From Martha: My thanks to Kitty, who tolerated this eight-month distraction in my fannish life and asked annoying questions about every facet of this story every step of the way; to D. who asked unanswerable questions, and for believing in this world so much; to Jean for her enthusiasm and careful beta, because greater love hath no fan; and especially to Lemon Drop. She will probably deny it, but she made the story possible. She solved problems that have haunted me ever since TSbyBS aired and finally allowed me to believe in a happily ever after. Thank you, LD.
***
From Lemon Drop: Special thanks are due to so many people. G., of course, first and foremost and always. R., who read it during a dark time, for which I am deeply grateful. Martha's friends Kitty and D. and Jean: thank you! And darling mab, congratulations! A world of happiness to you. And to my husband, Craig, for reasons too numerous to list. All my love, sweetheart.
And of course, Martha. What can I say. She's a miracle.

Martha's website: http://www.skeeter63.org/soulcake/
Lemon Drop's website: http://www.slashcity.org/~quercus/

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." Anatole France

Distant Journey, Unknown Lands

The man in front was holding the gun, but he didn't look like he really needed it. He filled the doorway with his presence and size, naked to the waist, heavy pectorals pressed together by his upper arms as he clasped the gun in both hands. The photograph was grainy black-and-white captured from videotape, cheaply printed on gray newsprint which did nothing to improve the quality of the picture. All subtlety of expression was lost, so it was impossible to tell what the smaller man, the one with the long, uncombed hair, shielded in the doorway by the muscular bulk of his companion, was really thinking. He might have been terrified, but it was just as likely that he wasn't quite awake yet. Both of them looked as though they had just tumbled out of bed.

"You see, Jim?" Blair muttered to himself in grim triumph. "You see? This is why there is absolutely no point in making a list." He dug through his pockets one last time, then pulled out his wallet and rifled through the contents of the long bill sleeve. Sure enough, his grocery list wasn't there either. All he found were six one-dollar bills and a five, a movie ticket stub, and the receipt from his last ATM deposit. He had to give Rainier credit for that, he reflected glumly, glancing at the balance and tucking it back into his wallet. At least the bursar's office had issued his last stipend check, even if even if they had prorated it from the date of his dismissal.

He turned the ticket stub over, trying to remember the last movie he'd seen. It was a generic red coupon like the revival house down on East Main used, so that meant it must have been The Seven Samurai. Yeah, that's right. He had gone with Jim. Come to think of it, the movie had been Jim's idea in the first place. He'd grumbled that Blair had been working too hard -- spending too much time hunched over in front of his computer. He needed to get out and live a little.

So they had gone to the movie a few nights before Naomi's visit, just before he'd finished the dissertation.

The last night he had seen Jim truly happy.

Blair crumpled the stub up into a little red ball and stuffed it deep into his jeans pocket, but the immediate problem remained. He leaned heavily on the handle of the shopping cart, and moved at a snail's pace down the aisle. Jim had insisted he write out a grocery list if he was going to the store, claiming they hadn't had mayonnaise or plain white sugar -- not that brown grainy stuff that wouldn't dissolve in a cup of coffee -- in the loft in months. Fine, so he'd made a list, but now that he was at the store he couldn't find it, and since he'd written everything down instead of just composing a mental list, he couldn't remember anything on it.

That was the whole problem with written language. It made people lazy, forgetful and careless. Made bureaucracy not only possible, but necessary, along with all its attendant woes. Slavery, taxation, standing armies, concentration camps, fast food, email, and graduate school. When you thought about it, mankind would probably be better off today if nobody had ever painted that first bison on the cave wall.

Blair Sandburg certainly would have been, anyway.

Look, I didn't do this.

Right. You didn't write the book and you didn't put my name all over it.

Blair closed his eyes and lowered his head, his knuckles whitening around the handle of the shopping cart. He couldn't figure out why it still felt like this. Like he had just stepped off a cliff. No, worse than that. He'd actually walked off a cliff before, and as terrified as he had been, Jim had been right there at his side, plummeting beside him. This was a free fall into darkness, and he was all alone.

He stood up straight, opening his eyes fast, blinking against incipient tears. He was not alone. James Ellison was at home waiting for his Miracle Whip and refined white sugar and whatever else had been on that list. And maybe Jim always seemed a little sad and distant these days, but that was only because they had been through so much recently. His leg was hurting him, and he wasn't resting like he should, hobbling around on that cane and daring anyone to say a word to him about it, and as if things weren't bad enough, a few TV people were still hanging on. Even no story was a story, apparently. Or maybe they were just waiting for him or Blair to break and deck a cameraman. It might still happen at that.

So, that damned grocery list. It was a pretty good bet that miso and mango-flavored kefir weren't on it, but he reached out and grabbed a carton of each anyway as he wheeled determinedly past the refrigerated section. Jim was going to be all right. They both were. The next class at the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission started in six weeks, and Blair would be there. His calf muscles ached from his new ten mile a day regimen, and he could already tell the difference in his forearms and shoulders from the sessions at the gym. He had complained to Jim the way he was bulking up he could hardly manage the lotus position anymore, and Jim had smiled. Almost a real smile.

Sour cream. Definitely sour cream had been on the list, or should have been if it wasn't. Hadn't Jim been grumbling about not having any for his baked potato the other night? For Jim, then, sour cream. He picked up a full pint of the real stuff, since the last time he had come home with fat-free it had sat in fridge until it started to grow mold. Tossing it in the cart, he cut a sharp corner around the next aisle and nearly ran into a tall guy carrying a basket with nothing in it but ramen noodles and a box of Frosted Flakes.

"Whoa, excuse me." Blair pulled up short, and his old friend Rick Feldman lifted his head and looked at him.

"Rick," Blair said. "Hey."

Rick had always reminded Blair of a glass of skim milk anyway, pale and tall with white-blond hair and a guileless, sensitive face. He looked even paler under the glare of the florescent supermarket lights, and he was staring at Blair now as though he'd seen a ghost. It was a reaction Blair was getting so used to that his own response was automatic, even though he hated it even more than the way his own colleagues and classmates had been treating him. His bright, false smile, the patter of equally false conversation. He hated it, hated it. Maybe Jim could give him some tips on doing that strong, silent thing. Blair was obviously no good at it.

"So you doing okay?" he heard himself ask Rick. "You were gonna take your comps before summer term, weren't you? Or you did you decide to wait until fall? I say go ahead and get them over with, myself. No use prolonging the inevitable."

Rick's mouth twitched. For a moment Blair thought he wasn't going to be able to answer him at all, but then he said in a voice that was almost normal, "I'm waiting until fall. A lot happened this quarter."

"Yeah, I know, you're right, you've got a point about that. How's Jill? I heard they got Kari Gattis to take over my 101 class. I know it must have been tough, switching instructors mid quarter like that, but Kari's really good."

Rick started to shake his head but did not quite finish the gesture. He looked away over Blair's head and said in the same almost-normal voice, "Jill said the class went fine."

"Well, that's great." Blair felt as though his insides were turning to glass. Brittle and etched, chipped along the edges. "That's just great. I --" God this was stupid. "For pete's sake, Rick, it's just me," he burst out. "It's not like I grew horns and a tail overnight, is it?"

Rick shook his head again, for real this time. "I don't understand you at all," he told Blair, speaking very carefully in clipped, precise tones. He had an awful expression on his face. It was the heartbreaking look of a fundamentally gentle man who's been goaded beyond all endurance.

"Rick," Blair began a little desperately, holding up both hands as though warding off a blow.

"I just don't understand you at all," Rick said again. "You were ready to see me thrown out of school over that paper I wrote for Brad Ventriss."

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You know that's not the way it was."

"And the only reason I did it was to try and help Jill. What excuse did you have?"

"Are you even listening to yourself? Brad was a Grade A psycho. He killed a man, Rick! Do you really think you could have protected Jill by writing term papers for the guy?"

"You know what the crazy thing is?" Rick said softly. "I admired you anyway. Most people, you know, they just do what they have to do to get along. Not you, though. Not you. I thought you were the most --" Rick's voice rose and broke. "The most -- principled man I'd ever met. "

Blair closed his eyes.

"Pretty stupid of me," Rick whispered. "Sorry."

Blair was talking before he even got in the door. "I told you, Jim," he said, his shoulder against the door, one bag of groceries hugged to his chest. "I told you lists never work out for me." He'd set the second bag down on the floor outside, leaning precariously against the jamb. "I couldn't find the list once I got to the store, but I think I got everything anyway."

"You left it on the dining room table," Jim said. He had pulled himself to his feet with the help of his cane and was making his way to the door even though he knew what Blair would say to him about that. His leg had been aching all day, a dull throb deep in his calf muscle, far below the path of Zeller's bullet. Probably just sore from limping around on it. "Need any help?"

"No, I do not need help. Sit down, Jim, or you're never going to get better. It would have been nice if you'd told me."

"Sorry, Chief. I didn't see it until after you'd left this morning."

"Great. That helps a whole lot." Blair half knelt and scooped up the other bag of groceries, kicking the door shut behind himself. "I think I remembered everything anyway. Hope I did." He made his way to the dining room table and put down both bags again and started pulling stuff out. "Got your mayonnaise and sugar and olive oil and broccoli and shaving cream--"

"Toilet paper?"

"God damn it" Blair slammed both hands down on the table. He turned around furiously, as if he were trying to find something to take apart. "This stuff makes me crazy," he raged. "Feels like I'm losing my fucking mind around here." He felt in his back pockets for his keys.

"I think you left them in the door," Jim observed quietly, and Blair shot him a look wild with fury before whirling around and stalking for the door.

"Is there anything else you need while I'm out?" He spit the words out through his clenched teeth. "'Cause it might save a little time if you'd tell me about it now instead of waiting until I get back."

"Put down your weapon, Sandburg. It's not my fault you forgot the grocery list."

Blair gave a snort of anger, but he stopped, and after standing motionless for a moment, he turned around and shrugged. "Yeah, I know." He pushed his hair out of his face with both hands, still breathing hard, obviously trying to let everything go. The pulse throbbed in his throat, and with his hair back, Jim could see the glint of both earrings in his left ear. He'd been wearing his hair down a lot lately, after months of always keeping it tied back. The earrings had been gone too, but they had quietly reappeared after Blair had agreed to go to the academy. It didn't take a psych minor to figure out either one of those particular fashion decisions.

Blair suddenly seemed to realize Jim was watching him, and he dropped his hands. "Long day, I guess. Hey," Blair interrupted himself. "I swear, Jim, you're just like a little kid sometimes."

"I'm like a little kid?"

"Your leg's hurting you." Blair came marching back, took the cane away from Jim with one hand, in the same gesture slipping his arm around Jim's waist. "Don't bother to deny it." His forearm was warm and solid against the small of Jim's back, and his hip pressed gently but insistently against Jim's thigh, forcing him to let Blair take some of his weight. The relief Jim felt was so profound that a sigh escaped him. "Easy," Blair said. "One step at a time." He shuffled around, drawing Jim with him, his arm still locked tightly around Jim's waist. "Sorry about snapping your head off, man. I don't need to be bringing that stuff in the front door. I know that."

"What stuff?" Jim asked. "Did something happen at work?"

Within days of losing his fellowship, Blair had found a part time job with the Department of Human Services, on call as a translator for Cascade's small Nepalese immigrant community. It wasn't enough money to pay many bills, far less the looming student loans, but as Blair had told him, it beat the hell out of waiting tables.

Blair hadn't mentioned his other job opportunities, and Jim hadn't been able to bring himself to ask.

"No, it's not work," Blair said. "Actually there's some good news there. They put off Rokhung's immigration hearing until next week, when they can get someone who speaks Bahing down from Seattle to translate for him. He's from the Okhaldunga District, you know? He speaks enough Nepali enough for us to communicate, but I feel better knowing the hearing will be in his first language."

Sandburg's usual smokescreen, too much information rattled out in a rush, as though that could keep Jim from noticing that he hadn't answered the question. Usually Jim obliged and pretended he really hadn't noticed, but tonight he just wasn't in the mood. Maybe because his leg was aching so badly, maybe just because Blair was standing next to him and supporting Jim's weight while refusing to allow Jim to share any of his own burdens.

"C'mon," Blair was saying. He shifted around in front of Jim, holding his forearms in a fierce, gentle grip. "Sit down before you really do hurt yourself."

Jim locked his knees. "I don't get you," he said, and even though the coldness in his own voice startled him, he went ahead and said the rest anyway. He was more afraid of letting Blair slip any further away than he was of hurting his feelings. "Don't you think the secret life of Blair Sandburg has already caused us both enough trouble?"

Blair's head came up fast, and Jim wouldn't have been surprised if Blair had belted him one. The words hung in the air between them, ugly and unanswerable, and Jim found himself hoping Sandburg would throw a punch, anything to break the moment.

Blair didn't, of course. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

"Yeah, I know." He sighed heavily. "It's really no big deal, but it's like I'm having trouble keeping stuff in perspective these days." Blair shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was looking away from Jim. "I ran into Rick Feldman at the grocery store, and he's kind of freaked out by the stuff about my dissertation. That's all."

The name didn't mean anything to Jim, but it was easy enough to figure out who Rick probably was and what he might have said to Sandburg. Jim had gotten an earful the few hours he had spent on campus since Blair's news conference. "Sandburg, the opinion of people like that -- you can't let it get to you. They don't know. They don't have any idea."

Blair nodded, his eyes fixed on Jim. "I know," he said, his voice breaking under the weight of all the bewildered, frustrated rage he'd brought home with him. "None of the rest of it matters," he announced decisively, and suddenly both his arms were around Jim, and he was holding on tight. He didn't say anything more, but Jim felt it in the desperation of that fierce embrace, Blair straining up a little so he could fit his chin over Jim's shoulder, still clutching the cane he had taken from Jim, the rubber tip hitting the back of Jim's calf. Blair's breaths were quick and hot at the side of neck, and Jim held his hands above Blair's shoulders, uncertain as he had never been around Blair before. He finally put his hands on Blair's shoulders, intending to ease him away, but Blair sensed his intent and released Jim first, bringing his arms around to grip Jim's forearm again, telling Jim with his eyes averted, "How does this sound? I'll go ahead and take my run tonight, pick up a roll of TP from Ye Olde Quickie Mart on the way back, then fix us some dinner. Maybe I'll even be able to act like a human being by then."

The walls receded once Blair was gone again. They began to close in on Jim when Blair was too close, too present, fussing over the bullet wound, washing dinner dishes, sitting next to Jim on the sofa during the endless evenings after even longer days, the two of them watching CNN or even, god help them both, the weather channel because sometimes it was easier to just keep sitting there rather than face the silence once the TV was turned off.

So it had become shameful relief to him when Blair was gone, because the air was easier to breathe then, the ceilings were higher, even the goddamned couch was more comfortable. His leg didn't throb with every beat of his pulse when Blair wasn't here, and he stopped seeing Simon sprawled flat, eyes blank and astonished, blood pumping from the wound left by a bullet intended for Jim spreading across the floor of his office. He didn't hear the sound Megan's brother had made, a choked whimper, trying so hard not cry, when Jim had called to let him know his sister was going into surgery. He couldn't smell Naomi's perfume, amber and patchouli and myrrh, as sweet and dark as Naomi herself, intending nothing but the best for her beloved boy.

But most of all, when Blair was gone Jim could stop reliving the end of everything.

Jim rubbed his eyes with his hand. He had a dull, cruelly persistent headache. It had lingered for days now, and nothing really seemed to help. Blair thought it might be a reaction to the antibiotics, but Jim suspected something else.

Oxygen deprivation, Chief. When you're in the same room with me, it's like a weight on my chest.

Before leaving for his evening run, Blair had fixed Jim a tray and left it on the coffee table to tide him over until dinner. A glass of iced tea, a plate of cheese and crackers and most of a sliced apple -- Blair had helped himself to a couple of the slices, grinning at Jim as he munched, his eyes hecticly bright, like a man on the verge of tears. Fixing the tray had been yet another of those kind, protective gestures made without consulting Jim or requesting acknowledgment. One in a series that stretched to infinity, beginning from the moment Blair hadn't refused to go to the academy.

Or no, even earlier. They had begun at his press conference when he'd swallowed hard, a look on his face like he was Peter denying Jesus Christ, before finally blurting out that James Ellison wasn't a sentinel.

There would be no end to them now. Blair had shed his past like a refugee fleeing his homeland. Abandoned his life and almost everything he loved. What did he have left now but these kindnesses and accommodations? Shaping himself to the interstices of Jim's life.

It still wasn't enough. Blair could strip himself down to nothing, but he couldn't touch Jim's grief. Nothing Blair did could take away the moment the world ended. It was always with Jim, sometimes pale as a ghost, just raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Other times, like when Blair was near, it raged like burning coals. And the ridiculous thing, Jim had to admit, even as the heat consumed him, was that he had always known this moment would come. Right from the beginning. Blair had been honest, back then.

I wanna write about you! You're my thesis!

Just a matter of time, that's all it had ever been. Even without Naomi Sandburg's intervention, someday someone would have stuck a microphone in Jim's face and asked him what it felt like to be a Sentinel. That would be the end of his life as he knew it. Blair would get those extra letters after his name and leave him, and it would be the end of everything.

Three and a half years Jim had been waiting for it. The only grace he'd asked was that Blair allow him to read the dissertation first. Give him a little lead time, a chance to get his affairs in order, because that was the Mephistophelean bargain they had made. At the time it must have seemed worth it. Given the choice between ending up dead under a city truck the next time a shiny object caught his eye, and the far-away prospect of allowing himself to be the subject of a pitiless academic study, Jim had chosen life and Blair.

It had become an increasingly difficult choice as the years rolled away, though, and Jim had snapped first. Stolen the first chapter of Blair's dissertation in the hope of assuring himself that it wouldn't be as bad as he feared. Jim supposed it served him right that instead he'd discovered it was infinitely worse.

Aw, Christ, this was no good. He was making himself crazy running things around and around in his head. Like he'd told Blair at the time, it was over. There was no going back. So Jim needed to just let it go and try to enjoy these few minutes of peace and quiet before Blair got back from his run.

Blair had made sure the remote was within easy reach before he left. Jim clicked on the television, but the cable was bad today. The sportscasters on ESPN all had a slightly fuzzy look to them, and the air in the studio seemed to be solid, filled with tiny dots. Jim clicked off the set again without looking at any of the other channels. Trying to watch that would only have made his headache worse. He reached for the glass of tea Blair had left him, but when he lifted it to his mouth he smelled, under the aroma of fermented tea leaves and blackberry extract, more than a hint of the seasoning from last night's stew. Garlic and onion, bay leaf, black pepper and sage. Jim hadn't realized there were leftovers, but obviously there were. Sitting in the fridge and perfuming the tea and everything else with eau de beef stew. Even the ice cubes probably reeked by now.

He put the glass down and heaved himself to his feet. His leg still ached. The sobering reality was he was getting older, and his body didn't recover from these massive shocks to the system so quickly anymore. Like when that reporter had leaned in the window of his truck and asked him how the publication of Mister Sandburg's manuscript would affect his work with the police department. Jim had known, in an instant of pure hopeless horror, that the end he'd been waiting for had finally come.

He'd looked at Blair and seen horror on his friend's face too. But along with it had been that damning, frantic look of guilt. "Jim, I can explain," Blair had said, which could only mean that no explanation would ever be adequate. It was over. Done with. Jim's heart had broken in two, and the jagged shards were still hurting him weeks later, as slow to heal as the wound Zeller's bullet had left.

Dammit.

Jim stopped at the kitchen island, leaning his hip hard against it, and roughly rubbed the tears from his eyes. Then he made it the rest of the way to the refrigerator and pulled out the plastic quart container of leftover stew from the second shelf. There was the problem. Sandburg had used wrong sized lid, and it hadn't sealed. Sloppy. Not really like Blair to make a mistake like that. The one time he'd put an open bowl of leftover chili in the refrigerator three years ago, they had ended up throwing out everything from the frozen peas to a gallon of milk.

Blair was tired, though. Preoccupied. Probably because his heart was broken, too. Jim had watched it happen, as shocked by what Blair had done as he was horrified by the futility of it. Blair had tried to give Jim his life back by sacrificing his own, and it had been such a bitter, skewed calculus. It had gotten the reporters out of Jim's face, but it had left the two of them in a pallid limbo of frustration and grief.

Jim wondered, deliberately imagining the worst thing he could, if it was this bad for Blair too. If he could hardly stand to be in the same room with Jim anymore. If the air seemed thin and the pressure on his chest too tight when they were in the loft together. Because if it did, detective's shield or no detective's shield, Blair would be crazy to stay. Jim couldn't let him.

Knowing it was a mistake and going right on and doing it anyway, Jim lowered himself to one knee so he could look in the lower cabinet where the Tupperware was stacked. At one time in his life, the time before Blair Sandburg, every container had had its own lid, and they had all been stacked together. Now Jim was confronted with wobbling towers of odd-sized containers and sloping fields of plastic lids, any or none of which might fit. The muscles in his calf were burning as he sorted through the lids one at a time. He gathered up a collection of likely candidates, breathing shallowly through gritted teeth at the pain. When he forced himself to stand again, a gray fog hazed the edges of his vision, and he braced himself with both elbows on the counter, letting the cane fall, dropping his head because he was afraid he was about to faint. When the dizziness finally passed, he lashed out at his weakness. The open container of stew spilled across the countertop, and down on the street three flights below, Jim heard the sound of Blair's footsteps on the pavement.

Blair walked three blocks from the Seven Eleven back to the loft to cool down after his run, swinging the plastic bag that carried his exorbitantly expensive roll of toilet paper. He could've bought half a dozen rolls at the supermarket for the price of one at the convenience store. Might as well be wiping his butt with gold leaf.

Maybe next time he'd remember the goddamned list.

At least he wasn't angry anymore, and that was a relief. The dusk was cool and smelled like rain before morning, and although his legs were rubbery and his stomach very empty, his lungs felt clean. His whole body did, as though he'd sweated and panted the accumulated toxins right out. The things Rick Feldman had said, and the heartbreaking expression on his face while he'd said them. Gone. The way Blair had snapped at Jim when he got home -- banished like it had never happened. The way Jim had gone rigid in Blair's impulsive embrace --

All right. So that wasn't entirely gone yet. Neither was the look in Jim's eyes, so closed and resigned, as though he never expected to have any reason to smile again. Blair hadn't managed to run that particular toxin out of his system either.

For chrisssakes, Jim, he thought, his grief welling up darkly. I gave up my life for you. You said it yourself. So how much more is it gonna take?

He stopped dead on the sidewalk, his face burning as though he really had said those shameful words out loud. He didn't mean them. It was just that sometimes the weight of Jim's disappointment became too much to bear anymore. Blair had screwed up before, made mistakes, sometimes bad ones. He had even hurt Jim, but always before Jim had forgiven him, and they had gone on. Blair was beginning to think that this time would be too much. That even if Jim wanted to forgive him, he couldn't manage to look at him anymore without seeing a friend who had betrayed his secret to the world.

All at once, Blair desperately wanted to be home again. Looking up the block, he could see the lighted windows of the loft where Jim was waiting for him. Blair hoped he was resting his leg, but knowing Jim, he'd probably been stomping around since Blair left, taking advantage of Blair's absence to hurt himself in peace and quiet, the hardheaded idiot.

He jogged the last block, having to wait before he crossed the street for a new Volkswagen in a shade of green that looked black under the streetlights to pull up and park almost directly in front of him. A woman with amazing cheekbones and an even more amazing magenta flattop was driving, but he didn't look back when he heard her heels hit the pavement and the car door slam behind her. He had almost reached the outside door when she called, "Blair Sandburg! Blair, hold up a minute."

He recognized the voice though he hadn't recognized the woman herself. He stopped, his hand on the door, the bag with the toilet paper in it swinging against his thigh. Feeling a little sick, he was more than tempted to just run away from her. Jim was trapped upstairs, though, and Jim couldn't run. He might shoot Wendy Hawthorne if he was cornered, though. He'd threatened to before.

Blair turned to face her, his back to the door. "Wendy," he said, and didn't even try for a smile. "Please. Nothing personal, but I'm not talking to any reporters. Not me, and not Jim either."

She held out her hands as though to show she wasn't carrying a weapon, and her own smile was blinding. The last time Blair had seen Wendy she'd been working as the weekend news anchor on one of the local Cascade channels, as pretty and vapid as she'd ever been. Her hair had still been long and blonde then, and Blair had assumed she was well on her way to becoming head anchor. She'd certainly had the looks and personality for it.

She wasn't anchoring any local news shows with hair like that, though. Much less with the little jeweled hoop through her left nostril. "That sounds more like Detective Ellison than the Blair Sandburg I remember." She tilted her head as though she still had a curtain of blonde hair to sweep around. "How have you been? How's Jim?"

"Pretty shitty, actually."

"It's been rough for you, hasn't it? Actually, that's what I'd like to talk to you about. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"No. Thanks, but no." Blair gestured vaguely to himself with his free hand, thinking his sweat-soaked tee shirt was surely excuse enough. "It's really not a good time."

"Then just hear me out. I'll make it quick."

Blair shook his head and felt behind himself for the door handle. "Look, it's late, I'm hungry, I'm tired, and all I want to do right now is get upstairs and get a shower. If you wanna leave me your number or something, I'll call you when things settle down."

"Five minutes," she pleaded. "You and Jim saved my life, not to mention my professional reputation. I finally see a way to make it up to you, so won't you please give me that chance?"

Shit. She still could make her voice quaver like a little girl's on the verge of tears. Jim had never fallen for it, but Blair guessed it worked on him all right, because he heard himself saying, "You don't owe us anything."

She recognized the capitulation. "Listen," she said immediately, "You know I'm working for the Free Press now, right?"

Cascade's weekly alternative rag. So that explained the hair and the nose ring. "I didn't know. Hey, uh, congratulations. It's not really where I would've pictured you."

"Are you kidding? Investigative journalism is dead on TV. That wasn't for me anymore, stuck behind a desk with that camera in my face like a hairsprayed mannequin."

So she'd gotten herself fired, Blair thought. He couldn't imagine Wendy Hawthorne ever actually objecting to being on camera. "I think I know where you're going with this, and I promise you, Jim doesn't have any interest in being the subject of an expose in the Free Press."

"Not Jim. You."

"No. Absolutely not." Blair turned and pulled open the door, but Wendy was there first, squeezing into the entry hall ahead of him.

"You said you'd listen to me, now come on, give me a chance."

"I don't mean to be rude, but would you please knock it off? I don't want anything to do with this." He could smell himself in the close quarters, and he switched the bag of toilet paper to his other hand, feeling self-conscious and faintly ridiculous, not wanting to start upstairs with her on his heels.

"I'm in a position to do you a whole lot of good if you'll just give me a chance. You remember in your news conference, how you said the thing you regretted most was the hurt you'd caused your friends and colleagues?"

He just couldn't deal with this now. He was exhausted and hungry and sweaty and gross and Jim was right upstairs, probably listening in, for god's sake. That thought made him push the door open again and step out into the night air. She followed him.

"See, that's what I want to write about. I've been there too, you know? I've had to start my life again after a public humiliation. That makes me the person to tell your story, Blair, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. My editors are really excited about this. It could be the lead article."

Blair heard himself give a bitter laugh. "Only on a really slow news week. C'mon, nobody's going to be interested in a story like that."

"Don't be so sure. The only thing that sells better than success is a story about self delusion and failure."

"And this is what you call doing a favor for someone? I hope I never end up on your shit list."

"I understand why you did it, Blair. I did the very same thing. I saw a way to make a story better, and I took it, just like you did. Maybe you even halfway believed it. Army ranger, cop of the year, not to mention that bod of his." She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Who can blame you for wanting to make Jim into some kind of a superhero? When the story broke I almost believed it myself. So that's the article I want to write, how a decent guy like you let himself get a little carried away and ended up having to pay for it with his career. See? I'm on your side, Blair. A story like this could generate a lot of sympathy."

"I don't want sympathy," he ground out.

"You may not want it, but you could sure use some. I've been where you are now, and it's not an easy road back. You'd be a fool to pass this up."

"I've been called worse. Thanks anyway, but I can't help you. Good night, Wendy."

She moved in front of him, and suddenly her voice wasn't nearly so accommodating. "I'm trying to give you a chance because I feel like I owe it to you and Jim. But there's another story I could write."

"Great, then write that one," Blair said wearily. "Excuse me. Like I told you, there's a hot shower upstairs with my name on it."

"Do you have the right to make that decision for Jim, too? This affects him just as much as it does you." Her voice shook a little.

"This has nothing to do with Jim," Blair said, but he felt an icicle chill of foreboding.

"I'm afraid it does. If you won't help me tell your story, then I'll have to tell the story of you and Jim together, and I don't think it's one either of you will like very much."

"There is no story of me and Jim together," Blair snapped. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Only the obvious one. You're still living in his place, Blair. Anyone would think you'd be out on your ass after you made him a laughing stock. The Sentinel of Cascade? Give me a break. Whatever else he is, Jim Ellison isn't a man who tolerates ridicule. Yet here you are, going upstairs to shower and dinner in his home just like nothing happened."

"Stop. Just stop it right there."

"This is how I figure you two were working it. See, Jim pretends to participate in this bogus 'sentinel' research so the police department will okay ride-along status for his grad student lover. The university even pays you for conducting this so-called research. I don't think that's quite what the sponsors of your fellowships had in mind, do you?"

"You're insane," Blair whispered. He was so weak at the knees he had to lean against the side of the building for support. "You can't publish that. It's not true."

"I can be a little naive, you know, but even I noticed Jim couldn't stop talking about you long enough to get it up for me."

"Would you shut the hell up?" He glanced up at the lighted window three floors overhead. His head was so light and hot he felt like it might just come floating off his shoulders, and the way his heart was thundering away in his chest he more than half expected Jim to hear that even if he didn't hear their conversation.

Wendy's face wasn't entirely unsympathetic, but she didn't give an inch. "I've even got the pictures. I'll use them if I have to."

"Pictures?" Blair squeaked, his mind reeling. "There aren't any pictures."

"The video, Blair. When the two of you came to the door that morning, you'd just gotten out of bed. You could hardly keep your hands off each other, even with the camera rolling."

"But we hadn't gotten out of the same bed! You've got to stop this. The whole thing is nuts. Jim's been through enough, and I can't let you publish some crazy ass speculation about his personal life, especially not accusing him of fraud. I'm the one who screwed up here, not Jim. Jim didn't do anything except try to be the best cop he knows how to be. Jesus, Wendy, that's all he's ever done." Blair felt like crying. "The man saved your life, you told me that yourself. Please don't do this to him."

"Then give me another story to write."

Blair rubbed his hand over his eyes. He could feel himself shaking. "Whatever you want," he whispered. "Just leave Jim out of it."

"I thought you'd see it my way. Come on, Blair, it won't be so bad. Now how about that cup of coffee? You look like you could use it."

"Maybe a stiff drink would be better," he said as her taloned fingers closed above her elbow.

"Whatever loosens that sweet tongue." She laughed, almost giddy, and Blair was afraid she was about to kiss him. He remembered her giving him a kiss on the cheek once long ago. Blair had felt like some kind of Galahad then, being thanked for slaying a dragon. Now it turned out the princess and the dragon had been in cahoots all along, and he was so weary he didn't even pull his arm away from her. "We're two of a kind," she was saying happily just as the door behind them crashed open.

Oh, Jim, Blair thought miserably, before he even turned his head. When he did, he saw it was as bad as he'd feared. Jim's face was gray in the streetlight, his jaw set with anger. He must have heard everything.

"Sandburg is nothing like you." Jim's voice was soft and furious. "This interview is over."

"Jim!" Wendy cried with a bright, angry laugh. "What a way to say hello."

Jim made his way onto the sidewalk, leaning too heavily on his cane, the way he did when he'd stressed his leg. Blair pried himself free of Wendy and went to him, trying to give him an arm of support, but Jim ignored it. "You've got ten seconds. Then I'm arresting you for criminal harassment and attempted extortion."

"Are you threatening me, detective?" she demanded, her voice rising in outrage, and Blair saw the whole mess playing itself out again. Jim's face on the cover of the Free Press, the phone calls at all hours, to the loft, to the station, to Jim's father and brother, and through it all Jim withdrawing further and further, until Blair was never able to reach him again.

"It's all right," he broke in, babbling in something close to panic. "Jim, Wendy, it's all right. Just a little misunderstanding here. Look, Jim, just let me help you back upstairs, man, and Wendy, then you and I can talk. Okay? Everything's cool?"

"Five seconds," Jim said. "Then we're going downtown."

"You don't want to do this," Wendy said furiously, but she backed up a step. "Blair, tell him."

Blair looked at Jim's face in profile, and what he saw there suddenly calmed him. "There won't be any interview. You'd better go, Wendy."

"You're making a serious mistake."

"C'mon, Jim. Let's get you upstairs."

This time, Jim nodded a little. He put his arm around Blair's shoulders as Blair wrapped his around Jim's waist, allowing Blair to support some of his weight. "I tried to give you a chance!" Wendy called after them. "Just remember that, Blair. I tried."

The door shut behind them, and they made their way across the tiny foyer to the elevator. Jim punched the button and the doors opened at once, the cage still on the ground floor from Jim's trip down. As they got in, Jim said only, "What happened to her hair?"

Blair looked up at him, wonderingly. Then he ventured a tiny smile. "Maybe she's starting the Academy in six weeks too."

"Heh," Jim almost chuckled. The arm around Blair's shoulders tightened for a long moment as the elevator ascended. "Were you planning to warm up that beef stew for dinner tonight, Chief?"

"What?" It took him a minute to figure out what Jim was talking about. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"

The elevator door opened on their floor. Jim moved slowly, trying not to limp. Trying not to lean on Blair too hard. "Because I just dumped it all over the counter."

Blair shook his head. The door to the loft was standing wide open. "If you don't like my cooking you could just tell me, man."

"Did you know that ribs place over on Market Street delivers?"

"No, Jim," he said, and almost let himself grin for real. "I guess I didn't know that."

"Well, they do."

"Uh huh." Blair swung the door shut behind them and tried to guide Jim to the couch, but he pulled away.

"I'll clean up the mess on the counter," he told Blair. "You can call for ribs. I like the Jamaican sauce on mine. Get extra."

"Has it occurred to you that it would make a lot more sense for me to clean up, and for you to go park your ass on the sofa and call for delivery?"

Jim continued to make his way carefully to the sink. "I spilled it," he said. "I'll clean it up."

It was aggravating, but Blair found he didn't have the strength to argue anymore. He leaned against the wall by the phone. "You know the number?"

"Call information."

"What's the name of this joint?"

Jim wrung out a sponge and began carefully sweeping the spilled stew into the sink. "It's that rib place on Market. You know."

Blair didn't know. He couldn't remember ever having seen a rib place on Market. He picked up the phone and put it down again. "How much of that did you hear?"

Jim didn't look up. "Enough. Most of it, I think. She's a piece of work."

"If she writes that article, it could really cause a lot of headache. You know that, Jim. For you, for Simon and the department, everybody. It might be better if I try and talk to her."

Jim shook his head. "We'll deal with it when and if it happens."

"I'm just saying, if I give her the interview she wants, let her write a story about a guy so obsessed with his research topic that he started inventing sentinels out of thin air, at least that would keep you out of it."

A long silence. Then Jim turned slowly to face him, leaning his hip against the counter to brace himself. "Sandburg, stop. No more. Just -- stop."

So Blair stopped. He didn't cross the half dozen steps to Jim. He just stopped and waited.

"You can't keep doing it," Jim explained, sounding a little impatient. "Making these decisions about both our lives."

Blair hung his head, suddenly on the verge of tears. "It's my mess," he whispered. "I'm trying to clean it up."

Jim snorted. "Chief, I love you, but everything you've done lately in that line has been an unqualified fucking disaster."

"Jim, c'mon," Blair protested, a little shocked.

"Just let me help, okay? That's all I'm asking. You're not alone here."

Blair swallowed hard, nodding. "Okay. I hear you."

"All right, then." Jim turned his attention back to spilled stew, but after one more pass with the broth-laden sponge, he dropped it in the sink, rinsed his hands and said quietly. "Actually, if you don't mind finishing up here, I'll call in the order."

"All right," Blair said, trying to keep his tone just as nonchalant. "Want some help getting to the sofa?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Blair slid his arm around Jim's waist, and as he did, he saw and felt Jim take a long, deep breath, a profound sigh. It was on the tip of Blair's tongue to apologize for the way he smelled, but Jim was practically smiling as he sighed again, breathing like a man who'd been shut in a small room for a very long time and has suddenly been let out into the open air.

When Blair opened his eyes the next morning, the loft was filling with water. He could hear the slow shush and susurration of it pouring across the floorboards, lifting the stacks of files and notes which had been piled up beside the sofa since the night he finished his dissertation, then flopping them up against the walls. They made a wet, slapping sound, like waves beating against a pier. He lay motionless on his bed and listened. There was something soothing about the sound of water. Comforting and inevitable. He need do nothing but lie here while the waves rose. He heard little splashes as rivulets dashed against the outside walls of his room and fell back upon themselves, the sound changing timber as living room slowly filled with water. After a time there were heavier sounds. The furniture was floating, thumping up against the walls and the staircase. If he could turn his head, he would be able to see the love seat or maybe one of the bookshelves serenely floating past his bedroom window.

He imagined how the sunlight must look in the living room, shining in the windows and through the depths of the water. Filtered and refracted, green gold and heavy. Light was reflected across the ceiling of his room too, moving with the waves outside.

Then something bumped against the wall, hard enough to shake the glass in the window and make the watery light on his bedroom ceiling shiver. Another thump. Thinking about the kinds of things that bobbed and sank in floodwaters, Blair's drowsy lassitude was replaced by a sense of slow dread. It bumped a third time, and now it seemed to Blair that there was something purposeful in those fumbling, blind thumps. The ripples of light on his ceiling flowed around a shape he almost recognized.

It bumped against the wall once more, then hit his windowpane. The patterns of light and shadow on his ceiling shattered, then slowly came back together again. The violent shaking of the glass subsided into a regular lap and splash, as though the floating object had been caught in a little eddy that swept it back again and again to Blair's window.

Blair wondered how long the glass would hold, and what would be swept into the room when it finally broke. If he turned his head, he would see it, but he wasn't sure he could bring himself to do that.

He wondered if it would still be floating at his window when he finally forced himself to wake up.

When Jim walked out of the bathroom that morning, still damp from the shower where he'd lingered too long because the hot water felt so good on his sore muscles, he found Blair sitting hunched on the sofa, apparently just out of bed. He was still in the sleeveless tee and boxers he'd slept in, and he hadn't started coffee, or even turned on NPR. He didn't raise his head until Jim said, "Hey."

"Hey," Blair said then, his voice scratchy. His hair was still a tangled mess, half-hiding his eyes.

"Sleep okay?"

"Yeah," Blair said, and Jim knew he was lying. He sat down on the couch opposite him, the bath robe damp under his thighs. "Don't get too used to that bed. Soon as I can make it up those stairs in under half an hour, you're back on the futon."

"I hear you," Blair said, baring his teeth in something that couldn't quite manage to be a smile. His muscles were tense, body folded in on itself, head resting on his hands and knees. Jim looked at him more closely, felt more closely, heart rate and respiration, perspiration, and some scent, slightly off, slightly sour. Slightly sad.

Sadness washed over Jim as well. Last night had felt a little better, as though banishing Wendy had banished other demons too. Finding that nothing had changed after all was a startlingly cruel disappointment

At last Blair took a deep, shaky breath, saw that Jim was still watching him, and tried again for a smile. "Weird dream this morning," he said. "I'm having a hard time shaking it."

"If it was about Wendy --"

"Nah." Blair shook his head. "I don't think so, anyway. It was just one of those funny things. I dreamed I was in my own bedroom, and the loft was filling with water. I didn't even know it was a dream at first."

Jim waited for Blair to say something more, hoping his next words would give Jim a clue, somehow let him know what he could say or do to make things better. He couldn't go on like this, simply waiting for the life they'd both loved to somehow miraculously return. But when Blair spoke again it was only to say, "I think I could use some coffee. Do you mind espresso roast? The stronger the better today."

Jim reached out and slid a curl off his forehead. "Blair."

Blair started at his touch. Or perhaps it was at the use of his first name.

"A few weeks ago, before all this started, you told me about some library back east." Jim could hardly believe what he was saying. Once he'd begun, though, the words came so easily he had to wonder if he hadn't been rehearsing this suggestion for a long time now, at least in some private corner of their shared misery. "You were gonna check it out, see if they had some new stuff on sentinels."

"Yeah. Notre Dame." Blair smiled grimly. "Can't very well go now."

"Why not?"

"Why not? 'Cause, uh, 'cause, why not? What kind of question is that?" He glared at Jim, suspicious.

"Have you started believing your own press releases? Why can't we go? I'm still a sentinel, and you still need information to help me, right? And there might be information there, right? So, as I see it, you kinda owe me."

Blair stared at him, trembling a little. "Why can't we go? You wanna go, too?"

Jim looked at Blair, really looked at him, cataloging the circles beneath his eyes, the skin there fragile and translucently blue, the lines bracketing his generous mouth, lips now thinned in concentration, and the few strands of gray gleaming among the chestnut tangles. How long since he'd slept without nightmares? How long since he'd truly been happy?

Jim already knew the answer to that, yet as he watched, Blair's face relaxed and he rubbed his eyes. He took another deep breath and said, "You're still on medical leave."

"So? They got doctors in Indiana, don't they?"

"Just go. Just pick up and go."

"Just pick up and go."

The two men watched each other carefully from across the coffee table. At last, Blair nodded. "Let's go," he said, as if calling Jim's bluff.

"Well, all right. " Jim smiled, and found the expression came easily to him. "Pack. I'll call Simon and the airline. We'll leave tonight."

Blair's eyes widened. "You're serious? But, where'll we stay? What'll you do while I'm at the archives?"

Jim shrugged. He felt oddly light, untethered. "Does it matter? We'll find some place. I'll find something to do." He grinned. "If nothing else, I'll help you in the archives." Blair rolled his eyes, but he was only pretending. Jim could smell his pleasure and surprise, his relief. "Let's get the hell outta Dodge, little buddy."

"Okay, Marshall Tucker."

Now Jim rolled his eyes. "You mean Marshall Dillon. Or Chester," he added ruefully.

Blair waved a hand. "Whatever. I'll start packing. You stay off the leg and on the phone."

Jim listened to Blair as he pulled his duffel bag out from the tiny closet in his room; his breathing was more regular, and he was humming under his breath. Some minor key song Jim thought he remembered from a tape he'd found in the truck's player a few day's ago, when he'd hobbled out to check on the gas level. While he recovered, Blair had to do all the driving, but he didn't want him paying for the truck's gas. Actually, he didn't want Blair to pay for anything; he'd already paid too much.

"Call United first," Blair called from his room, his voice muffled. Jim surmised he had his head in his closet. "I think they have the most flights to Chicago from Cascade."

"Chicago?"

"Yeah." He appeared in his doorway, hair tousled, but his color better and his eyes brighter, though still rimmed with red. "We'll have to fly into Chicago and rent a car, drive to South Bend. It's a couple hours away."

"How do you know this? Have you been there before?" Jim asked, scooting carefully over to the end table where the phone book was stored.

"Yeah, but also the archivist -- his name is Robert -- told me. Either fly into Indianapolis or Chicago, and Chicago's closer. But you can check Indianapolis."

"Jesus," Jim muttered, but happily, or as happily he could under the circumstances. They were really going to do this. They were really going to leave. He caught sight of Blair's round backside as he bent over digging through a pile of laundry. "Jesus," he said again, and picked up the phone.

"Tonight?" Simon asked thirty minutes later, disbelief coloring his voice.

"Yeah. The flight leaves at eight, so we need to be there by seven. We can take the truck and leave it in long-term parking --"

"No, no, I'm happy to take you. Just a little surprised. Something happen?"

Jim glanced at Blair, who had moved upstairs and was packing for him. He could hear him rustling around in his chest of drawers, the slip and slide of cotton over cotton, the chink of buttons and the clink of jean rivets. "Just some stuff," he murmured, and Simon sighed heavily.

"You can't talk in front of the kid, huh."

"Not really."

Simon sighed again. "My god, what a mess, Jim. No one at works believes it, you know. They've seen too much; they know Blair too well; they're good detectives."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe it's okay. They're all pulling for you guys. But, hell. I can see where you might need to get away. I assume you'll tell me the full story eventually?"

"Eventually," Jim agreed mildly, still watching Blair above him.

"I guess that'll have to do. Yeah, I'll take you. I'll pick you up at six; that should give us plenty of time to get to the airport no matter how clogged the roads."

"Six," Jim shouted up to his partner, then, "Oh, sorry, Simon."

"Cover the phone next time you scream," he said sourly. "I'll see you tonight."

Blair leaned over the railing and looked down at him as he pressed off and tossed the little phone aside. "We all set?"

Jim nodded. "Am I packed yet?"

"Not your bathroom stuff. I'm taking enough clothes for a week; I figure we can always hit a laundromat and drugstore if we stay longer."

"Sounds good. I'm gonna pay Darryl a few bucks to check on the loft, bring in the mail. I canceled the paper. Can you think of anything else?"

After a few seconds, Blair said, "You might want to unplug the answering machine."

Jim thought about some of the messages they'd received and nodded. "Yeah. I'll do that."

That afternoon, Jim took the opportunity of Blair's inattention while he did last minute packing to sneak out onto the balcony. He stared out over Cascade, the late afternoon's light popping like solar flares against his sensitive retinas, worsening his headache, worsening his pain.

What choice did he have, he asked himself, and swallowed. He'd never been to Indiana before, although he'd been through Chicago several times. Hot and humid, he remembered. So different from Cascade. So different from home.

Noises behind him reminded him that Blair was still frantically tossing things together. He wondered what he'd end up with, with Blair packing for him. He wondered where he'd end up, after everything that happened.

But getting away never sounded better. Like when he'd left home to go to school, and when he'd left school to join the military. Sandburg might notice a pattern in his behavior, he supposed, but it was too well-entrenched for him to change now. He couldn't breathe in Cascade, in the loft. He couldn't be here anymore.

The flight was long but at least not delayed. Jim had never really cared for flying, and since his senses had grown so acute, liked it even less. The noise, the vibrations, the crowds, the stale air, all combined into one enormous sensory overload. He found himself leaning on Blair, grounding himself in his friend's presence, and Blair responded like a phototropic plant, turning always toward Jim just as Jim turned toward him. As they sailed further east, into the darkness and away from the fading light of Cascade and the gleam of the Pacific Ocean, Jim felt as though he were going toward something as much as he was leaving behind him the mess of Wendy and the dissertation and Blair's and his public humiliations.

He stood by the plane's lavatories for a while, stretching his aching leg, and let his gaze rest on the back of Blair's head. He was asleep, pillow squashed between the window and his temple, his long hair tangled. No one on board had recognized either of them, all too busy getting to or from someplace else, all too self-absorbed to notice others. For once he was grateful for the general obliviousness of people, letting his friend rest undisturbed, happy to be away from their ringing phone and the pounding on their door. Grateful he had a moment in which to stand, sentinel-like, and simply watch over Blair.

When at last he limped his way back to his seat, he was careful not to wake Blair, but tucked his jacket closer around him. Blair turned in his sleep and murmured softly, nothing even Jim's hearing could catch, and then slept again. Jim rested his head near his friend's, letting Blair's breath warm his face, and he thought it hadn't been Blair's presence that had been suffocating him during these endless weeks after the press conference at all, but the terrible distance which had opened up between them. Then he slept, too.

It was two in the morning, Chicago time, when they landed at O'Hare. Blair was groggy but managed to guide Jim off the plane, blinded as he was by the sudden fluorescent lights, their hum, the clatter of people hauling bags and baggage from overhead compartments and from under their seats. His leg ached even more and he knew Blair was observing him closely. "Sit down," Blair instructed him when they finally reached the baggage claim area, and for once he obeyed without complaint. Wiping sleep from his eyes, he watched as Blair efficiently snagged their duffels from the belt and brought them back to leave at Jim's feet before standing in line for their reserved rental.

"You stay here and I'll bring the car around," Blair said, checking in with him, and Jim caught his arm. They stared at each other for several seconds.

"Help me outside," he said at last, reluctantly releasing Blair. After a brief hesitation, Blair agreed. He carried all the bags, refusing even to let Jim wear his old backpack, and kept one arm around Jim's waist, moving slowly over the ugly tile and out the sliding glass doors.

"My god," he said, and Jim agreed. After the chill of a Cascade evening, he felt overwhelmed by the heavy wet heat pressing down on him. It was like being back in the jungle: a dense fragrant atmosphere weighing him down, only this smelled like exhaust and asphalt and jet fuel. He quickly tugged off his jacket and took Blair's to hold. "Lean up against this wall," Blair suggested. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Jim tracked Blair's hike to the shuttle bus for rental cars. "Wait," he called, and again Blair paused. When Jim didn't speak again, he slowly came back toward Jim, obviously puzzled. "I just, it's -- let me go with you, Chief." He suddenly felt that he couldn't risk losing Blair in the crowd; it was too dark, too far from home. Too alien. To his surprised pleasure, Blair smiled, and picked up the bags again. "We'll take this nice and slow," he told Jim firmly, and again Jim relaxed into his support.

"No other way to take it," he grumbled, but he was sure Blair knew how he really felt.

He permitted himself to be navigated through O'Hare's late night heat and crowds, and later through the vicissitudes of Chicago's torn-up streets, relaxing the further they got from Cascade. By the time Blair found I-80 and headed east, Jim was fully reclined in the passenger seat, a little groggy from lack of sleep. They could've, he realized belatedly, taken a room in Chicago and driven in the morning, but somehow he didn't feel like suggesting it and, if Blair had thought of it, he didn't seem inclined to act on the idea, either. So east they drove, stopping periodically to feed toll booths various amounts, Blair muttering to himself as he came to confusing exits, until finally they escaped the city and found themselves driving through the heavy humidity of a midwestern spring night.

It was with surprise that Jim found himself roused a couple hours later by Blair pulling into a parking lot and shutting off the rental's engine. He fiddled awkwardly with the seat until it permitted him to sit upright and then looked around. The Inn at Saint Mary's, a large sign informed him, and he looked questioningly at Blair.

"Across the street from Notre Dame," he explained, and Jim nodded. "Stay here. I'll get us a room. You've been on your leg too much these last couple days."

As he watched Blair head into the lobby, Jim wondered that fewer than twenty-four hours ago he'd had no idea he'd be sitting in a parking lot in a rental car in South Bend, Indiana, at -- he checked his watch -- nearly four in the morning. There should be something profound in the realization, but he was too tired and a little afraid to examine it further. Instead, he waited patiently, imagining a cool bed in a cool room, room service, and Blair to wait on him. He smiled. A vacation.

He refused to remember why he was on vacation just then.

By the time Blair had half-carried him into their third-floor room, with two double beds and a small sofa and desk, he was bleary from exhaustion. "They have what they call a 'complimentary deluxe breakfast,'" Blair told him, but he just fell onto the nearest bed, mindful of his leg, and put his face into a pillow. He felt Blair pull off his shoes and wrap the spread around him like a burrito, but then he remembered no more.

Blair sat heavily on the other bed, feeling grubby and hungry and weird. How the hell had they ended up more than half a continent away in just a few hours? What Looking Glass world had he stumbled into when Naomi had emailed his dissertation? And would he ever return?

Well, he admitted ruefully, right now he didn't much want to return. He was happy sitting in his travel-stained clothes listening to Jim snore here in this nice new hotel room. Food first, he decided, and leaving Jim a note, headed downstairs. Then a bath, then bed, then blessed oblivion. Or so he hoped.

For once, his small wish was granted, because he woke up clean and cool, lying under smooth sheets, watching Jim stare out the window as he sipped steaming coffee. When he sighed and cleared his throat, Jim glanced at him.

"Sit down," he croaked, and Jim smiled and obediently sat in the chair he'd pulled to the window. He cleared his throat again and asked, "What's so interesting out there?"

"Gonna be a hot day," Jim answered, and then held his hand a few inches from the window glass, fingers outspread and slightly cupped, as if touching something invisible. Blair understood this was a gift: Jim was illustrating how he knew what the temperature would be today, by capturing the molecules bouncing off the window, warmed into agitation by the morning sun. He felt a sudden relaxation, as if he'd been tensing his muscles unconsciously.

"Come here, Sandburg," Jim said suddenly, sitting up straighter. Blair dropped his head back into the pillow, groaning audibly, but climbed out of his comfortable bed and stood next to Jim, idly tugging at his boxers, then scratching his scalp.

"Wha'?"

Jim nodded toward the window and he stepped to it, not touching because he knew his handprints on the glass would bother Jim, but as close as he could get. He was looking east; the sun was high in the whitened sky. Rooftops gleamed in the light, sparking behind a dense tree cover. Nothing else. "So?"

"So you're looking at the flattest landscape I've ever seen in my life."

"Glaciers," Blair told him, continuing to stare out the window. "Glaciers scrubbed the land down to its bone, left nothing behind."

After nearly a minute, Blair became aware that Jim was staring at him. "What?" he asked again. Jim looked away, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip.

"What's up for today?" he finally asked.

"You stay off your feet, that's what up. We've got cable, I'll buy some newspapers, and there's room service. Oh, hey, I brought some apples and bananas and muffins up earlier."

"Yeah, thanks. I found them. Where'd you get them? The muffins were fresh."

"I went down last night. This morning. Whenever. The restaurant was closed but the cooks took pity on me and gave me some muffins just out of the oven, and some fruit. You found the coffee." He paused, and said, "You really need a shower, Jim."

He grimaced. "I noticed. Didn't want to wake you, though."

Blair nodded, and started polishing an apple. "So, listen, we'll just stay in today, okay?"

Jim awkwardly started to rise from the chair; Blair caught his arm and helped pull him up, then handed him the cane. "Okay. I guess." They staggered a bit, and then Jim caught his balance. "I'm okay. Just need that shower, and then more food."

"Eggs this morning?"

Over his shoulder, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, Jim said, "Eggs? This isn't some bait-and-switch, where you offer me eggs and then insist on muesli." The tone of his voice implied that Blair might suggest mainlining wheat germ for breakfast. Blair shook his head, smiling slightly.

"Shout if you need help."

Jim didn't answer, which surprised Blair a little. He expected a little more snap this time of day, after everything that had happened. But Jim was tired, he reminded himself, and not nearly recovered from being shot by Zeller. Blair went back to the window Jim had been staring out of and took a long look himself.

It was flat, flat as far as his myopic eyes could see, and apparently flat as far as sentinel vision could see as well. Lots of trees; more than Cascade, he thought, or maybe it was that Cascade was hilly and had the Sound. But South Bend looked like a city of shady walks, which pleased Blair.

There was a river, too, he thought, and found a map of the city in a desk drawer. Yes, the Saint Joseph. Coming down from Michigan and then turning north again to empty into Lake Michigan. It seemed to run right through the center of town and, if his internal compass wasn't completely off, which it might well be, the river also ran behind their hotel. Maybe he'd walk out and look at it, if he could persuade Jim to stay behind.

Well, probably not. Another time, then, when Jim was recovered.

He sat in the chair Jim had vacated and rested his head back. He was still tired, too tired. Certainly too tired to think about why they'd dropped everything and fled Cascade. Too tired to consider what he'd do next. What Jim and he would do if Wendy followed through with her threat to publish. He just needed to make it through the next meal and then take a nap. Keep doing that, one small task at a time.

He must've dozed a bit, because he woke while Jim was dressing, awkwardly pulling up a pair of jeans. "Hey," he protested, getting up quickly. "Look, you had to wear trousers all day yesterday. Give yourself a break; wear sweatpants today."

"Can I go down to breakfast here in sweats?"

Blair nodded, not really sure if it was appropriate at this hotel, but Jim was injured and needed to take care of himself. Wrestling into a tight pair of blue jeans, no matter how good they looked on him, wasn't going to help. He pulled one of the several pairs of sweat pants he'd packed for Jim from his duffel and handed them to him along with a white tee shirt. Then he headed into the bathroom to take care of his own needs.

Jim rolled carefully onto his side and watched Blair sleep in the next bed. He was abandoned when sleeping, arms outflung, hair wildly curling, mouth open and, Jim could see when he focused, slightly drooling. He smiled.

Yet there wasn't a whole lot to smile at right now. Not really. They both were exhausted, more exhausted than Jim had permitted himself to realize until this morning. A few days in a nice hotel, being cooked for and cleaned up afterwards, was exactly what they needed. He was sorry that Wendy's threats and Blair's misery had been the impetus to get them the hell of out of Cascade, but he couldn't regret being here just now.

But what were they going to do next? They'd had a quiet day, napping and snacking and watching baseball. Blair had bought a South Bend Tribune, which Jim had read thoroughly, happy to discover no mention of them in the paper. They'd read aloud to each other snippets from the books they'd brought, and had found a movie on cable to watch.

Tomorrow, Jim decided, would be a repeat of today. His leg still hurt, not that he'd admit it to Blair, and both men still wore their exhaustion like tattered clothes. Another day and they'd feel better. Then they'd contact this Robert person at the library and set up a schedule to review the Burton material.

Beyond that, Jim couldn't see. For the first time in his life, he didn't have his week planned out for him. First by his father and school, later by the military, most recently by his superiors at the police department. He could do what he wanted when he wanted. It felt good. Better than good. He felt a weight off his back. No one -- no boss, not even Simon, no journalist, not even Wendy, could touch him or Blair right now.

Another day of this and he'd start thinking about their futures. But for now, this was good. Lying on clean-smelling sheets in a darkened room, the brilliant sun glowing behind the heavy blinds and the scent of fresh fruit filling the air, he could pretend this was just a much-needed vacation.

He turned his head to study Blair again. He noticed, as he had earlier this morning, how thin he'd become. As if glaciers had scrubbed him down to the bone, too. The gray in his hair frightened Jim; Blair simply couldn't age, couldn't grow old or change. Blair was the stability that made Jim's life possible. He felt as if the bed were shaking for a moment at the thought of Blair leaving him behind, going off to do something else, something not so damaging to his health and his career. Something his mother might really approve of, might really have brought him up to do.

He wiped his hand over his forehead. It hurt too much to think of Blair leaving. He needed to rest now. Just rest. And so he did.

By Monday, they were ready to leave their hotel, no matter how nice it was, and see more than the gift shop and restaurants it offered. Jim's leg still ached more than he'd admit to Blair, but it was better, not nearly as red and puffy as it had been when they'd first arrived. He was still taking the ibuprofen and pain meds and using the cane, though, and could tell he would have to for a while longer. He promised himself to take better of the leg and to let Blair help more; he was anxious to do so, and obviously needed the distraction. Still. It went against Jim's grain to have someone wait on him; he found thanking Blair difficult, an admission of his own need and disability. But Blair's self-abnegation since the dissertation made Jim more determined to proffer the gratitude Blair no longer seemed to expect.

Monday morning, Blair phoned Robert James, the archivist at Hesburgh Library with whom he'd corresponded. The collection of material had arrived a couple weeks ago, but had been given only a cursory examination. Robert was, Blair explained on the short drive to the library, either unaware or uncaring of what had transpired in Cascade. Jim sent a prayer of thanks out for that.

So they had a meeting with Robert at ten. After a good-sized breakfast, they left a bit early, to drive through the campus and get a feel for it, as well as find the library and parking. Blair had tried to persuade Jim to be dropped off at the library, then let him park and walk back, but a single glance from Jim had stopped that argument cold.

It was a long walk on a hot day. Blair had insisted Jim wear a hat, and he was reluctantly grateful he'd done so. Both men wore loose shirts, baggy shorts, and flip-flops; it was just too hot for clothes. By the time they'd reached the enormous glass doors to the library, they were sweating, and Jim was beginning to regret his mulishness. Once inside, they were immediately chilled by the sharp air conditioning, though Jim refused to complain.

"Jesus," he muttered, looking around at the high ceiling and long marbled hallways.

"Touchdown Jesus," Blair replied somewhat cryptically as he herded Jim through the turnstiles into the library proper. Jim could hear or feel the magnetic field surround him as they passed through the security system; it made the hair on his arms rise. Once inside, they wandered around until they found a map, and from there made their way to the fifth floor, where Robert's archives were.

Robert James turned out to be a shortish white man, gay to Jim's practiced eye, with dark hair and eyes and a soft southern drawl. "From New Orleans," he answered when Jim asked where he was from. "My family's lived there for over a hundred years." Hunnert years, Jim thought, smiling to himself. "You know the city?"

"No," Jim started, but Blair instantly said, "Oh, yeah, I lived there in, uh, seventy nine and eighty, I think," and that started an intense discussion of neighborhoods and mutual friends. Jim permitted himself to list slightly into Blair, jolting him into the present. "Listen, Robert, Jim is injured; could we sit down somewhere?"

"Oh, forgive me." Robert looked genuinely pained. "You all just come with me. It's time for coffee, don't you think?" He led them to a corner room with a view into the football stadium. There were comfortable chairs, a battered couch, and a coffee maker scenting the air. "I make a mean pot of coffee, if I do say so myself," he said, looking pleased, and Jim collapsed onto the sofa, smiling up at him.

"With chicory?" Jim asked, anxious to show off the small bit of Southern trivia he possessed.

"Lord, not that bitter stuff. No, just good Arabica beans."

And the coffee was good, he thought, sipping at it in a few minutes, staring out at the stadium and the impossibly green grass captured in its oval. He sat quietly, listening to Robert and Blair discuss New Orleans politics, mardi gras, jazz, and finally Richard Burton. "I'm really not any kind of expert," Robert said. "I just got stuck with the assignment because I have a specialty in nineteenth century missionaries, especially muscular Christianity. Since Burton lived around the same time as Livingstone, I guess it was assumed I was the right person.

"But I don't have much time to spare, so the only ones who can inventory the material are student assistants. I'm delighted you volunteered to help. I've assigned a student to work with you, although he won't be here for another week or so."

"Jim will help," Blair announced, and Jim heard a tiny bit of malicious pleasure in the words, but he nodded.

"Can't do much right now with this leg," he explained. "But I can sit and look at book titles as well as the next person."

"This is so generous of you both. Uh," Robert looked a little shy. "May I ask how you were injured?"

Blair looked at Jim, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Jim's a police officer. He was injured in the line of duty."

"Oh, my! I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh." Robert appeared to believe he had committed some horrible social gaffe by asking.

"It's okay," Jim assured him. "I'm better, but I need to keep weight off my leg. Since Sandburg had already made arrangements to come out here, I kind of invited myself along. I hope that's okay."

"Yes, of course. Oh my gosh," he repeated, looking stunned. Jim wondered what on earth he was imagining had happened. "Well, you see where the coffee room is, and when we've finished, I'll take you down the hall to the storage rooms."

"What exactly will we be doing?" Blair asked curiously.

"Really, it's embarrassing. Nobody has had a minute to look through the cartons we were sent. I have a preliminary inventory that came from the attorneys for the estate -- the gentleman who left this material to us died without issue -- but it looks to me mighty incomplete. I'm hopin' you'll find something wonderful," he added, smiling conspiratorially, and Jim had to smile back. "But probably it's nothing but old family bibles and tax returns."

"Oh, now that sounds exciting, Chief." Blair made a face at him, but Robert looked worried. "No, Robert, it's okay. The job sounds perfect for me right now. I'm happy to help."

"Well, no use puttin' off the inevitable," Robert announced, setting down his coffee cup. "Let's take a look at the damage."

Damage was the word, Jim thought a few minutes later, leaning against the door frame and watching Blair and Robert peer into and over the boxes stacked haphazardly in the windowless storeroom. The estate's executor had had a moving company box up the library, and clearly they'd simply stuck every last thing in a box and sealed it. Already Blair had found two candlesticks, a half dozen used candles, a pencil, and a crumpled piece of paper with the word "ham" on it.

"I'll have some trash cans brought in," Robert said upon viewing the useless note. "Also a desk and a couple chairs."

Jim counted sixty-seven cartons, all labeled "library" and smelling of mildew. The summer looked as far from exciting as South Bend was from Cascade. He felt a moment's regret for what they'd left behind, but squelched it immediately, reminding himself that what they'd left behind was notoriety, publicity, and humiliation. This looked like a fine job for an injured cop and an injured anthropologist. Best job in the world.

"Listen, Robert," Jim interrupted their pokings through the cartons. "Do you have any suggestions about how we can find a place to stay while we do this? We're staying at the Inn at Saint Mary's."

"Lord, lord, that's too expensive to stay long. Hmm." He gazed into space, his kind face creased into thought. "Let me call Off-Campus Housing, ask around a bit. Oh, the men's room is just down the hall here, and there's a drinkin' fountain, too. Why don't you look around a spell and I'll come right back."

When he'd gone, Blair asked, "You really wanna do this?"

Jim studied him carefully, calling all his senses into play. Blair's heart was a little fast and he was sweating, but that might've been the heat. His eyes were clearer than they'd been since the press conference, and the lines around his mouth a little less evident.

"You?"

Blair nodded, smiling ruefully. "Sorry, man, but I'm in heaven. A real treasure hunt. I feel like a little kid."

"Sandburg, you are a little kid," Jim told him, but smiled back at him. "Yeah, I wanna do it. If we can find a place to live, I can think of worse ways to spend my medical leave."

"Uh, Jim." Blair stopped smiling and stared at the marble floor. "I, uh, don't have any income." He laughed, a gasping sound. "I don't have anything but a shitload of student loans coming due."

"Fuck that, Chief," Jim told him earnestly, feeling himself blush. "I'm on medical, I got my full salary. And the cost of living is supposed to be a lot lower here than on the west coast, right? So we can manage for a while. We'll figure, figure things out later."

Blair nodded, and Jim heard his heart slow again. He sighed deeply. "Thanks, man." He turned back to the carton he was investigating and stuck his head inside it.

Robert came back, carrying a chair for Jim. "You just sit right down," he told him. "I called Cheryl over at Off-Campus Housing and she's looking around for something for you. A lotta faculty don't live in South Bend during the summer; in case you hadn't noticed, it gets pretty hot and humid here. So she may find something for you. And I'll ask around for you, too. There's a staff meetin' tomorrow, so somebody may know something.

"So. Not that it matters, but what hours do you wanna work?"

Blair looked at Jim, who shrugged. "Up to you, Chief. You're the expert."

"I think this kind of work gets tedious pretty quickly," he said to Robert. "How about we work nine to noon, break for lunch, and then one to three? We can get a lot done in five hours, and still have time for a vacation ourselves."

Robert nodded. "That's great. I really appreciate this, Blair. I can't believe you wanna spend your vacation here in the archives, but I sure am grateful. And you, especially, Jim; it isn't even your area."

"I've lived with Sandburg long enough that I think it is my area," he joked, but to his surprise, Blair nodded.

"Yeah, he's picked up a lot. He knows Rainier's library almost as well as I do now."

"Only because I've had to hunt for you in it so often," Jim defended himself weakly.

Robert patted his arm. "I'm sorry you were hurt," he said seriously, "but I'm glad you came out with Blair." And Jim was glad, too.

That night, over dinner at a deli Robert had recommended, Jim laid the South Bend Tribune's want ads down in front of Blair. Several ads were circled. "What?" Blair asked, nibbling on a carrot stick.

"I'm gonna buy an old beater. Cheaper than the rental car."

Blair stared at him, carrot forgotten. "You're going to buy a car."

Jim shrugged. "Yeah. It makes sense. Who knows how long we'll be out here. That's a lotta boxes to get through, and I'm not in a big hurry to get home to Cascade."

Blair nodded, his eyes moving past Jim to the long windows into the deli's bakery section. He nodded again. "Okay. I can understand. It's just -- Jim." To his embarrassment, he had to blink away his emotions.

Jim rustled the paper and cleared his throat. "Here, look at this. It's a 1969 Ford F-150. You think that's a good omen?"

Blair nodded yet again, focusing back on Jim's worried face. "Yeah," he finally said, his voice rusty. "It's blue, right?"

"Uh, well, red, actually. But there's a blue Suburban for sale."

"Nuh-huh. I'm not driving anything called a 'suburban.' My mom would kill me."

"I don't think they make a car called 'alternate lifestyles,'" Jim said wryly.

"Sure they do. They're called Volkswagens."

Jim groaned. "Get outta the sixties, Sandburg."

"Actually, if you're gonna do this, you should get a big car, like an old Buick. Something you can get your leg in."

Jim stared at him and for a moment, Blair wondered if he'd said something rude or stupid. But then Jim's eyes flickered away and he said, "Yeah. Maybe you're right." He rustled the paper again and disappeared behind it.

So, thought Blair, later that night as he brushed his teeth, we're gonna buy a car. Maybe rent a house. I think this is called running away from home.

He spat and rinsed his mouth, then turned his head and peered out of the bathroom at Jim, sitting propped against the headboard watching a baseball game. He looked tired, and Blair could tell by the way his left leg was stretched out at an angle that it hurt, but he looked better than he had in a while. Well, god knew Blair was a big believer in running away. He'd been brought up to it, and it was something he was good at. Maybe it was time to try it again.

He looked back into the mirror. He hadn't meant to take Jim with him this time, was all. And then a thought that had been hovering at the back of his mind ever since they'd taken this crazy road trip finally crystallized, or maybe he simply let it come into focus: in six weeks, the next class at the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission would start. Six weeks. For a moment he froze, toothbrush still in hand. Then he heard Jim sigh and move restlessly on his bed, and he focused on Jim's needs instead. They were easier to deal with: more concrete, more immediate.

Instead of a big car, Jim bought an old Toyota pickup. White with black smudges and a long scratch over the right rear bumper. "My wife backed into the mailbox," the seller explained, and indeed, the mailbox looked backed into. By the time the transaction was completed and the rental returned to the airport, Blair was exhausted and Jim was clearly not well.

"You're running a fever," Blair accused him on the ride back to the Inn.

"Fuck off," Jim said, his eyes closed against the late afternoon sunlight. It had been another broiling day and both men were sweat-stained and dirty. The Toyota didn't have air conditioning so the windows were open, and Blair's curls were mashed into a ponytail that was coming down. It would take him a half hour to comb it out, he knew from experience, and then Jim would yell at him for shedding.

But Jim went straight to bed, sweaty and dirty as he was. Blair persuaded him to take two ibuprofen and drink a glass of water, but nothing more. He also put ice in the shower cap he'd found in a tiny package in the bathroom, wrapped it in a damp towel, and laid it on top of Jim's wound, which was warm. Jim lay on top of the covers, eyes closed, skin drawn into tiny goosebumps from the air conditioning and ice pack. "You dialed down?" Blair whispered, and he nodded minutely. "Then go to sleep," Blair instructed him, and Jim sighed deeply. As if given permission, he fell into a deep sleep, snoring slightly. Blair turned on the white noise generator and shut himself in the bathroom to take a cool shower and drink a gallon of water.

They stayed in again the next day; Blair called Robert to explain that Jim wasn't quite well yet. Robert was effusively worried and wanted to run errands for them. It was with difficulty that Blair persuaded him that Jim only needed rest and quiet. They had room service wait on them, and Jim napped several hours, then read quietly, while Blair wrote another email to his mother, saving it to his harddrive but not sending it. He hadn't sent a single one yet.

Around seven that night, the phone in the room rang. "Hello?" Blair asked curiously.

"Hi," a young woman's voice said, sounding uncertain. "This is Tina Watson. I'm a music major at Notre Dame. My friend's cousin is Robert James, and he suggested I give you a call. He says you're looking for a place to stay this summer."

Blair caught Jim's eye; he sat up straighter in bed, obviously listening in. "Yeah, we are. Do you have a place?"

"Well, I don't, but I'm staying in one you might be interested in. It's way out in the country, about ten miles west of South Bend. It's a real nice place," she hastened, "but it's too big and too isolated for me by myself. A girlfriend is gonna let me stay with her, but I need to find someone to take care of this place. Professor Wilde from Notre Dame lends it to his students in the summer. Do you think you'd be interested?"

"You say it's a big place? More than one bedroom?"

"Oh, yeah. Five bedrooms, and a big study the professor uses, and a great kitchen. He's a wonderful cook. Um, a two-car garage. A big screened-in porch so you can sit out at night and not get eaten by mosquitoes."

"It sounds great," Blair told her, and Jim nodded, looking better than he had in two days. "When can we see it?"

"Well, I'm spending the night with my girlfriend here in town. I could come by tomorrow and take you there."

"That'd be great. What time?"

She laughed, still sounding shy and now a little embarrassed. "Well, I was going to a party tonight, so I'd like to sleep in. Would noon be okay?"

Blair had to smile; it wasn't that long ago he'd been partying all night and sleeping till noon. "Noon would be fine. We'll meet you in the lobby."

"Great," she enthused. "What a relief. I really couldn't stay out there much longer. See you tomorrow."

"Have a good time at the party," Blair told her, and hung up. He looked at Jim, whose eyebrows were raised.

"Why do you suppose she can't stay there?" he asked Blair, who shrugged.

"To far from town to party and get home?" he suggested, only partially facetiously. "You can ask her tomorrow."

He went to bed feeling happier than he had in a long time. A house, a car, and a job, although a non-paying one. And Jim, he added as he drifted into a contented sleep. And Jim. For six weeks, he reminded himself, but he fell asleep deciding how to approach the task of inventorying all those cartons.

Aside from the slight smell of manure and a slow oil leak, the Toyota seemed to be working out fine, Blair thought, as he followed Tina along a narrow, pot-holed road to the house in the country the next day. Jim was leaning half out the window like a dog trying to cool off in the breeze. The land was as flat as if ironed, covered by tall gold grasses that stood motionless in the early afternoon sun. It was over ninety degrees, with ninety percent humidity.

At last they pulled into a graveled driveway. "I saw that house from miles back," Jim told Blair, sounding a bit awed. "I couldn't figure out what it was -- the light and flatness must distort my vision somehow."

"We'll have to test that," Blair said promptly. "What else do you see?"

"Nothing. Really, not a damn thing. Just the house, the grass, and those trees over there. It must be miles to the nearest neighbor."

The driveway was long sweep of gravel, leading to a two-story brick home that looked like something out of Life magazine in the fifties: red brick, wide front porch, two enormous elms on either side. Blair pulled into the open garage, which stood separate from the house and slightly to its rear, with a lightning rod and a tiny satellite dish on the roof; the shade was a blessing. He staggered from the truck, and hurried to the passenger side to help Jim out. The truck really was too small for someone Jim's size, but the price had been right and it was an automatic, which meant Jim could drive it in an emergency, something Blair sincerely hoped did not occur.

Tina climbed out of her Taurus. She was a pretty girl, tall with long dark hair, Blair had noticed, and had also noticed that he'd started flirting with her right away, almost on auto-pilot. He didn't even know why; she was too young for him, and it wasn't as though he were looking for a relationship right now. Right now, his relationship with Jim was all he could handle, and some days, even it was too much.

"Well, let's go inside," she said, and Blair thought she sounded a bit hesitant. However, she strode off toward the steps up to the veranda, leaving Blair to follow with Jim at his side.

"I don't know," he murmured as he helped Jim up the steps. "This is awfully isolated. And it's two stories. How are you going to manage stairs? This is nuts."

"Chill out, Sandburg," was all Jim said. "Let's just take a look first before we panic."

Well, I wasn't exactly panicking, Blair thought, but kept silent. Instead, once they'd made it to the top of the steps, he said, "This place is huge."

Jim didn't answer; Blair looked up at him, so near that he could feel the aura of sweat escaping from Jim's shirt. He was looking away from the house, into the sea of grass and, beyond that, fields of tall crinkly corn lined up row on row for as far as Blair could see. He watched Jim for nearly a minute, ignoring Tina's chatter as she unlocked the door, until he grew concerned that his friend had fallen into a zone. "Jim?" he murmured, and gently squeezed his waist. Jim sighed heavily, almost a gasp, and then dropped his eyes to look back at him.

"It's hypnotic," he said hesitantly, but Blair understood. The flatness distorted his own mundane vision, and the heat made the gold and green fields shimmer seductively. The quiet, the heat, the humidity, the isolation -- it was as though they'd stepped into another century, one in which electric motors and gas engines hadn't yet been invented to foul the air and disturb the peace.

"Guys?" Tina asked, sounding a little annoyed, and Jim and Blair turned toward her. She stood in the doorway, the interior of the house dark to invisibility behind her. A smell of camphor and citronella and eucalyptus rolled out, strong enough that Blair could sense them. "Home, sweet home," Jim whispered, and it was his whisper, not the words, that made Blair laugh as they followed Tina across the threshold into what might become their summer home.

Six weeks, a small voice reminded him. Only for six weeks. But Blair ignored it and concentrated on his surroundings.

The house was huge, Blair rapidly discovered. The ground floor consisted of a long glassed-in foyer leading into a living room with a handsome baby grand piano and a massive fireplace. Not something they'd probably use this summer. Beyond it was a formal dining room, with an elaborately looped design of leaves molded into the ceiling. Then the kitchen, which, as Tina had told them, was like something from the Starship Enterprise, the gleaming black stove claiming center stage. Above it hung a cluster of copper-bottomed pots and pans. The double-door fridge and the dishwasher were also black. And beyond the kitchen was what could only be called a breakfast nook, an extrusion of the building into a bay window with padded seats built in and an octagonal table. Through the windows, Blair could see an unkempt lawn with a swing set and a, a glider, he thought it was called: a free-standing swing under its own canopy.

On the other side, the kitchen let out onto a utility porch with old-fashioned glass shutters over the window screens. A washer and dryer sat side by side under the windows, and there was a large enameled sink with an expanse of counter space on one side. Jim made his way to the back door and looked out through the curtained window. "Is that a lake?" he asked.

Tina laughed. "Yeah. A pond, I'd call it. There's a beat up old pier, half falling into the water, and a little rowboat tied to it."

"Any fishing?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't know, but it couldn't hurt to try."

"You are not climbing into a boat with that leg," Blair said sotto voce, not wanting to embarrass Jim, but already envisioning arguments about this.

To his surprise, Jim nodded. "Probably not," he agreed sadly. "But I could fish from the shore. Maybe take a lawn chair down there."

"Over here's the tv room," Tina called, and Blair realized they still hadn't seen all of the first floor. There was a hallway running from the main living room behind the dining room; off it branched several more rooms, including a large bathroom with an old-fashioned tub, the tv room, and what Tina referred to as the Professor's Study.

He liked that room immediately. It had a friendly, homey feeling to it, he thought, helping Jim sit on the deep maroon leather couch that ran the length of the room under the windows. There was a big desk, its surface clear except for a banker's lamp, and built-in bookcases, crammed with music dictionaries and reference books and bound sheet music.

"This sofa folds out into a bed," Tina explained, lifting a back cushion to show them the strap that pulled the bed out. "I started sleeping down here because it's cooler. You get a good cross breeze when you open these windows and the ones in the kitchen." These windows were shuttered against the brilliant heat of the day; Blair flicked a louver and saw the driveway leading to the garage and, beyond that, more fields leading into a forest. Gingkos and black walnut trees, he thought, squinting against the light.

"Can you get upstairs?" Tina asked Jim solicitously.

"No, he can't." The two men glared at each other, but Jim obviously knew Blair was right. He settled back into the sofa and took a sip from the bottle of water they'd started carrying with them everywhere in defense against the heat.

"Okay," she said, and turned to Blair.

"Before we go, Tina. How much is the rent?"

"Oh, Professor Wilde doesn't charge rent. You just have to pay the utilities. Doesn't come to too awful much. It's mostly electricity; the water is from a well. He just doesn't want the house sitting empty for three months. It's so isolated, no telling what might happen."

"I think we can afford that, Chief."

Blair nodded. Well, it didn't matter if they liked the house or not, which he did; if he was going to sponge off Jim, he wanted to do so as cheaply as possible. Free rent would help.

"Why aren't you staying?" Jim asked her.

She blushed. "Well. Like I said, it's awful isolated. And to be honest, I get a little scared at night. You know how houses settle? And creak. Sometimes I wake up --" she laughed nervously. "It's ridiculous, really. I'm embarrassed to talk about it."

"It can be hard to live alone," Blair assured her, remembering the warehouse and its rats scuttling in the night, and how much happier he'd been once he'd moved into the loft. How much safer he felt knowing Jim was just a few feet overhead when he'd awaken from his own nightmares.

Then for the first time since they had left Cascade, he remembered the dream he'd had the morning of their departure. It bothered him to think of that odd little nightmare hanging around in his head, all but forgotten. As though it could have gotten up to mischief while Blair's attention was elsewhere.

Ridiculous, he thought, and followed Tina out of the Professor's Study, leaving Jim behind.

The stairwell was a narrow, old-fashioned one set off the kitchen. As Tina set foot on the first step, Blair noticed the door next to it. "Where's this go?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, backing down and turning around. "To the basement." She hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and they peered down. "There's nothing much down there. You can go down if you like."

He shook his head. "Later. Let's see upstairs first."

"Good." She shut the door firmly behind her; he noticed that she locked it, too.

Upstairs were four large bedrooms and one bath, this one a bit more modern. "This is the best bedroom, I think," she told him, letting him enter the bedroom at the rear of the house. There were windows on two walls, low wide ones with gauzy drapes floating over them, dimming the luminous day beyond them. A king bed was set kitty-corner between the windows, with tables on either side and a matching chest of drawers against an interior wall.

"It is nice," he agreed, looking around. The walls were white, the ceiling a very pale pink. The bed was an island of white: white bedspread mounded with different shapes and sizes of white pillows. There were small lamps on both tables, and full bookcases under the windows. He could picture himself sleeping here, drifting off as a breeze riffled the pages of his book.

"Yeah. I used to sleep here. It just gets so hot some nights, though, and downstairs stays cooler."

"Yeah," he said idly, staring out one of the windows, the one away from the road they'd driven in on. It looked out over endless fields of corn standing nearly motionless in the heat, the broad, identical corrugated leaves flashing in the sunlight. The air smelled rich and thick; he wondered, as he had so often, what it smelled like to Jim.

He dropped his gaze lower and realized there was a small vegetable garden in the side yard. "Hey, are those tomato plants?"

"Yeah." Tina stood next to him and pointed. "And summer squash and eggplant and sweet peppers and some cucumbers and see the posts? Those'll be string beans. I was raised on a farm in Michigan and miss having fresh veggies in the house. My dad still comes to the farmer's market every Saturday."

Blair turned, one hand on the warm window sash. It was a lot warmer up here than downstairs, and he could feel sweat trickling down his side, pooling at the elastic waist of his shorts. "Farmer's market?"

"Yeah. Every Saturday. You haven't been?" He shook his head. "Oh, I'll draw you a map. It's great this time of year. Wait till you try the blueberries."

Blair was sure he heard Jim moan downstairs, and smiled. "Yeah, please, draw us a map." He followed her down, happy to escape to the cooler parts of the house.

"So," Tina asked a few minutes later, sitting in the Professor's Study, "do you think you want to stay here?"

Blair turned to look at Jim, who was sprawled on the couch, empty water bottle lying next to him. Thin bars of sunlight fell over him through the louvered blinds. As he had for the last few weeks, Blair focused his attention on Jim's left upper calf, where Zeller had shot him. The wound was healing well, but the damaged muscle would take a while to regenerate. The scars weren't terrible; Jim wasn't frightening children in the streets, but the skin was still red and shiny. When he was on his leg too long, it would swell a bit and grow warm.

But right now, he looked well and comfortable. After a few seconds had passed, Blair murmured, "Jim?"

He nodded, and sat up straighter. "Yeah, Tina. Are you sure it'll be okay, though? I mean, this professor left you here, not two strangers from across the country."

"I can write him -- he's in England for the summer -- but I think it'll be okay. I mean, yeah, you're strangers, but you're grown-ups," and she blushed a little when she said that, "plus you're cops, plus you're working at Notre Dame."

Well, it wasn't entirely correct, Blair thought, but close enough. He liked the house, its size and location, but it was isolated, and there were all those stairs. Unless Jim came to school with him each day, he'd be pretty much stuck here.

"I checked out the tv," Jim finally said, looking a little sheepish. "They must get a couple hundred channels."

"Yeah, and there's a vegetable garden out back," Blair told him. "Plus that pond. Maybe some fresh fish for dinner one night."

Jim looked at Blair, really studying him. Blair was accustomed to these investigations by now; hell, he'd trained Jim to do them. So he sat patiently, letting Jim check his heart and lungs and, he had a suspicion, his synaptic firings. At last Blair said, "Tina, the thing is, we're only here for a few weeks, so we can't take it off your hands for the summer. But we do need to get out of the hotel --"

"That's okay. That would give me time to find someone else. It's just -- I just would like to get out, you know?"

The two men stared at each other again, gauging each other's feelings. Finally, Jim said, "Yeah. Yeah, if you're comfortable leaving things to us, we'll take good care of the place till you can find someone else."

"Oh, that's great," Tina said, bouncing up. "What a relief! Normally I go home for the summers, but I'm taking a couple classes and needed a place to stay. I thought this would be perfect -- I can practice piano here all day and nobody can hear a thing -- but it's just too lonely for me, you know?"

Blair nodded, looking at her. She looked so relieved and pleased; he was glad Jim had agreed. Already she was pulling the keys off a ring, handing them to Jim, explaining what went where. "The water's on a well," she told him, "so when the power goes out, you need to be careful. I keep bottled water in the kitchen; you'll wanna replace it regularly. It goes kinda flat after it's sat in the heat for a while."

"How often does the power go out?"

"Well, pretty often, but not for long. Sometimes after a storm, and sometimes for no reason. Oh, the candles and matches are here." She babbled on. Blair let Jim handle the arrangements. He wandered into the kitchen and looked around. They'd be cooking here, and eating. Jim sitting at that table, reading the paper, talking over their day. He smiled at the image. The kitchen was on the north side of the house and a tall cottonwood stood just outside the windows, its shade falling on the house that early afternoon. Its leaves made a cool rustling sound, a lot like rain pattering on dry ground.

He caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye and turned to look out the breakfast nook's windows. Nothing there but the tomato plants, shivering in the heat.

"Chief?" He hurried back to the study. "I think we're ready to go." Blair understood this as an embarrassed plea to help Jim out of the couch, so he stood next to him and put his hands on Jim's upper arm.

"One, two, three," he whispered, and pulled. Using the cane as leverage, Jim pushed his good leg into the floor and stood, then stretched.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and Blair patted his arm before letting him go.

"You wanna spend the night here?"

Jim nodded. "Tomorrow, if you don't mind."

"Sounds like a plan," Blair agreed, and they started back toward the front door.

"Um," Tina said in a hesitant voice, standing near the piano in the front room. Jim planted the cane and stood nearly at attention. She lightly touched the piano's keys, a ghostly melody welling up from its body. "Just. This is really silly," she said in a rush. "But one reason I'm leaving is I. Well. Sometimes I think -- it's like someone's trying to get into the house."

"Someone's tried to break in?" Blair asked, concerned. "Have you reported it?"

"No one ever really broke in. It's just a feeling. Being all alone out here, you know." She looked at them, pink in her face. "Like I said, it's silly."

Blair glanced back at Jim, who nodded. "It's okay," he finally said, and Jim nodded at that, too.

"Yeah, it's okay, Tina. We'll be fine."

"Good. Yeah. Of course." She turned and practically ran out the door and down the steps. Jim looked at Blair, one eyebrow raised. Blair shrugged.

"Maybe it's haunted," he suggested lightly, Jim rolled his eyes. "Been there, done that?"

"Come on, Sandburg," was all he said, and they got themselves back to the car, the interior baking hot even hidden in the garage from the sun.

They agreed to move out the next day, after working at least a few hours in the library, "Since that's ostensibly why we're here, man." Jim agreed, smiling sadly at him from across the cab of their new pickup. Blair was tired, and feeling a little anxious, as though something were pressing against his heart. He knew it was the dissertation mess, and Wendy's threat. "Jim," he started, but then he pulled into the hotel's parking lot and found he couldn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say.

Robert was happy to see them the next day, and fussed over Jim, getting him settled in a comfortable chair next to a desk he'd dragged in from somewhere in the library, making them coffee, asking about the house. "You're sure you're up for this?" he asked.

Blair watched them, mildly irritated with Robert's attentions but equally grateful for them. A little case of hero worship, he diagnosed; he suffered from that himself. Jim looked like the hero he was, and with the cane and limp, he was even more affecting. It would do Jim good to be fussed over by someone other than Blair, he supposed. Still.

"Look, I've been worried about your, about your injury," Robert said shyly, and held out a small square of plastic to Jim.

"What is this?" he asked, taking it and turning it over in his hand. "Oh, wait, Robert."

"No, please. It's just a temporary one. Just till you feel better."

"What is it?" Blair asked.

Jim flushed, and Blair saw he was a little annoyed. "Handicapped parking pass."

"Hey, Robert, great! Thank you."

"I just didn't want Jim to have to walk too far in this heat. You can park right outside the front doors on the east side of the library."

"You didn't have to do this," Jim told him, his voice rough.

"I know. But you're helping me by doing all this. It's the least I could do."

Jim nodded his head; Blair could tell he was trying to be grateful. Or at least appear to be grateful. He knew he'd be hearing about this later.

When Robert finally returned to his own work, Blair leaned against the boxes and said, a little maliciously, "Robert likes you."

"Well, I like Robert," Jim said primly, sipping Robert's coffee.

"Not like he likes you."

"How do you know?" Jim raised his eyebrows.

"How do I -- you goof." They grinned at each other, for a moment, back to their usual selves. One of the best surprises about Jim, in Blair's mind, was his dry sense of humor and his deadpan delivery. It made him a great cop and poker player; it also made Blair laugh. But then, as always, the weight of everything that had happened crashed down on Blair and he turned back to the boxes. "Listen, I've been thinking. We need to do a straight inventory -- just find out what's in here. How about I call out to you the book title and author and you enter it into my laptop?"

Jim nodded. "I can do that. Just get me all set up." So Blair booted up the laptop and arranged some boxes as a table for Jim, then launched Excel.

"Just type in the author in this column and the title next to it. That way I can do an alpha sort. Oh, and what box it's in. Once we know what's here, we can figure out how to organize it, and then what it's worth."

"Why would that change what a book is worth?"

"Well, some of them might be part of complete sets, and they'd be more valuable than books from incomplete sets. Or there might be several editions of the same book. Won't really know until we see it all."

Jim nodded. "Gotcha, Chief. Just remember you'll have to spell out some of the names. And get yourself something to drink; you'll be doing the thirsty work, and you shouldn't get dehydrated in this heat."

"It's cold in here," he said, even as he pulled quarters out of his pocket. "You want anything?" Jim shook his head. Blair kept his own head down as he left the room to buy a bottle of water from the vending machines on the next floor down. He was genuinely touched by Jim's simple observation, but told himself that Jim was a decent man who by his very nature took care of those around him. Even Robert. It was just who he was.

He'd calmed somewhat by the time he'd returned, water bottle slippery with condensation in his hand. Jim had organized a template, labeling the columns and giving the document a header, he saw. Thorough. Jim was always thorough.

So they started the actual work that had brought Blair all this way. Jim insisted he start with the box labeled "1," which took some time to find and then had to be disinterred from beneath three other heavy boxes. "Jesus," he grunted, trying to rearrange the cartons, "this'll be my new work out."

Once Blair finally opened the box and started unpacking it, Jim had to create a second document to list the stuff the movers had packed away. Little knickknacks, mostly, and tchotchkes. Some might be valuable, but Blair had no way to judge. Candlesticks, ashtrays, vases, little containers made of wood or papier-mache, a bottle of eau de lavender, still half full. On and on that list grew, annoying both men. "What kind of library was this," Jim growled when Blair had pulled from the box a bouquet of faded plastic flowers. Blair stuck a phony poinsettia in his curls and struck a pose.

"Is it me?" he asked, and Jim grinned and shook his head.

"Oh, it's you all right. You just need a rose between your teeth and we'll be set."

By noon, Blair was getting hoarse. "Enough," Jim decided. "Let's take the rest of the day off, get moved in." They'd checked out of the hotel that morning, so all their luggage was in the Toyota. They needed to do some grocery shopping, but Tina had assured them they wouldn't need anything else. "Get some lunch, head on out there. Start fresh tomorrow."

Blair was easily persuaded.

Their first night in the house, Jim sat in the kitchen reading the local paper while Blair steamed rice and veggies on the supersonic stove. It was gas, which he was used to from the loft, but the flames had digital controls and temperature gauges. Blair was a little concerned about the Mauviel copper-bottomed pots; he wasn't sure how to clean them, but figured Jim would know.

After dinner, they sat quietly together at the table. Blair thought Jim looked tired and promised himself to take a good look at the gunshot wound in his calf. He was tired himself; it had been a big day. Starting the new job, moving into the house. Everything felt surreal. He couldn't figure out how he'd gotten here, how his life had turned upside down so quickly. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to rest. Slowly he became aware of how quiet it was. No neighbors, no passing cars, no television noises seeping into the house. It was just Jim and Blair and several hundred acres of corn.

When he opened his eyes, Jim was studying him thoughtfully. For a moment, he thought they'd talk, but then Jim was pushing himself away and up from the table, using the table and the chair back to help himself up. "No, wait, Jim," Blair protested, jumping to his feet. "I'll clean up. Just sit there and keep me company."

"You can't do everything, Sandburg," he growled, but sat obediently, and Blair thought again how tired he seemed.

"Look. I'll just rinse these and stick them in the dishwasher. Then you can shower and get to bed. Oh, hell," he added. "I'll have to get you upstairs to a shower, or else you'll have to use the bathtub. Do you think you can get in and out of it?"

"I've been bathing myself since I was two." But behind the irritation, Blair heard concern.

"Yeah, yeah," he said lightly, flipping the dishtowel over his shoulder and ferrying their dishes to the counter. "I'll help you in and out, but beyond that, you're on your own." He would have sworn that Jim blushed as he turned to rinse the dishes.

"Shit," Jim muttered, "shit, shit, shit, shit," as Blair had to steady him while he lifted his bad leg into the filling tub. "I can't believe this."

"Well, we could've waited for another place . . ."

"No, I wanted to get settled." He was standing nude in the tub, flushed from exertion and embarrassment, Blair assumed.

"Uh, call me when you need to get out," he said and turned.

"Chief." When he looked back, Jim was fire-engine red. "I can't sit down."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Blair started babbling, and grabbed Jim's arm to act as a counterweight as he slowly bent his knees. "Does it hurt much?"

"No," Jim grunted, his tone belying his words. "Oh, fuck." Blair shook his head but held on until Jim was finally seated and had stretched out his legs in the tub. "Christ, Sandburg. I'm sorry."

"No, no. Man, you're a hero, you saved Megan and Simon, don't be stupid, it's an honor to help you, I'm just so sorry --"

"Chief. Sandburg. Blair." At last Blair released Jim's arm and stood up. "Thanks."

"Yeah. Call me."

He went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. It still needed wiping, but he was so tired. For a moment, he thought he might cry; the pressure in his throat made it hard to swallow, and his eyes burned. He put his hands over his face and sighed heavily. Shit. How had everything gone so wrong so fast? What the hell was he doing in Indiana?

And he was worried about Jim's leg. They needed to find a doctor, get it looked at. It looked okay to Blair, and Jim had been trained as a medic, so presumably he'd recognize a problem, but frankly, taking care of himself wasn't one of Jim's strong points. Blair would feel a lot better if someone with the letters MD after their name reassured him.

At last he rubbed his face and looked around the strange kitchen. His home for the next five and a half weeks. Just until the academy starts, he whispered to himself, and felt his stomach turn over. He shut his eyes again and started counting his breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. It's okay, it's okay, he chanted. He suddenly wanted to call his mom, hear her sweet voice. Tomorrow, maybe. Right now he needed to tidy up, haul Jim's ass out of that tub, take his own shower, oh, shit, he had to make up Jim's bed in the Professor's Study. He pushed himself up from the table, as wearily as Jim had, and started to work.

Jim sat in the tepid water, staring into space, and wondered how the hell he'd gotten to Indiana. He splashed his face and rubbed it, then tried to relax back against the tub. Now that he was actually in the water, it felt pretty good, although getting in had been mortifying. Thank god Sandburg was so calm and accepting about these things.

His leg hurt. He wouldn't admit it to Blair, but it just fucking hurt. And he was pretty sure that limping on it was pulling on the muscles in his calf and in his back. Even his neck ached. Well, he'd have a good soak, take some aspirin, and sleep until he woke up tomorrow. At least the wound itself looked good and seemed to be healing well.

He cast his thoughts back over the day. Their first day at the new job, if it could be called a job; their first day in the new house. The work they were doing in the library wasn't bad; he'd enjoyed playing on Sandburg's laptop, watching Blair stare in amazement at some of the shit he was pulling out of those boxes. The plastic flowers, in particular, had amused Jim, and he smiled, remembering them in Blair's hair.

He was a little embarrassed at Robert's attention, but also flattered, he admitted. The way Robert looked at him -- as if he really were the hero Blair called him. Although he was a little annoyed about the handicapped parking permit. He wasn't handicapped. Just not entirely well at the moment. But if it meant not traipsing miles across campus in the heat, he supposed it'd be worth it, to save Blair the effort.

He could hear Blair out in the kitchen, putzing around. Making tea, it sounded like, and then walking back and forth through the house. He listened carefully, trying to decipher the sounds. The floor creaking. Fabric over fabric. A soft metallic sound. Coming from the study, he thought. Making up the bed, that's what he was doing; Jim could hear the sheets being shaken out and settling onto the mattress.

He splashed around a bit, washing himself, trying to get the residue of the day off his body before crawling into bed. He was so tired. He couldn't imagine how Blair was doing it, working so hard to take care of him. It was embarrassing; that was the only word for it. And he'd never been a gracious patient. But Blair deserved better, right now. His whole life discarded like an empty candy wrapper, left in the gutters of Cascade.

Goddammit.

Perhaps it was the ache of his leg and or just the frustration of still being so dependent that brought back emotions he'd tried to leave behind in Cascade. More probably, though, it was thinking about Blair in the library today. So happy, doing the work he'd been trained for. How could Blair have been so careless about work he loved so much? It still made Jim a little crazy to realize that apparently Blair had never thought any of it through. Not once in four years. He'd spent all that time writing a dissertation about one man -- one freak, Jim thought, embracing every ugliness his psyche suggested -- with no idea what would happen when he finished. Apparently he really had believed he'd be able to protect Jim's identity. How could he have thought that? Jim had known better all along. He was no anthropologist, but he knew damn well that if you told the world you had the holy grail buried in your backyard, then you'd better be prepared to dig it up when the photographers came around.

Jim had even taken a perverse sort of pleasure in imagining the laboratory tests and experiments which would be sure to follow the publication of Blair's thesis. As excruciating as they would have been, the process would have delayed the inevitable for just a little while longer. Blair would have stayed by his side through it all, Jim knew that. He wouldn't have left Jim for that tenure-track job. At least not until his dissertation had been validated.

It had been a bigger shock even than that first microphone stuck through the window of the truck to discover Blair had never seen their future that way at all. He really had imagined that he could come up with a way to publish without compromising Jim's identity. Without impacting Jim's life at all. Just assumed that somehow things would turn out okay, both he and Jim perfectly happy. Nothing had ever shaken that blithe optimism. Not Lee Brackett, not Jim's reaction to the introductory chapter of his thesis, not even Alex Barnes. Through everything, Blair had never stopped believing the world was saving a place for him in the sun.

Jim felt a dull pain somewhere in the region of his solar plexus, and his eyes and nose prickled, as though he were on the verge of tears. Blair's naivete had infuriated him. In the first hours and days after the dissertation had been made public, the realization of just how foolish and innocent Blair had really been all along had made him so angry he'd barely been able to stand being in the same room with his partner. But now, sitting in a bathtub full of rapidly cooling water somewhere in the wilds of Indiana, Jim realized that if it had lain in his power to return any one thing of all that Blair had lost, he would give Blair back not his career or his academic standing or even his reputation, but that infuriating, childlike optimism.

He was ready to climb out, his fingers pruning from the water. He grabbed one edge of the tub with both hands and pulled his legs under him. Then, using his good leg, he tried to stand up, but the tub was slippery and his body was twisted awkwardly; he couldn't get any leverage. He sat down heavily, splashing water onto the tile floor. Sighing, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor tonight, and shouted, "Chief!"

The door flew open and Blair was there, hair falling out of his ponytail and sticking to his sweaty face. "Yeah, you okay? Ready to get out?"

Jim nodded. Blair came up behind him and slid his hands under Jim's arms. "Get your good leg ready to push off, okay? Now, one, two, and three," and Blair pulled Jim upright. For a little guy, he had a lot of power, and Jim rose like Neptune from the rolling bath water. "Towel," Blair said, handing him one, and then slipped back out the door. The process hadn't taken a minute, and Jim hadn't had time to be embarrassed. Well, any more embarrassed than he already was.

The study was made up for him, the couch opened into a bed and pale green sheets neatly tucked in. A glass of water stood on the end table and one light gleamed. The windows were open and the louvers raised a bit so a warm breeze could float through the room.

"Hey, look," Blair said, coming into the study behind him. "I found a stash of candles. I'm putting a couple in here in case we lose power like Tina said. Some in the bathroom and kitchen, and a couple up where I'm sleeping."

"Where are you sleeping, anyway?"

"Master bedroom. It's warm, but there are lots of windows plus a fan, so I should be okay. If not, I'll come down here and sleep in the living room."

"Does that couch make out into a bed, too?"

"Naw, but it's long enough for me to sleep on. Don't worry about it."

"Leave a light on, would ya, Chief? In the hallway or bathroom or something? I don't want you to break your neck the first night here."

"You got it." Blair looked up from the end table where he'd sat two candles in glass votives and a box of Diamond matches. "I'm gonna go up now, take a shower and go to bed. You need anything before I go?"

"No." Blair started to leave; before he reached the door, Jim said shyly, "Thanks, Chief."

Blair looked back at him. In the dim light, he looked tired, with circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth. "Not a problem. You call if you need anything."

Jim nodded, and watched Blair go. He lay down in the strange bed, trying to get comfortable. It was queen size, so he had some room, but the mattress was a little thin. Still, the sheets were cool and smelled faintly of lavender, and the breeze coming through the windows above him was nice. He listened to Blair climb the stairs and then, a few minutes later, the water start up. He turned up his hearing and followed Blair into the shower, making sure he was okay. Blair was sighing deeply and repeatedly. The sighs of a man who had found out the hard way that things didn't always turn out for the best, no matter how smart you were or how hard you worked. A few minutes more and the water was silenced until Blair brushed his teeth, and then Jim heard him climb into his own bed, the mattress springs creaking like a honeymoon joke.

"Good night, Chief," Jim whispered, sorry that Blair couldn't hear him.

Blair was awake at dawn, and he lay in bed staring up at the pale pink ceiling that seemed to glow a little with the yellow light of the sunrise. It was going to be another scorcher. The air was still and cool, but it smelled of yesterday's hot earth and humidity. Blair had the impression that a sound had awakened him, perhaps Jim moving around downstairs, but as he lay quietly and listened, he heard nothing but bird calls floating in his open windows. He'd slept well, dreamlessly and hard. He hoped Jim had, too.

He got up and went to the windows to look out at the world that would be their home for the next five and a half weeks. The morning light softened the edges of the landscape, and there was a faint mist clinging to the ground, too faint for him to really see except for the way it made the fields of corn look like a vast body of water stretching out on all sides. As though this house were a ship, the gauzy curtains its sails, hanging windlessly now, marooned upon a green Sargasso Sea.

Blair headed downstairs in search of coffee. It occurred to him that they had come a hell of a long way for just a good night's sleep, but he wasn't about to say it hadn't been worth it.

He found that Tina had left them a handful of coffee beans sealed in a plastic baggie and tucked on a shelf in the freezer door. Sending his silent but heart-felt gratitude out to her, he dumped them into the electric grinder before it occurred to him that if Jim were still asleep, the noise of a coffee mill would certainly wake him up. Back at the loft, Blair had long since settled into the routine of grinding their coffee the night before, but set adrift as they were now, he was losing track of their habits.

He walked as quietly as he could to the door of Jim's roo