.

Decomposing flesh... could it really stink this bad in less than 24 hours? Or is he just hypersensitive because of this particular case?

Jim blinks, trying to control the onslaught, replacing the stench with traces of Blair smell still captured in his olfactory receptors, but it doesn't work since there is a faint but definite trace of eau de Sandburg in this room and it combines sickeningly with copper, steel, and sulfur.

So he takes the other route of letting smell and sight overload so he can use the other senses to time travel, Sentinel style. Eyes and nose and ears draw back, all conscious senses in stasis so the brain can lose focus and instinct take over.

Jim breathes, careful and controlled, reminding himself that he didn't eat lunch so there's nothing to hurl, battling queasiness and an approaching headache as a blanket of sensory deprivation falls over the room.

Success. Yea.

Colors turn to monochrome and the room itself withdraws, all inanimate objects retreating, losing focus as thin filaments and spider webs of differing intensity emerge, criss-crossing at hot spots.

This is not exactly a Guide-approved protocol; in fact he's never tried this before. But when Blair made Jim promise never to go deeper than the limits of a normal microscope, he also rhapsodized about Jim being able to use his senses to detect changes in infrared.

/... sort of time-lapse photography in reverse, Jim! Time travel, man, theoretically, and mind you this is only a hypothesis and I don't want you trying anything like this on your own, because like I said this sort of stuff is dangerous, but since all living organisms have heat signatures, if you could tell differences in the temperature of air layers and co-relate it to elapsed time, which we've seen you can do under guided hypnosis, even if that was for an event you'd actually participated in, I imagine you'd be able to -/

"Breathe, Sandburg," Jim says, not realizing it was aloud until the room begins reverting to normal, and colors reappear in his vision.

Jim shakes his head, takes a couple of deep breaths and tries again.

/... starbursts of silver, though color has no meaning here. Conglomeration, a crazy jumbled tangle of lines, bullets in glass, no an explosion, too much, too many, the shot, forget that, move further behind/

/too far, too cold, can't see, maybe they're moving and yes, now yes the shapes resolve into human and indescribably vague, zoom in/

/zoom in, lose clarity, but try, try anyway and it helps now to reach out with smell, anchor slightly, ignore the nausea to look at the man/

/familiar scent and unfamiliar, ignore the woman, don't look at her, don't think of the hands on her or the mouth/

/fuck this. Zoom out/

/no wait, what's this, just look, look at the man on the bed, look at him moving. Look at his head thrown back, his hand, his hand clenched and moving to block his mouth, his mouth that's whispering, saying one word, saying -/

/and there in the corner a flicker of movement, a motion, almost indecipherable, replay, replay even as the flickering ley lines flutter and die, their miniscule lives ending the game before/

He zooms forward.

/star-burst/

/FUCK/

Text version of part two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=1_2000_firsts/mirrorbalance_a.html