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After the dissertation fiasco, Jim pulled back. Stopped touching Blair. Retreated to wary and sorrowful.
It was desperation that made Blair crack one night, made him rebel against the stupid movie on television, against the three feet of chilly space between Jim and him. It was a feeling that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, left to lose. Blair turned, slid into Jim's lap, facing him, thighs wantonly across thighs. Grabbed the remote and tossed it. It came apart on impact, batteries flying, plastic skittering. Jim's hearing tracked the little metal cylinders, one rolling up against the baseboard under the stairs, one running out of momentum somewhere in the kitchen. Attention divided, clutching his denial, he also heard, loud, the slide of denim on denim and the quick intake of Blair's sweet breath.
Blair said, "You know, a "make it up to me with mad passionate sex thing" would actually work." Blair's scent tagged him afraid, though his eyes, his aggressive weight, wouldn't show it.
"It would?" Hands hovered, then came to rest on Blair's hipbones, clutched.
"Uh huh."
"Why didn't you say so." Hands, warm and damp, grabbed Blair's face, gently covering cheekbones. Lips kissed.
***
The photo card was clipped in a miniature metal evergreen, made for just this purpose and planted on a corner of Rhonda's desk. The card tree stood in a crowd of African American angels, the overflow of the collection from Simon's bookcase and desk.
In the photo, Sandburg's hair wasn't visible. Only one blue eye, an earring, and a curve of chin, which appeared to rest atop the brown curls of his son. His wife's face was behind the red and blue Happy Holidays card from the mayor's office. The Chanukah greeting at the other end of the Sandburgs' card was obscured by the embossed gold foil surface of a card from the FBI Agent in Charge, Cascade Division.
Simon paused beside Jim. "I heard he got tenure. Landed on his feet after all." The captain shook his head, most of his attention elsewhere.
"Yeah, he was sure happier without the badge," Jim reminded himself, assuming he was speaking to Simon, though Simon had walked on. Jim cleared his throat. Too much cinnamon in the hot punch he'd gotten from the doughnut cart.
The bullpen's fluorescent light bounced against the glossy surface of the photo, creating streaks of glare, like sunbeams on a trout stream. Like the rayed sparkles of a star, light years away, out of reach, promising nothing, announcing nothing.
***
Three bounces of the heavy ball on the gymnasium floor. Pause, and the ball rests in the long, slender hands, stronger than they look, careful pale polish on the short nails. Blue eyes track from the basketball up to the net. The hands push. Swoosh.
The ball hits the floor again with a flat-sounding smack, and Jamie Ellison only has to take two steps to capture it, easily, without hurry. She swipes up the ball, then paces back to the free-throw line.
Three bounces. Pause. Push. Swoosh.
Her roommate watches from the door to the locker room. The gym is bright and warm, empty except for the solitary tall figure. Four o'clock sharp was practice time, all season, right here, for the women's varsity team of Rainier University. The playoffs are over; the season -- their last -- is done. But Blair knows that after four years of this, Jamie is a creature of habit. Blair runs her hand through frost-tipped brown curls, unconscious nervous gesture, and walks down court, her sneakers silent on the hardwood. Jamie keeps drilling free throws.
"Hey," Blair says.
"Hey," Jamie says, not turning, and the net swishes. Jamie watches the ball bounce once, twice. She turns to her friend and puts a hand on her own hip. They are both wearing the clingy navy sweatsuits with white pinstripes that are standard issue for their team.
Blair says, "Mom finally called me back. She's sending me a ticket after all, so I guess it's Tulum for spring break."
"That's great."
Blair notices the ball's fetched up against the padded post that supports the net. She steps over, hoists it one- handed and tosses it to Jamie, who catches it without taking her eyes from Blair. Jamie bounces the ball firmly once and holds it, looks up at the net, looks at her teammate again.
She says, "I'm hating the thought of going home Friday. Stephen ratted to dad that I applied to the Academy in Colorado Springs, and now he has one more thing to go ballistic about."
Blair smiles. "Well," she says, letting her backpack slide off her shoulder and digging until she finds the letter, the reason she's come over here. She holds it out. "You might be heading for Colorado whether he goes ballistic or not."
"What," Jamie says, but she lets her basketball drop, and takes the envelope. Blair is still smiling. It's to Jamie Ellison, at their Rainier dorm, and the embossed return address is the shiny multicolored logo of the WNBA. Jamie's eyes widen, meet Blair's, and then fill.
"Come on," Blair says, slinging an arm around her roommate's waist. "Let's get off campus, get a glass of wine, somewhere we can talk about it."
***
Jim stood two paces behind Blair's right shoulder, arms folded, the bulky ear protection heavy against his skull, all sound folded in on itself. He had to remind himself not to strain for the brushing, shushing sounds of Blair's clothing, for his heartbeat, for the huff of his breath. Blair was ready. He squared his shoulders and exhaled -- Jim could see it in his back -- and pulled the trigger, slowly, thirteen times. Then he popped the clip, set it and the gun next to the box of bullets on the wall in front of him, and started reloading.
"Remember to squeeze," Jim said in a normal tone, though his instinct was to whisper. Blair was wearing ear protection, too. "You're jerking the trigger a little." Blair nodded, his eyes on his work. The shooting range was quiet around them. Jim could feel the space, the moving air, the traces of dust. Comforting smells of paper shavings, oil and dead gunpowder.
Jim kept standing there, not moving, as Blair pushed the clip back in the nine millimeter and thumbed on the safety. He set the gun aside and opened the gate, walked down the range and pinned up a new target. His next round was better. And the next better yet. Once, Jim adjusted the way Blair was using his left hand to support his right, and between the fourth and the fifth rounds they discussed aiming technique, and lead and trailing eyes.
When they were done, Jim felt pleasantly satisfied. It was after hours, there was no one to watch, it went well. But Blair was quieter than Jim though he should be, though the seriousness of the task might have been enough explanation for that.
They walked out to the truck in the cold and dark. Jim reminisced about instructors at the academy, about which of them he remembered were still there and if Blair would like them, but he trailed off for lack of feedback. Blair was just silent. Jim listened for his heartbeat, starting to worry. It was fast, quite fast. Blair stopped on his own side of the truck and leaned toward Jim, putting his palm on the hood. Jim stopped, too, his hand halfway to the lock, keys dangling. Blair wouldn't look at him.
"Jim, ah, I don't really know how to say this... I don't think I'm gonna be able to go through with this."
Jim looked at Blair's hand across the expanse of the truck's hood until it was pulled out of his field of vision. He heard the truck door open and close as Blair got into his seat, what Jim had come to think of as his seat.
Jim noted the clench and release of his jaw muscles, reflex. It was old and familiar, this feeling, this seeping watery dread. So, yeah. This was what it felt like: Certain knowledge of the end.
***
"Here," Jim said quietly, sitting down beside Sandburg's stockinged feet on the sofa and holding out a new bottle of water. Sandburg hoisted himself to sitting, and took it, drank slowly. Jim watched his Adam's apple move. "Woozy?"
"No, no, it's worn off completely now." Jim accepted the bottle, now about half empty. Sandburg carefully lowered his legs to the floor and rolled his head, testing. Jim, without thinking, put a hand on Sandburg's thigh. Jim could see the purple bruise just under Sandburg's jawbone, one of many marks Lash had left on him earlier that night. Only hours ago. It felt like years. Sandburg sighed and leaned against Jim.
"You want some more advil?"
"No, no, I'm good."
They sat there, just resting. Sandburg had dozed on the sofa for a while after they got back from the hospital. His sleep there had been poor, yet he had refused to go to bed. Sandburg had been treated in the ER and pronounced in no danger from Lash's sedative, so Simon had sent them home, and Jim was grateful. Very very grateful. While his partner had dozed, Jim, alert, restless, had cleaned up the worst of the mess.
They sat there until Jim found that Sandburg's shoulder against his, the tickle of his hair against Jim's cheek, the warmth of denim under his palm, were not quite enough. A kind of yearning grew in him until he gave into it and moved. He shifted so as to put both his arms around his friend. He leaned back, pulling Sandburg with him, until his back was settled against the cushions, Sandburg firmly hugged against his chest. Sandburg went with it willingly, sprawling across him. Jim felt Sandburg's arm ease around his waist, felt his head snuggle and settle until Sandburg's breath was warm on his neck and his lips were resting against skin.
Tonight was not for pushing, not for demands. But Jim knew with sudden clarity what he wanted. What he would do. He sat there, content, cradling the other man's weight in his arms, feeling him alive. Confusion of any kind sucked. Having a purpose, knowing what he wanted, was better.
He could tell when Sandburg fell asleep, and he bent and kissed the tip of his ear.
"You did everything right," he had said earlier, and Sandburg had. But, when you got right down to it, Sandburg pretty much always did everything right. Jim had hated to admit it, but he could see that he was going to have a lot more to say to Sandburg on that subject.
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