Author's webpage: http://members.aol.com/LanningCk/index.html

Author's disclaimer: Not mine, no money, yadda yadda...

Author's notes: Thanks to Marnee, friend, roommate, psychologist, and beta reader extraordinaire.

True Minds
by Lanning Cook

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove,
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his highth be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Sonnet 110, William Shakespeare

"A little to the left. No, no, too far! Back to the right again."

Blair leaned back on his bed and watched as Jim Ellison gritted his teeth and shoved the chest of drawers to the right. The little twitch in Jim's jaw muscle told Blair that his friend was very near the end of his patience, and Blair wondered in amusement just how much more of this crap he'd take. Jim had already spent three hours hauling all of Blair's stuff back up to the loft, and Blair had kept him rearranging the furniture in the closet that passed for Blair's room for another half hour. And Jim had taken it. As acts of penance go, this was thoroughly Ellisonian, rife with mortification of both body and spirit. Oh, yeah. This was very, very Jim.

Blair managed, with difficulty, to keep the grin off his face. The justice of this sackcloth-and- ashes routine did not elude him. After all, it was Jim who had moved Blair's stuff out of here in the first place, and it was only fair that he put it back. Blair would have helped (no, really, he would have), but he was already in trouble with the doctor for haring off to South America to help Jim when he was supposed to have been home in bed ... which was all it took to put Blair back on the DL as far as Jim was concerned. Blair protested outwardly, but inwardly was glad of a chance to take it easy and get rid of the shakes. That little trip via the fountain to - well, to wherever Jim had found him - had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. And the trip to Sierra Verde hadn't helped either. Anyway, how often did a guy get a chance to witness an example of perfect justice? Guilt-free paybacks. You gotta love 'em.

Jim turned to the man lying on the small bed behind him as he wiped the sweat from his face. "Well?"

Blair cocked his head to one side, pursing his lips slightly as he examined the chest's new position carefully, and then took a leisurely swig of his beer. Jim waited, arms folded across his chest, his expression determinedly patient. Only the slight motion as he rocked from heel to toe betrayed his emotional state. Close. So close. "Sorry, man. Could we try it on the other wall again?"

"WE! WE?"

SCORE! Mount Ellison erupts. Blair assumed an expression of bewildered innocence. "Huh?"

"There is no WE moving this damn thing here, Sandburg! There is only ME. ME, Jim Ellison, cop, after a long day's work!"

Blair glanced from the chest to Jim over the top of his glasses because Jim really, really hated it when Blair looked at him over his glasses. "Something wrong?"

Jim's face went from magenta to fuscia to plum. "SOMETHING WRONG? I've been lugging your shit for ... for...."

"Three hours and forty-two minutes," filled in Blair with prompt cheerfulness, glancing at his watch.

"And you're lying there timing me now!"

"And seven seconds."

"You're enjoying this," hissed Jim, advancing on Blair. "You're fucking enjoying this!"

"And how do you feel about that?" asked Blair with shocking analytical earnestness. "Let's explore your emotional...."

"I've I've got your exploration right here!" Jim snatched up a pillow and brandished it, the corners of his mouth twitching suspiciously.

"Fine, fine," sighed Blair, assuming his best wounded puppy expression. "I'll move it. Don't worry about it. The ol' lungs'll probably hold out. Probably."

Blair watched with considerable satisfaction as Jim's eyes widened, then narrowed as the extent of his friend's twisted evil evidently became clear to him. "You rat bastard...."

"Squeak," growled Blair menacingly.

Jim's expression disintegrated into a blindingly broad grin, and with something akin to a roar he pounced onto the bed, ruthlessly pummeling Blair with the pillow. Blair let his laughter go, disregarding the sore muscles in his chest, and managed to yank the pillow out of his attacker's hands and hold it just out of Jim's reach. Jim laughed, wrestling Blair with one hand while the other groped vainly for the stolen pillow. Blair swung the pillow as far from Jim as he could without dropping it. He didn't want to drop it. He didn't want this to stop. Jim's weight, Jim's closeness, Jim's touch....

Shit. Don't do this, don't do this, he can smell this stuff....

"Give it back, Wolfboy," laughed Jim breathlessly.

"Bad ol' Puddy Tat,"gasped Blair, allowing the pillow to be recaptured and accepting its final swat as Jim rolled off him and got to his feet.

"So much for the Big Bad Wolf," he snorted. "You're all bark, Sandburg."

Blair cheerfully flipped Jim the bird, trying not to show how winded the little wrestling match had left him. His chest hurt.

Jim grinned broadly, obviously relishing the insult. "Let's finish this up tomorrow, okay, Chief? I'm beat."

"No problem," said Blair softly, trying to steady his breathing. "I've got an early tutoring session tomorrow anyway. Should get some sleep."

Jim opened his mouth as if about to say something, then hesitated. When he spoke, Blair knew he wasn't saying what he had intended to. "Right. See you tomorrow." He turned toward the door, then back again. "Chief."

"Yeah?"

"It's good to have you back. Here, I mean. Back home." Jim's arms crossed his chest defensively. He cleared his throat in obvious discomfort.

"It's good to be back home, man," said Blair gently. There now, Mr. Ellison, that didn't hurt too much, did it? "Thanks."

"Yeah. Well. Goodnight," muttered Jim, beating a hasty retreat.

Blair watched him go, his smile slowly fading. He hadn't spent three years digging into this big lug's psyche for nothing. Something was eating Jim, and it wasn't just his misplaced guilt over Blair's recent aquatic experience, no matter how much room that bogeyman might be taking up in his issue closet. Something else was churning just beneath the surface, something Blair couldn't for the life of him identify. Whatever it was, it was urging Jim to ever-greater accomplishments in the art of self-flagellation case in point, tonight's little exercise in lifting-with-your-knees. Blair had been forced to play that misguided penitence for all it was worth, just to bring it to the big dope's attention. And since when had Jim Ellison been so slow on the uptake when it came to his own internal affairs? Well, since always, actually, but since his senses had started going on and off like the clock on Blair's VCR it had definitely gotten worse. A definite sign that Jim was once again vacationing at Club Repression, charmingly situated behind the Great Wall of Ellison.

Why the hell wouldn't he talk about it? After what had happened with Alex, after they'd both nearly destroyed their friendship by not talking to each other, Blair had hoped that Jim had learned what he had that a friendship couldn't survive without communication and that a Sentinel and Guide couldn't survive without each other.

Blair immediately winced at his own hypocrisy. How could he come down on Jim for keeping something important to himself when he was doing exactly the same thing? Blair was keeping quiet for good reasons, but Jim probably thought his reasons were good, too. He was wrong, of course. Blair grinned ruefully to himself. Sentinel wrong. Guide right. This was the guiding principle by which Jim Ellison should run his life. But he didn't, and Blair didn't have much hope that he would anytime in the near future.

He sighed again, loudly, then shut his mouth hastily. He had no doubt whatsoever that Jim was still awake, listening for any sound of trouble. Even if his senses were on the blink. He turned off the light, closed his eyes and tried to lie still, to breathe normally. It took him a very long time to fall asleep.

"Blair!"

Blair tried to struggle against the imprisoning hands that held him so tightly and found he couldn't move. He lay in the icy water, choking, quivering, trying desperately to draw air into his lungs that wasn't there.

"Blair, wake up! Breathe!" The arms yanked him upward and held him against something warm and firm. "Wake up!"

Blair tried once more to draw breath and was amazed to find not a wall of black water rushing past his throat, but a rush of warm air. He coughed and wheezed the air into him, clutching convulsively the warm body so close to his own.

"Yeah," said the voice shakily. "There you go. You're okay. You're okay, right? Come on, Chief, talk to me."

Blair forced his eyes open at the barely suppressed panic in that voice and found himself staring up at an ashen-faced Jim Ellison, cradling him in his arms on the floor of Blair's bedroom. "Jim," he gasped, coughing again. "What what ?"

"I don't know," said Jim tautly, making no move to release his grip on Blair. "I heard you groaning in your sleep, and then you fell out of bed and started to choke. No, don't move! Just lie there and breathe for a couple minutes, okay?"

"Okay," murmured Blair, settling back in his friend's arms. No argument here, big guy.

"Sorry, Jim."

"You should be," growled Jim, but his voice quavered so wildly that Blair looked up into his face in alarm. "Like I need this shit after moving your junk all night ." Jim's voice broke. His face twisted as if it were about to break.

"Jim?" Blair tried to rise, but found himself being pulled in a massive bear hug before he could manage it. Startled, he wrapped his arms around his friend. "Hey, man, what ? You okay?" There was no answer except Jim's rough, uneven breathing. Blair relaxed into the embrace, letting his hands rub Jim's back soothingly. "Jim. Talk to me, buddy."

"Sorry," said Jim hoarsely. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" asked Blair blankly.

"Yeah."

Blair's sleep-fogged mind groped blindly for something in the past few days that Jim would feel compelled to apologize for and found nothing.

"I screwed up, Chief," Jim continued in an uneven, raspy voice. "I screwed up real bad, and you paid ." Jim's voice cracked again.

Holy shit. He was apologizing for the meltdown. Blair hadn't ever expected Jim to verbalize an apology for that. It wasn't his way. Jim's apologies were of a more circuitous variety and most definitely an acquired taste moving furniture or cooking dinner or joking about the last month's rent you owed when you'd just risen from the dead. He hadn't anticipated this in his wildest dreams, and finding the right words took a few breaths.

"I screwed up too," said Blair finally, gently. "We both made mistakes, Jim. It's okay. We'll get it right this time."

Jim pulled away slowly, just enough to look into Blair's face. His eyes were suspiciously bright. "Should have said it before," he said huskily. "In the hospital. Didn't know what to say ."

"I know. Me neither." Blair felt his throat tighten.

Jim swallowed hard. "So we're okay?"

"Yeah, big guy," said Blair unevenly, trying to smile. "We're okay."

Jim nodded, but made no effort to release Blair. "And you're okay?"

Blair took a deep breath and winced slightly as his chest muscles rebelled. "Oh, yeah. Just sore. I think I was having a nightmare."

"About drowning," said Jim bleakly, his arm tightening around Blair's shoulders.

"Felt like it," murmured Blair, shaken by the devastated expression on Jim's face. "It happened a couple times in the hospital, and in Sierra Verde."

Jim was silent for a moment. "I I was hoping you didn't remember it," he said dully.

"I don't," said Blair softly, amazed again at Jim's sudden communicativeness. What the hell was going on with him? "Just little flashes sometimes in the dreams. Don't worry, Jim. I'm fine."

"Would you tell me if you weren't?" growled Jim in obviously feigned exasperation.

"You bet," chuckled Blair softly, patting Jim's back affectionately. "Would you?"

Jim struggled with a smile for a second, then let it win. "I'd try," he said with a wry laugh.

Blair swallowed against the lump in his throat and did his best to assume a skeptical expression. "Uh-huh."

Jim hesitated, then shrugged marginally. "Telling isn't my best game, Chief."

"But you'll work on it."

Jim's smile became a grin. "Yeah, Sigmund, I'll work on it. Any other advice?"

Blair laughed again. "Just let yourself feel, man."

Jim's grin faded slightly. "Tell me the truth, Chief. Have you ever considered charging me by the hour?"

Blair smiled, indulging himself with another pat on Jim's back. "You couldn't afford me, tough guy."

Jim snorted, recovering. "You got that right. Okay, up we get. Time for all good little Guides to be in their beds." He helped Blair gently to his feet.

"Who are you calling little?" grumbled Blair on principle, sinking onto the bed gratefully.

"Just an expression, Chief," said Jim quietly, pushing him back onto the pillows. "You're the biggest man I know."

Blair looked up at Jim, astonished into momentary silence, and Jim cleared his throat and looked away. "You going to be able to get back to sleep?" He studied the empty wall on the other side of the room intently.

"No problem," answered Blair softly, watching his friend's face carefully. Someday he'd figure this man out. Someday. "You?"

"No problem," echoed Jim, and Blair didn't have to figure out anything to know his friend was lying through his teeth. "See you at the station tomorrow?"

"Right after my tutoring session," Blair reminded him softly.

"Right. Lunchtime, then." Jim batted Blair's head playfully as he headed toward the door.

"Night," murmured Blair, watching him go. As soon as Jim had disappeared through the door, Blair turned off the light and closed his eyes, just for form's sake. He wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight either.

It had taken Blair quite a long time to realize that he hadn't just been watching Jim take his shirt off for research purposes. A very long time. Well, if there was anything Blair had learned as a scientist, it was that lust did not enhance the intellectual faculties.

Lust. Lust for Jim Ellison. Blair shook his head wonderingly. Every once in awhile he still had trouble getting his mind around that concept. Sure, it had messed up his head for awhile. Anyone as exclusively straight as Blair had been all his life was bound to get a little freaked over getting the hots for his best friend. Okay, a lot freaked. But once he had calmed down and thought about it, he wondered what the big deal was. Love was love, right? So he loved a guy. Wanted a guy. It was something new. It wasn't what he had expected to happen. But there it was. That feeling was as much a part of him as anything else, and there was no way that Blair could believe that loving Jim - in any way - was wrong.

Blair had tried to remember when he started feeling this way, but he had never succeeded. Maybe it had always been there, and he had been doing an Ellison. Or maybe it had been triggered by the growing intensity of their friendship. Or maybe it had something to do with the unique relationship between Sentinel and Guide. Blair wished, not for the first time, that he knew if this sort of thing had happened to Sentinels and Guides before. He suspected it had. Some sort of survival instinct, probably ... what could be more natural than Sentinel and Guide to be mated? In the forests of Peru, it would probably be expected. But in Cascade...?

In Cascade, it was a major pain in the ass. Eighteen months among the Chopec notwithstanding, Jim Ellison was still as traditional a heterosexual American male as you were likely to find outside of a Superman comic book, and the idea of mating with another man, Guide or not, could only produce one reaction: undiluted terror ... maybe even disgust. Blair's eyes closed against the pain of a far-too-recent memory. He remembered an icy Jim Ellison dismissing him from his life all too well to invite a repeat performance. He couldn't risk that again. Even given the fact that Jim seemed to be mellowing a bit, Blair doubted that he could handle this. Especially not if he were wrestling with some new demon. Blair couldn't take the chance. Losing Jim's friendship would be more than he could stand. Jim meant more to him than....

Blair groped for a comparison and found none. More than his hormones, that's for damn sure. Jim had shown him a world far wider and deeper than the one he had known. He had taught Blair that helping people was more than a philosophy or an intellectual exercise, it was a life of hard work, and one well worth the sacrifice. He had taught him what courage and commitment really meant. In short, Jim had taught him more in three years than his professors had taught him in twelve, and Blair would have admired and loved him for that alone. But that didn't even begin to cover it.

Jim had welcomed Blair into his world and into his home. Perhaps reluctantly and fearfully at first, but welcomed nonetheless. Blair hadn't realized at the time just how big a deal this was for Jim. He kicked himself now for not seeing how much Jim's home meant to him, and what it meant for him to share it. The loft was his safe place. It was the one place where Jim had control. Yeah, he could go a little overboard at times on the control thing - the color-coded Tupperware sprang to mind - but Blair knew now where all that came from. Jim had lost far too much. That he was willing to share at all was a testament to his courage and native generosity, and Blair loved him for it, loved him for giving him the first real home he'd known in years.

When all was said and sifted, it came down to trust. Jim had given Blair his trust, and Blair had gradually come to understand just how rare a gift this was from a man like Jim, and the tremendous amount of guts it had taken for Jim to give it. A lot of the people Jim had trusted had betrayed him, had hurt him, hurt him badly. Trusting someone was undoubtedly the toughest thing Jim could ever do. But he did it anyway, for the handful of people he really cared about. And he cared about Blair.

So Blair would earn that trust. He'd keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself. He was Jim's friend, and his Guide. That was what Jim needed from him. And that's what Jim would get, if it killed him. But it wouldn't. Blair smiled wryly. God knows it wasn't the first time Blair had fallen in love with someone who didn't return his feelings. As a matter of fact, he had a hell of a lot of experience with that particular phenomenon. It was just that he hadn't had it this bad for anyone since . Oh, hell, he'd never had it this bad. Blair shifted uncomfortably on his mattress, trying not to remember how good it had felt to be held by that man. To be that close to him to be caressed . Shit. Of all the absurd situations he'd found himself in during his young life, this one definitely took the cake and fed it to the dog.

Blair rolled over and gave his pillow a frustrated thump. So much for a good night's sleep.

"Sorry I'm late, Anna," panted Blair, bursting through the door of his office. The clock on his desk read 9:07. Not bad time, considering he hadn't woken up until a little before 8:30 AM. Wow, a whole three hours' sleep. He'd be in great shape by the end of the day.

The young woman seated in the chair on the other side of his desk smiled nervously. "That's okay. I'm really sorry, Blair, but I can't stay." She adjusted the sunglasses she wore carefully. "I wanted to call you at home to let you know I couldn't make it, but I've lost your number."

Blair dropped his assortment of books and folders onto the desk and flopped into his chair. "I thought you'd cleared your schedule to study." He stared at her for a moment. She was very pale, and he could swear she was trembling. "What's wrong?"

"I ... I can't stay," she repeated, the slight tremor in her voice becoming more noticeable. "And I won't be back. I have to withdraw from classes, at least for awhile. I'm ... I'm so sorry, Blair. You've helped me so much."

"Whoa, whoa," said Blair in amazement, getting out of his chair and dragging it around the desk to sit beside her. "What is all this? I thought you loved your classes."

"I do," said Anna, leaning away as Blair leaned toward her.

"Then why leave?" Blair watched, alarmed, as a tear trickled down one cheek. The woman hastily wiped it away. "Are you okay? No, don't answer that. Stupid question." Blair snatched a box of Kleenex from the desk and offered it to her.

Anna took a tissue and sniffled into it, laughing shakily. "You've been a good friend, Blair. I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too," said Blair, meaning it. Anna was a sweet girl and one hell of a good student. She'd made extraordinary progress, considering she'd been out of school for a while. She had real promise, and students like that were a rare joy for any teacher. "Is there anything I can do to help? There must be some way .

"No," said Anna hastily, rising so suddenly that Blair was caught off guard. "No, Blair, please don't get involved. I mean ." She pulled her purse onto her shoulder, catching her sleeve as she did so. Blair caught his breath as a livid bruise running from just above her wrist to just below her elbow came into view. Anna hastily yanked her sleeve down.

Blair was on his feet before he realized that he'd moved. "You're hurt," he said in alarm. "What happened?"

"I fell," stammered the woman, backing away. "I'm fine, really."

Blair stared at her closely, realizing that he'd never seen Anna wear sunglasses before - inside or out. Without further thought, Blair reached out and snatched them away. He saw enough of blackened, swollen eyes before Anna covered her face with her hands to make him groan aloud. "Oh, God. Anna." He took her by the shoulders and eased her back into her chair. "Do you need a doctor? I'll take you there right now."

"No," whispered Anna, resting her hands on Blair's shoulders. "I'm all right."

"You didn't fall," said Blair, controlling his anger with difficulty. "Who did this?"

"He.... Blair, I can't ."

"You can't let him get away this! He'll only do it again."

"He swears he won't. I just have to be a better wife. Give him more of my time."

Blair stared at her in genuine horror. This was like something out of a bad TV movie. How could a woman as intelligent as Anna ? "Is this why you're withdrawing from classes?"

Anna raised her eyes to Blair's. "I know this sounds-"

"Is that why he hit you?" demanded Blair angrily. "Because you're pursuing your education? My God, Anna, that's-"

"No, it's not that, really," stammered Anna. "You have to understand, he's very jealous. Sometimes he just doesn't see things clearly. He's so afraid of losing me. He gets jealous of the most innocent ."

"Oh, my God," said Blair, his stomach dropping. He let the confiscated sunglasses drop from his nerveless fingers. "It's me? He thinks we're . He hit you because you've been spending time with-"

"No!" Anna grabbed his hands tightly. "It's not your fault. You couldn't have known how he was. I didn't even know how he'd be about this at first. He seemed fine with school, with the tutoring. But all of a sudden ."

"That son of a bitch," said Blair thickly. He'd known that Anna's husband was difficult, that she was unhappy. But he'd had no idea that he was some kind of paranoid Neanderthal wife-beater. "You have to press charges."

Anna bent to pick up the sunglasses, shaking her head with a terrified expression. "I can't. You don't understand."

"I understand that this kind of guy doesn't just do this once! He's hit you before, hasn't he?"

Anna put the glasses back on with shaking hands. "He was ... upset."

Blair opened his mouth to shout, then took a deep breath and spoke quietly instead. "Anna, he'll always be upset about something. There will always be a reason for him to hurt you. It has nothing to do with school, or me, or whatever he says the reason is. It has to do with him having complete control over you. He's not going to stop unless you stop him. I can help you, if you'll let me."

Anna clutched her purse convulsively. "Blair, don't get involved. He's he can be very dangerous. He's hurt people before."

"Hurt people?" Blair stared at her blankly for a moment. "What people?"

"I have to get back. I told him I was going to withdraw from classes and come right back. He had Curtis drive me. I had to tell him that I'd left something in your office so that he'd let me come in here." Anna rattled off her speech in a stilted, nerve-wracked tone as she rose.

Blair stood with her, appalled at how violently she was shaking. "Let you? Who's Curtis?"

"He works for my husband."

"Anna, please don't go. I have a friend who's a cop. He's a great guy, he can help you. Come with me and I'll-"

"I can't go to the police! People will get hurt. "You'll get hurt."

"No one will get hurt," said Blair soothingly.

"You don't know my husband! You don't know who he is."

"Who he is?" repeated Blair uncomprehendingly. Anna's last name was Calkins, but that certainly rang no bells. "What does ?"

"He's Morgan Wyatt," said Anna desperately, moving toward the door as quickly as she could. "Now do you understand?"

"Morgan Wyatt?" If Anna had told him she was married to the devil himself, Blair couldn't have been more astonished. Even if he hadn't spent the last three years working with the Cascade police, he would have known what that name meant. The man had been implicated in everything from drug dealing to weapons smuggling to murder. Implicated, but never successfully prosecuted. No one had ever managed to link him to the crimes allegedly committed at his direction. He had heard Jim growl longingly for the chance to bust him. Jim had told Blair once that Morgan Wyatt had more innocent blood on his hands than any man in the city of Cascade.

That Anna Calkins could be married to somebody like that was incomprehensible. "Anna how why ?" Blair began in a stunned tone, then realized, annoyed with himself, that how and why were none of his business. Anna needed help, not an inquisition. "Please let me help. I can take you someplace where you'll be safe from him. You don't have to-"

The door to Blair's office swung open with a bang, and a dark-haired man burst through. "What the hell is taking you so long?" he shouted in Anna's direction, not sparing Blair so much as a glance.

Anna seemed to shrink away from him, and Blair instinctively stepped between them. "Can I help you?" he demanded determinedly, trying not to notice that the man was about Jim's size and weight, with apparently none of Jim's benevolent tendencies.

The man yanked his hostile gaze from Anna and stabbed it at Blair. Cold, piercing gray eyes raked over Blair contemptuously, and a broad mouth twisted in as foul a sneer as Blair could ever remember seeing. "And who the fuck are you?" he snarled.

Fighting his gut instinct to duck for cover, Blair opened his mouth to answer, but Anna spoke up first.

"This is Professor Sandburg," she stammered faintly. "I was just saying goodbye, Curtis."

Curtis reached around Blair and grabbed Anna's arm roughly. "Mr. Wyatt didn't have me drive you all the way out here to say goodbye to your pretty boy! Get whatever it is you left in here and-"

Blair grabbed Curtis by the wrist and pulled his hand off Anna's arm, then wedged himself in front of Anna again. "Just keep your hands to yourself," he said evenly, wondering grimly what he'd do if Curtis decided he'd prefer not to keep his hands to himself.

Curtis' eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed dangerously. "You want me to put my hands someplace else, pretty boy?"

"It's all right, Professor," said Anna, so desperately that Blair realized with a sinking sensation that he was only making things worse for her. "We're just in a hurry, that's all. I just need my my-"

"Your paper," said Blair quietly, turning toward his desk. "It's right here. I was just finishing grading it." Blair grabbed an old draft of the opening chapter of his dissertation and scribbled his home phone number into the margin. "Here you are. You're an excellent student, Anna. I hope you'll be able to come back to Rainier soon." He put the paper into her hands, meeting her gaze earnestly.

"I don't think I'll be able to," said Anna faintly, folding the paper and holding it tightly to her. "But thank you." She turned and slid past Curtis gingerly, who watched her go with something between a lascivious smirk and a contemptuous sneer that made Blair's blood boil.

The man turned back to Blair and gave him another once over. "Professor, huh?"

"That's right," said Blair evenly, meeting his gaze with difficulty. There was something not right in the man's eyes, something that made the short hairs on the back of Blair's neck rise.

"Uh-huh," smirked Curtis, his eyes roving over Blair's body in a way that made Blair's skin crawl. "So what were you teaching Annie, huh, Professor?"

"Anthropology," answered Blair through gritted teeth. You sick son of a

"Yeah, I'll bet," sneered the man. "You just watch yourself, pretty boy. The last guy that Mr. Wyatt caught teaching Annie an-thro-pol-o-gy wound up washing up on the beach in big bloody chunks."

"You just tell Mr. Wyatt that I'm a teacher," said Blair, holding onto his temper by the skin of his teeth. "And Anna's my student. That's it."

Curtis laughed unpleasantly. "Oh, I'll tell him. I'll tell him what a pretty, pretty boy Annie got herself this time. I'll tell him that he looks like a real pro to me."

"Get out," said Blair quietly.

Curtis laughed louder. "So what's the going rate for pro-fessors now, huh, Angel? Think I could afford you?"

"I said get out!" snarled Blair. "You've got two seconds to leave before I call Security."

Curtis stopped laughing and gave Blair another slow, ugly look, letting it wander suggestively and insultingly up and down Blair's body. "I'll see you later, pretty boy," he said in a voice like a rusty razor blade. He turned and left abruptly.

Blair sagged against his desk. He realized that he was sweating and shaking. Something was profoundly wrong about that guy. Blair hadn't been this thoroughly creeped out by anyone since since Lash. Blair swallowed hard. Damn it, and he'd let that psycho take Anna! But she'd been so desperate to leave with him. Probably afraid of getting him angry and making things worse at home. It certainly sounded like Curtis had a lot of influence with her husband, although Blair couldn't imagine why. There had to be some way to help her. There just had to be. Jim would know.

Blair snatched up his jacket and headed out the door at a full run.

"Hey, how's it going, Hairboy?"

Simon Banks looked up at Brown's loud greeting to see Blair Sandburg stride into the bullpen with his usual energetic gait and come to a grinding halt in front of Brown. Simon scowled as he got a good look at his 'consultant.' Something was wrong. The young man's expression was strained, despite the amusement in his eyes.

"You know, you are generating a lot of bad karma with this 'Hairboy' stuff, Henri. I'm telling you, man, it's going to come back to you eventually."

Simon cast a surreptitious glance past Brown at Jim Ellison, supposedly sitting at his desk to do paperwork, and saw exactly what he expected to see. Jim was raptly watching Blair's every move and drinking in Blair's every word with that damned goofy Ellison smile on his face. Simon stifled a worried sigh and counted to five slowly, nodding when Jim's expression evaporated into an appropriately businesslike mask. Just like clockwork.

Simon turned back to Blair and Brown as the cop laughed, looking at Blair with obvious

affection. "No chance, Sandburg. I leave karma alone, and it leaves me alone."

"An existentialist," said Blair with a broad grin, looking past Brown to his partner as he jerked a thumb in Brown's direction teasingly.

"Oh, is that what he is?" snorted Jim mildly. "I'll bet you're glad to have that cleared up, aren't you, Brown? Having your philosophical outlook undefined can really screw up your day."

Simon shook his head and pretended to go back to reading the report he held in his hands. Nice recovery. Ellison had this down pat. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Blair perched on the edge of Jim's desk. They spoke quietly, and Simon couldn't hear their conversation. He turned toward the door of his office, to all outward appearances completely absorbed in his reading. But he hadn't read a word.

This had been going on for months, but since Blair had nearly.... Simon found himself reluctant to finish the sentence, even in thought. Damn, he'd gone as soft over the kid as the rest of those jokers out there in the bullpen. Since Blair had nearly ... died, it had gotten a lot harder to ignore. God, but that had been close. They had all thought he was gone. If Jim hadn't gone Sentinel and the Lord only knew exactly what Jim had done to bring Blair back - they would have given up on him. They would have let him go. Simon shuddered in spite of himself. He didn't want to think what would have happened to Jim if the kid had gone that way. If Blair had died - after Jim had thrown him out of his home and his life, after he had said things to the kid that Simon suspected Jim had regretted five minutes after saying them - if Blair had died because Jim hadn't been there to watch his back.... It would have crippled Jim, crippled him inside for the rest of his life.

Well, it was a hell of a way to learn - and it certainly said something for the thickness of Jim's skull that it had taken Blair's death to teach him that self-sufficiency wasn't all it cracked up to be. But Jim seemed to have learned it. He had certainly stopped doing the 'I don't need anybody' crap. He'd obviously learned - a little late in life in Simon's opinion - that everybody needs somebody. And Jim Ellison just happened to need Blair Sandburg. Go figure. But there was absolutely no denying that they were good for each other. If Blair was a little steadier, Simon didn't have to look too far for the reason. And if Jim was a little less of a humorless hard-ass, well, ditto. If anyone had told Simon three years ago that Jim Ellison would ever develop a sense of humor about himself, he would have had him fitted for one of those little white jackets. But damned if it hadn't been happening.

Now, those things were great. Those things made Blair's life better, made Jim's life better, and made Simon's life a whole hell of a lot easier. But there were other things, things that Simon had dismissed for months, dismissed until he could no longer dismiss them. They were glaringly obvious to anyone who had known Jim Ellison as long as Simon had. Pretty soon they were going to become glaringly obvious to anyone who didn't. And they all added up to one thing.

Jim Ellison was in love. With his partner.

Simon raised his eyes from the report he wasn't reading to stare through his open door into the bullpen. Yup, damned if he wasn't at it right this minute. Blair was bending over Rafe's desk, laughing at one of that idiot's dirty jokes, and Jim's eyes were all over those jeans again. Shit! If the guy wasn't looking at Blair all doe-eyed and dopey-looking, he was checking out the kid's ass.

Jim Ellison, the ultimate macho-man heterosexual. Simon groaned inwardly. Was it some sort of mid-life crisis thing? Or was it something to do with the Sentinel stuff? There was no denying that those senses of Jim's did weird things to his head sometimes.

And that was another thing. Jim's abilities had been blinking on and off like an out-of-service traffic light. A sure sign of trouble. Simon knew from experience that it could only mean that Jim was trying to squash something he was feeling. He'd seen it over and over again in the past three years. It meant that Jim knew what was going on, and he knew it was trouble ... and Simon agreed with him. Not because it was morally wrong, or anything stupid like that. What consenting adults did behind closed doors was nobody's business but theirs, and Simon didn't pry into the private lives of his officers - or his friends. It was trouble because it was obvious that Blair didn't have a clue what was going on.

Simon sighed aloud as he imagined Blair's reaction to this if he ever found out. He'd seen guys freak out when they found out a close friend was gay. Not that Jim was gay - or was he? Oh, hell, Simon didn't know what Jim was anymore. No, strike that. He did know. Jim was a good man, a great cop and an even better friend. But Blair ... he was young, and slightly flaky, and as rampaging a heterosexual male as you were ever likely to encounter. Who knows how he might react when he found out, especially if it was Simon's worst case scenario: Jim finally loses control and comes on to Blair ... Blair freaks ... Blair leaves.... Simon groaned inwardly. If Jim lost Blair again, this soon, it would kill him. The kid was family to him, and more.

Simon watched as Jim tore his gaze from Blair and returned it to his work. He could only

imagine what the man must be going through. It couldn't go on like this. Something had to be

done. Which meant, of course, that Simon would have to do something.

Like pry into the private lives of his officers and his friends?

Simon growled and nearly bit clean through the cigar in his mouth. He hated it when his conscience played devil's advocate. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? Watch Jim Ellison self-destruct? Watch the friendship essential to Jim's well-being be destroyed? Watch Blair walk out of Jim's life, and incidentally, out of Simon's life and the lives of his men, who had practically adopted the kid?

No. He would do something. Talking to Jim would get him nowhere, he knew. Jim would get spooked and angry and deny everything, and things might get ugly. But Blair was another story. Blair had an open mind if you approached him the right way, and he would listen to Simon. If he could just phrase things tactfully....

By the way, Sandburg, have you noticed that your roommate's in love with you?

Simon spit out his cigar in disgust. He could do better than that.

Okay. Hey, Sandburg have you noticed how your best friend checks out your ass every time you bend over?

"Jesus H. Christ," sighed Simon. This was going not going to be easy.

*

Jim always dreaded it when Blair said, "I need to talk to you." He was never sure if it was a prelude to "I know what's going on with you," or "Is pizza okay for dinner?"

Sign of a guilty conscience, he knew.

So when Blair showed up at the station almost three hours early, clearly agitated, and said in a very soft voice, "Jim, I need to talk to you," Jim's heart almost choked the answer out of his throat.

"Sure, Chief," he managed. "Just give me a minute to finish up here."

He bent to his paperwork, stealing an occasional glance at Blair as he laughed with Rafe. Blair's laughter was definitely off-pitch. He was pale. His heart was beating too quickly. Something was seriously wrong, but it wasn't "I know what's going on with you." Blair wouldn't be acting this way if that were what was on his mind. Something had scared Blair. Or someone.

Jim scowled as he tossed the completed reports into his outbox. If someone had been messing with Blair, then someone had better be on their way out of town.

He rose and walked quickly to Blair's side. "You're early," he prompted, nodding in the direction of the break room. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, sounds good," said Blair in a strained voice.

"You didn't get much sleep last night," said Jim, before he could stop himself. Damn, he was sounding more like Blair's mother every day. Come to think of it, he sounded more like Blair's mother than Naomi did. Jim sighed inwardly.

Blair cocked an eyebrow at him in amusement as he passed through the door of the break room and headed toward the coffeepot. "And you did?"

"Not much," admitted Jim, accepting the cup Blair handed him. Black, two sugars. Just the way Jim liked it. Jim wondered idly when Blair had started doing little things like that, and why it had taken him so long to notice. "What's up?"

Blair took a breath and a sip of coffee, then eased himself into a chair. "I need your help."

"You got it," said Jim, straddling the chair next to him and taking a gulp of the coffee. "Shoot."

"The woman I was tutoring-"

"Was?"

"She's dropping out of school. Her husband's making her drop out of school. He's some sort of delusional, man. He thinks there's something going on between us and ."

"Is there?"

Blair lowered his coffee cup to the table, eyes wide. Jim realized belatedly that he'd asked that question like a cop, and cursed inwardly. Blair's hurt was all over his face.

"She's my student," said Blair sharply. "God, Jim ."

"I'm sorry," said Jim hastily. Shit! What's the matter, Ellison? Jealous?

"I don't cross that line," continued Blair tautly. "My students trust me."

"Chief, I'm sorry," said Jim earnestly, leaning forward. "I wasn't thinking. Cop auto-pilot, okay?"

"Well, turn it off! There's nothing going on between Anna and me except Anthropology 101."

"Got it," said Jim quietly, kicking himself. That had been way out of line. "I'm on manual. Go on."

"He beat her up," said Blair, his voice still angry, but Jim could see his friend's anger was no longer directed at him. "You should have seen her, Jim. Black eyes, bruises I wanted to take her to a doctor, but she said no."

"Damn," said Jim softly, knowing how these things affected Blair. He'd never known a more tender-hearted man. "Does she want to press charges?"

"She won't. She says people will get hurt. Get this, Jim: her husband's Morgan Wyatt."

Jim lowered his coffee cup, staring. "Excuse me?" He couldn't have heard what he'd just thought he heard.

"Morgan Wyatt. She must have been using her maiden name."

"You've been tutoring Morgan Wyatt's wife?" The thought of Blair coming to the attention of Wyatt in any capacity whatsoever horrified Jim, and he swallowed hard as he very carefully set his coffee cup on the table beside him. Morgan Wyatt was without a doubt the single greatest contributor to Cascade's thriving economy in heroin, illegal arms and, incidentally, dead people. He'd ordered men killed for far less than hanky-panky, however imaginary, with his wife. Jim struggled to get a grip and listen to what Blair was saying.

"I didn't know she was his wife until today, man, she was using another name. She obviously didn't want anybody to know who she was. She's terrified of him, Jim. I don't think there's any way I could have persuaded her to press charges. But I thought I could at least get her to go to a shelter where she'd be safe. She might have gone with me, if this thug of her husband's hadn't shown up."

"Thug?" demanded Jim, careening past horrified into terrified. Which of Wyatt's pack of mad dogs had been sicced on Blair? "Dammit, Blair, cut to the chase! Tell me exactly what happened."

"I'm telling you what happened!" returned Blair hotly. "Wyatt told this guy to drive her to Rainier, okay? She comes to my office to say goodbye, and this knuckle-dragging mouth- breather shows up and tries to drag her out!"

Jim drew a breath and counted to five. "Let me guess," he said wryly, knowing as he did so that it was no guess. He knew this man. "You stopped him."

"Well, what else was I supposed to do?" demanded Blair, obviously annoyed. "Just stand there and let him manhandle her?"

"You weren't supposed to do anything else," said Jim quietly. "I just wish I'd been there, that's all." The thought Blair going up against any of Wyatt's goons made Jim's insides go cold.

"Oh." Blair's annoyed expression transformed into one of surprise, then contrition. "Sorry. Me too." He paused for a moment, then smiled. "BPS kicking up again, tough guy?"

Jim forced a laugh past the tight muscles in his chest. Blessed Protector Syndrome. It was just about the oldest joke they had. But it wasn't really a joke and they both knew it. Not that Blair really needed Jim to protect him, not often, anyway. It was more accurate to say that - and Jim had had a hell of a time coming to terms with it - that Jim needed to protect Blair. "Yeah, I'm a sad case, Chief," said Jim in as dry a tone as he could manage.

"Tell me about it. If I'd known you better back then I'd never have made that crack," said Blair, his smile deepening affectionately. "It's been seriously enabling, man." His smile faded. "What can we do for Anna?"

Jim sighed, knowing Blair wasn't going to like what he had to say. "Not much, unless she's willing to press charges."

"There's got to be something we can do!"

"I don't like it any more than you do, Chief. But unless somebody tells us that a crime's been committed ."

"She told me," said Blair desperately, then went on quickly before Jim could say anything. "I know, I know! It's not enough. God, Jim, if you could have seen her. She was hurt and scared to death and there was absolutely nothing I could do to help her. And now you can't help her either. I don't know what to do."

"There's nothing you can do," returned Jim gently. "I know it's rough, but it's up to her now. If she presses charges we can arrest the bastard, and trust me, the line forms here for that job. But she has to take the first step."

"She's too frightened," said Blair in an agitated voice, launching himself from his chair to pace the room. "I don't blame her. That guy that came to get her scared the hell out of me. If her husband's anything like him .

"Did he threaten you?" Jim did his best to keep his voice level.

Blair hesitated, then shook his head, avoiding Jim's gaze. "Not exactly. He just gave me the creeps."

Jim knew Sandburg Obfuscation when he heard it, and he gave Blair his most firm "tell-me- everything-and-tell-me-now" look. Blair met his gaze and grinned ruefully.

"Jim, he didn't threaten me. He didn't have to. That kind of guy scares you just by looking at you, you know? He says "I'll see you later" and you just imagine yourself lying in a dark alley somewhere in little pieces. He's obviously done a lot of work cultivating his sociopathic aura."

"Did this guy give a name?"

"Why?"

"I want to send him a birthday card. Why do you think?" demanded Jim impatiently. "I want to know who I might have to deal with."

"Jim...."

"This is serious! We're talking about Morgan Wyatt, for God's sake. Did he give a name?"

Blair sighed. "Anna called him Curtis."

"Curtis?" Jim scowled. He had thought that he was familiar with all of Wyatt's inner circle, but there was no Curtis among them. And only someone close to Wyatt would be entrusted with keeping an eye on the boss's wife. Someone new? "Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Oh, yeah," said Blair wryly.

Something in Blair's manner told Jim that a lot more had happened than he'd let on, and Jim grimaced in frustration. "I want you to look at some pictures."

"Come on, Jim, this isn't about me. Anna's the one who's in trouble."

"Wyatt may decide to make it about you," said Jim as calmly as he could. That idea made him anything but calm. "And if he does, I want to know who's likely to come calling. There's nothing I can do for Anna right now."

"So we just wait around?" asked Blair impatiently, gesticulating wildly. "He could be beating up on her right now."

Jim looked up at his friend, momentarily astonished into silence. It wasn't the first time Blair's instinct for self-preservation had taken a back seat to his compassion. As a matter of fact, it did so on a regular basis. But it never ceased to arouse Jim's wonder - and admiration.

"Chief," he said quietly. "I give you my word. If there's any way to help Anna, I'll do it. But there's nothing I can do for her right now, and there is something I can do about this. This Curtis is a new player, and he's obviously close to Wyatt. It's important to identify him."

"Okay, okay," muttered Blair. "Give me the damn books."

*

Jim watched Blair as he paged through the mug shots, smiling as Blair muttered to himself and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Jim knew perfectly well that Blair couldn't care less about identifying Wyatt's thug, no matter what his threatening behavior to Blair had been. All Blair cared about right now was his student. He had come to Jim hoping for a charge to the rescue, and Jim had let him down. Jim sighed softly. If there was anything he hated, it was letting Blair down. After three years of working with cops, though, you'd think Blair would know the score. But he didn't, and he probably never would. At least Jim hoped not. Knowing the score would make Blair less than the man he was, and Blair Sandburg was one of the finest men Jim had ever known.

Jim grinned affectionately as Blair impatiently shoved his hair away from his face, then dug in his jeans pocket for a hair tie. He tied his hair back, grumbling something unintelligible about hair and books and cops, and bent over the books again, his expression a study in frustration.

Jim studied him, fascinated, and wondered for the thousandth time in the past few weeks how this could have happened to him, whether or not Blair knew, and how soon Blair would leave once he did. The smile on his face froze and died.

He couldn't make it without Blair. The thought of it turned him cold and sick inside. It wasn't just that he was in love with him... Jim paused for a moment, startled at how easily he could think those words now. In love with Blair. He braced himself and forced himself to continue his thought. It wasn't just that. Even if that hadn't happened, even if he had continued to love Blair as a brother, he couldn't have made it without him. He needed him. He'd admitted that to himself, if not to Blair.

Those minutes beside the fountain staring down at Blair's soaked, cold body had been the worst of his life, bar none. The horror of losing Blair that way had ripped him apart. He knew, whatever a court of law might say about it, that he'd killed his dearest friend, someone who'd saved both Jim's sanity and his life - more times than Jim could count - and had nearly lost his own life in doing it more times than Jim wanted to remember. He'd hurt Blair, thrown him out of his own home, abandoned him in the face of danger. He'd killed him. He'd killed Blair. When Brown had told him to let it go, Jim came to a sudden and full understanding of what kind of hell his life would be from then on. And then he'd heard Incacha's voice.

When Blair came to, Jim felt a large chunk of his world slip back into place again. Oh sure, by the time he visited Blair he'd had his Joe Cool 'tude firmly in place again. Now that was class. Drown your best friend and then stand over him in his hospital bed and crack jokes about back rent. But Blair had understood.

Jim swallowed hard at the memory. Blair always understood. Blair's capacity for understanding and forgiveness never failed to blow him away. He wondered, if their positions had been reversed, if he could have forgiven someone who had treated him that way. He didn't like the answer.

Maybe that was what had opened Jim's eyes enough to recognize these new feelings ... his realization, finally, that his friend was one hell of a man. It said something about the thickness of his own skull that it had taken him three years to realize it. But when it did get through to him, it didn't just make him appreciate Blair's friendship more, although it did that in spades. Something else happened too, something that he had never expected, something he couldn't possibly have expected. Jim found himself becoming slowly but steadily aware of a lot of other things about the man who had shared his home and his life for so long. Things that Jim had never noticed about another man. Like how he moved. How he smiled. How his hair fell against his neck. How his eyes, no, his whole face, lit up like a Christmas tree when that brilliant mind of his was engaged. How his jeans hugged that ass .

Jim groaned inwardly and yanked his gaze away from Blair and back to the report that lay on the desk in front of him. The one he had finished forty-five minutes ago.

It had come on so gradually at first. But by the time they had returned from Sierra Verde Jim had become uncomfortably aware of just how ... how.... Oh, hell, of how damn beautiful Blair was.

Just ... beautiful.

And then Jim finally understood why he kept finding himself examining Blair's scent, his every sound, his every movement; why he always stood so close to him; why he touched him as often and as for long as he could get away with; why he couldn't sleep if he couldn't hear his heartbeat. He loved him. He wanted him. Blair Sandburg was the most important person in his life.

And if Blair ever knew that, he'd probably head for the hills. Not that Blair would hate him for it or anything - Jim firmly believed that Blair was incapable of hate - but he sure as hell couldn't know about this and still live with him, work with him, be his Guide. There were some things that even the closest friendships couldn't survive, and this was one of them. Living every day with a friend who wants to get into your pants? No. Not even Blair, who was as understanding and open-minded a man as Jim had ever known, could put up with that. Jim kept imagining himself in Blair's place. What would he have done if Blair had come to him and told him that he wanted him? Jim smiled bitterly. He'd have thrown Blair out, of course, like the cowardly, selfish son of a bitch he was. Blair would be kinder about it than he would have been, Jim knew, but in the end it would be the same. Blair would leave.

And he couldn't make it without Blair.

Why the hell was this happening to him? He'd never been attracted to men. He still wasn't. He was attracted to Blair. He desired him more than any lover he'd ever been with. Blair was part of him, a part of him he needed to join with to feel whole. And in the face of that, Jim reminded himself for the umpteenth time, why didn't matter.

Keeping this from Blair was getting tougher and tougher, and the strain was starting to show. It was obvious that Blair was worried about him. In spite of everything, Jim indulged in a smile. No one had ever cared about him the way Blair did. No one ever would. But that would all be over soon. Eventually Jim would slip up, and Blair would find out. Blair would be kind, and tell Jim it was okay. He'd do his damnedest to make it work. But it wouldn't. And then he'd be gone.

Jim shook his head without thinking. He couldn't make it without Blair. He had to keep it together, keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself. Maybe these feelings would fade. Maybe things could go back to the way they were.

Jim closed his eyes.

"Jim?"

No. The feelings wouldn't fade. And things would never be the same again. He was more deeply in love with Blair than he'd been with anyone in his life, and he wanted him more than he wanted to breathe.

"Jim, are you okay?"

And there was no way in hell Blair could ever want him back.

"Earth to Jim!"

"What?" Jim's eyes snapped open and he found Blair standing in front of him with an exasperated expression. Jim felt a searing heat rise to his face. "Oh." He groped to remember where he was and what he should have been doing. "Find something?"

"No, I didn't find something! And I've been at this for almost an hour and a half. Are you all right? You look like hell." Blair bent toward him with a worried expression, and Jim realized that he couldn't hear his friend's heartbeat. His senses had winked out on him again.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Jim, managing something like a smile. "Keep trying. It's important."

"This is needle-in-a-haystack activity, man," complained Blair grumpily, his keen blue eyes searching Jim's face in a way that made Jim more nervous than he liked being. "There's got to be a better way."

"It's good old-fashioned police work, Chief," returned Jim, seizing on a long-standing argument as a diversion. Blair hated what he called "the over-enthusiastic application of the work ethic to the more menial functions within the broad spectrum of police work" when he was feeling charitable, and the "cult of grunt" when he wasn't. "It's a vanishing art."

"It deserves to be," growled Blair. "It can't vanish too soon as far as I'm concerned. Can't we just do a computer search for Curtises or something?"

"You've been watching X-Files again, haven't you?"

Blair's worried expression disappeared into a wide grin, but whatever answer he was about to make was cut off by a familiar summons.

"Ellison! Sandburg! My office!" Simon disappeared as suddenly as he had materialized.

"You covet Mulder's tech, man," said Blair teasingly as they moved quickly toward Simon's office. "You know you do."

"I covet Mulder's partner," lied Jim cheerfully. "She doesn't go green every time a corpse shows up."

"Oh, fine," said Blair in disgust. "Low blow."

"She's a good shot, too."

"Unfair comparison, man. I don't do guns."

"And nice legs."

"Hey, man, I've got great legs. Wanna see?" Blair bounced beside him with an enthusiastic grin.

"No," lied Jim again, laughing as he strode through Simon's door. "You wanted to see us, sir?"

Simon looked up. Jim felt himself tense at the expression on his captain's face. He knew that look well, and it meant nothing but trouble. "Shut the door."

Blair shot Jim a quizzical look, then nudged the door shut. "What's wrong?"

Simon offered Jim a file folder, and Jim took it, puzzled until he saw the name printed on the tab. He looked up at Simon sharply. "What ?"

"He's out," said Simon simply. "Paroled. I thought you should know as soon as possible."

"Paroled?" Jim whipped open the file and scanned it incredulously as Blair came to stand beside him, peering into the file curiously. "The man's a psychopath! You know what he's capable of ."

"Oh, he's reformed, hadn't you heard?" asked Simon, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "He's been a model prisoner for eight years. The corrections folks praise him to the skies."

"I doubt Jackie Sullivan's family shares their opinion," snarled Jim, the memory of a young woman lying comatose in a hospital bed fleeting past his mind's eye. He flipped another page in the file to reveal a current photograph. "I can't believe this bastard is-"

"That's him," said Blair very quietly.

"That's who?" asked Simon in bewilderment as Jim stared at his partner in shock.

"That's the guy who took Anna away," continued Blair, raising his eyes to meet Jim's. "You know him?"

Jim struggled for speech. Curtis Krakowa? In Cascade? Working for Wyatt? Threatening Blair?

"Jim put him away," said Simon, his gaze sharpening as it travelled from Blair to Jim and back again. "You've seen him?"

"A few hours ago, at the University," said Blair, still looking at Jim anxiously. "Jim, are you okay?"

He wasn't. Jim knew that the assault on Jackie Sullivan wasn't the only crime Krakowa had committed. It was just the only one in which there'd been enough physical evidence to convict him, the only one in which they hadn't needed the testimony of Krakowa's physically and emotionally crippled victims the few that had survived. Assaults. Rapes. Murders. It had taken Jim years to get him on something, but he had finally put enough together for one conviction. Only one. Jim couldn't believe that this monster had been paroled this soon. Eight years in prison for beating a woman into a little more than a vegetable? It was a sick joke.

Krakowa hadn't laughed, though. He'd done the standard threats to the arresting officer in the courtroom bit, although his threats had been a little more original than most. They'd given perversion a whole new lease on life, in Jim's opinion. He'd laughed in Krakowa's face nonetheless, although he'd be lying if he said the guy hadn't raised his neck hairs. Krakowa was a twisted, bloody-minded little monster. And this monster had just strolled back into Cascade and straight into Blair's office.

Just like Alex.

"Jesus," said Jim in a stunned tone, staring at Blair.

"Ellison, what the hell is going on?"

"Sir, I think we may have a problem," said Jim a little faintly.

"We do?"

"Relax, Simon, he's just BPSing again," said Blair wearily.

"Dammit, Sandburg, get it through your head! This is serious!" Jim heard his voice echo off the walls and knew that his temper was getting the better of him. He didn't care. Blair had to understand this.

"Jim, you're overreacting," snapped Simon.

"Just relax," said Blair steadily. "Everything's-"

"Wyatt would kill you as soon as look at you!"

"Wyatt?" asked Simon blankly.

"And you don't want to know what Krakowa would do!"

Simon snatched the cigar out of his mouth. "Ellison, that's enough!"

"Cool down, Jim," said Blair in a strained tone.

"Do not tell me to cool down!" Jim knew he was losing it. He knew this because the small part of his mind that was still rational kept asking him, very calmly, what the hell he thought he was doing. He refused to answer.

"Detective-" Simon's tone should have warned Jim, but he was too far gone to care.

"You're not thinking straight, man," said Blair evenly, a hint of anger in his eyes. "Just-"

"No, you're not thinking straight! You are in danger, do you get it? Wyatt is not a joke! Krakowa is not a joke!"

"Jim, for crying out-"

"I'm not losing you again!" Jim screamed the words, then froze, horrified.

"Detective," said Simon in his most forceful tone of command, "Take a walk."

Jim stared at him for a moment.

"Now!" roared Simon. "Go cool off!"

Jim turned for the door. He realized to his surprise that Blair was following him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Blair met his gaze with a reassuring little smile that drained away every drop of Jim's panicked anger. Damn, damn, damn! What the hell was he doing? He opened his mouth to apologize, but Simon cut him off.

"Out!" growled Simon. "Not you, Sandburg," he added in a softer tone. Blair ground to a halt in surprise and looked back.

Jim pulled the door open and strode through the bullpen, grateful that Rafe and Brown were either at lunch or on a call. He was certain that his outburst had been clearly audible in the bullpen, even by people with ordinary senses. And he was just as certain that he knew what Simon wanted to discuss with Blair: Jim Ellison, mental case.

"I need a beer," he said wearily to no one in particular as the elevator doors shut on him.

"Let me get this straight," said Simon in calm, measured tones that told Blair exactly how upset the man was. "You've been tutoring this woman for two months, only to find out today that she is the wife of Cascade's leading crime boss. She tells you that her husband assaulted her, possibly because he believes that she is having an affair with you. The man who arrives to take her back to her abusive husband turns out to be Curtis Krakowa, certified psycho, and he behaves in a threatening manner towards you. Have I got this right?"

"Yeah, that's about it," said Blair resignedly.

Simon considered the young man sitting in front of him, rolling his cigar between his thumb and forefinger. He smiled pleasantly. "Sandburg, have you ever wondered why these things happen to you? Think about it. What are the odds?"

Blair thought carefully about everything that had happened to him in the past three years. It was a good point. What were the odds? Probably about the same odds, he realized with amusement, of his meeting Jim Ellison. "Maybe I was really evil in a previous life."

Simon looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "It's a stretch, but at this point I'll buy any explanation." He sighed. "Jim was right, you know. This could be serious."

"Maybe," conceded Blair quietly. Now that his panic over Anna was receding and he was regaining some perspective, he could see why Jim had gone off the deep end. Not that Blair thought he was in any imminent danger, but he knew all too well that these days even the possibility of danger to Blair sent Jim into the weird realm of the Blessed Protector, a state of mind better accepted than understood. "But I'd take what Jim says with a pinch of salt when it comes to me. You know how he is ... especially since the Dip."

Simon nearly dropped his cigar. "The Dip? Christ, Sandburg, you were dead!"

"Nah," said Blair with a wry little smile. "Just damp."

Simon's eyes narrowed, and his expression seemed to suggest that he was considering whether or not he wanted to understand this. He evidently decided he didn't. "Okay. So he's been a little overprotective since you got damp." Blair chuckled softly. "But he's right. Wyatt and Krakowa are no joke."

"So I've been told," said Blair drily. "But what am I supposed to do? Hide, on the off chance that one of them might have it in for me?"

"You might consider it, if only to keep Jim from completely melting down." Simon's voice was a little strained, and Blair observed him carefully for a moment. Okay. Something else was up here. Simon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I mean...."

"I know what you mean," said Blair in soft realization. "You're worried about him too."

"Worried? About Above-and-Beyond-the-Call Ellison? Do I look worried to you, Sandburg?" Simon pulled his most ferocious face and played it for all it was worth, but his cover had been blown years ago as far as Blair was concerned.

"Yeah," said Blair gently, smiling slightly. "You do look worried. You look like you've been worried for a long time. What's on your mind, Simon?"

Simon scowled at Blair over the top of his glasses, but Blair only laughed softly. That little maneuver had long since ceased its effectiveness, too. Simon sighed, looked at the ceiling for a moment, then pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Okay. I really didn't want to do this. But Jim's judgment is being affected now, and he needs his judgment to survive out there."

Blair froze in his chair at the quiet dread in Simon's tone. He tried to form a question and failed.

"I need to talk to you about Jim, Blair." Simon suddenly yanked his badge out of his pocket and dropped it into his desk drawer, shutting the drawer with a bang. "As a friend."

Blair watched the badge disappear with a pounding heart. It was serious. Simon was scared. "You know what's doing this to him, don't you?"

"Yeah," said Simon, looking everywhere but at Blair. "He'd kill me if he knew I'd told you."

"What is it? It's driving him crazy. He hardly sleeps anymore, and when he does he has nightmares. I've tried everything I know to get him to talk to me about it, but he won't. He says he's fine. God, all you have to do is look at him to see he's not fine." Blair abruptly became aware that he was babbling, and he shut his mouth hastily.

"No, he isn't." Simon's hands started fiddling with one object after another on his desk.

"What is it?" repeated Blair, realizing as he did so that he was clutching the arms of his chair.

Simon cleared his throat and squirmed in his chair, and Blair felt his stomach turn over as a previously unconsidered possibility struck him.

"He's not he's not sick or something, is he?" Blair heard his voice shake.

"What?" Simon looked up in amazement. "No! No, he's not sick ."

"Geez, Simon," said Blair weakly, falling back in his chair. "You scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry, sorry," growled Simon. "I just want to tell you this the right way. I don't want you to freak out on me, okay?"

"Freak out? What ?"

"Jim couldn't take losing you. It would oh, hell, Sandburg. It would destroy the man. I'll hate myself if I'm the cause of that, but you'll find out eventually anyway, and I thought I thought maybe I could break it to you more gently, give you a chance to think about it, get used to it. Just don't walk out on him, Blair. I don't know what's causing this, but you are family to that man, and he just couldn't take ."

"Simon, what the hell are you talking about?" exploded Blair, unable to stand any more. "Walk out on him? Are you crazy? There is nothing you or anybody else could tell me that would make me walk out on Jim."

"Blair, sometimes we find out things about friends that change how we feel about them."

"Dammit, Simon, give it to me straight. I'm telling you right now that whatever this deep, dark secret is, it's not going to change how I feel about Jim. Now spit it out!" Blair realized belatedly that his was shouting in frustration, anger and fear.

Simon gave him a stern, quelling look, and Blair forced himself to lean back. "Sorry," he said in a strained voice. "Just tell me, Simon. I won't freak out."

Simon cleared his throat and started studying the top of his desk again, and Blair groaned inwardly, seething with impatience. What the hell could this be about? What could possibly make Simon this uncomfortable? He looked like a father about to explain the facts of life to his teenaged son. Blair almost laughed at the thought, wondering if Simon and Daryl had had their father-and-son talk yet. Simon explaining sex would be something to .

Oh.

"Um ... Blair, have you noticed ... I mean ... have you seen the way Jim looks at you ... oh, hell...."

Jim's refusal to discuss the problem. The way his eyes could never meet Blair's .

"Looks at me?" Blair heard himself saying faintly.

The way Jim always stood so close. The way he touched Blair, far more often and for far longer than he used to.

"Yeah, looks at you! Blair, I've known Jim a long time. I've I've seen him seen him in love, okay?"

The constant preoccupation and daydreaming ... and the way he always looked red as a beet and guilty as hell whenever Blair caught him at it.

"I've seen how he looks at at the person he's in love with."

"In love?" echoed Blair in a whisper.

"And that's how he looks at you. Dammit, Blair, are you listening to me?"

"Yes," said Blair dazedly, not certain what the question was.

His reaction to the suggestion of an affair with Anna .

"That that big stupid jerk!" exploded Blair, leaping up out of his chair in a paroxysm of sudden understanding, fury and elation. It all made sense now. It had been staring him in the face all along. "What the hell does he think he's doing?"

"Dammit, Sandburg, you told me you wouldn't-"

"Why didn't he tell me? No!" Blair paced up and down wildly, his hands flying, his mind moving so fast that his mouth couldn't keep up the pace. It seemed determined to try, however. "No, I withdraw the jerk. I withdraw the stupid. I withdraw ... no, he is big, isn't he?"

"Sandburg, you're babbling! Just relax, it'll be okay-"

"He didn't tell me for the same reason I didn't tell him, of course. Of course! That and the fact that he's scared to death, due to the fact that he rejects on principle anything he hasn't done, felt, seen, tasted, touched, or smelled every day of his life!"

"Blair, sit down! Damn, I knew I shouldn't have...."

"And add to that the fact that he's been suffering from acute Blessed Protector Syndrome ever since the Dip. He's probably out there flagellating himself - metaphorically speaking, of course, Jim's not into leather - for thinking of poor, sweet, innocent me that way." Blair laughed hysterically, marginally aware that Simon was watching him with ever-widening eyes and his jaw hanging slack.

Simon hastily cleared his throat and composed his features. "Blair, he'll snap out of it. Just stick with him. Tell him it's okay. Let him down easy."

"Did he bother to ask me if I wanted my virtue defended, such as it is?" continued Blair in rapturous indignation, the import of Simon's words coming to a screeching halt somewhere short of his mind. "Hell no! Not him. Well, I'll tell you, Simon," he said breathlessly, feeling a little dizzy as he leaned on Simon's desk, "I don't."

"You ... don't...?" repeated Simon in a stunned, uncomprehending tone.

"I mean, the very idea that he'd think that I need to be protected from this is unbelievable! It's ridiculous! It's ... Jim Ellison!" Blair stared at him for a heartbeat, Simon's previous speech finally registering. "Let him down easy?"

The two stared at each other for a moment.

Blair saw the slow, dawning comprehension in Simon's face, and belatedly realized that Simon had spent so much time observing Jim that he had failed to observe anyone else. "Uh ... Simon ... I ... uh ...." He drew a deep breath. "I guess ... you've never seen how I look at somebody I'm in love with, huh?"

Simon very carefully put his glasses back on, gesturing resignedly but pointedly toward the chair as if he could somehow deposit Blair there by telekinesis.

Blair sank into the chair gratefully, his mind still flying ahead to what he would do and say to Jim when they got home. Oh, there would be some serious communication tonight. Sir Galahad had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. He'd achieved all new heights of absurdity in Blessed Protectoring. Had it ever occurred to the man that Blair might feel the same way? Had he even asked? No! Fine. No problem. Blair was quite certain that he could show Jim exactly how little he valued his virtue ... and in a way that Jim wouldn't forget anytime soon. Blair was sure that whatever he lacked in experience he could make up for in pure, unadulterated enthusiasm. Jim Ellison would never know what hit him.

"I take it," said Simon in slow, measured tones, "that this problem is ... not a problem?"

"Oh, it's a problem," said Blair a little unevenly, trying to control the hysterical giggles that threatened to seize him again. "Just not the problem you thought it was. I mean, I can understand why you thought it was a problem. And if it was anybody but Jim it would be a problem ... I mean, the kind of problem you thought it was. But it is Jim, so it's not that kind of problem. I mean, I've never.... That is, Jim's the only guy I've ever...."

Simon held up his hand, and Blair stopped. "I know this is difficult for you, Sandburg," he said wearily, "But resist the temptation to provide too much information. I just can't take the strain."

"Right," said Blair, feeling a flush rise to his face. "Sorry, Simon."

Simon regarded him soberly for a moment. "This is a Sentinel thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Blair softly. "It's a Sentinel thing. Well, a Sentinel and Guide thing. I haven't got it all figured out yet. I guess Jim and I will have to figure it out together."

Simon nodded and sighed, obviously deciding to let it go. "Just go slow. Go easy on him, okay?"

"Yeah," said Blair unevenly. Simon was right. Slow and easy. God, Jim must have been going through hell. Something like this would turn his world upside down. The last thing Jim needed now was for Blair to pounce on him like some sex-starved lunatic at the first opportunity although the idea had an undeniable appeal. Blair ruthlessly snipped that line of thought.

"Blair?"

They'd just take it one step at a time. They'd talk. Jim was going to have to get it through his thick skull that there was nothing wrong with what he was feeling. That Blair felt it, too. That being drawn to each other this way was part of being Sentinel and Guide. Blair knew he had no objective data on which to base such a conclusion. It didn't matter. Something in his gut told him it was true. The moment he'd realized that Jim shared his feelings, it had all slipped into place.

"Sandburg?"

It would be okay. They'd work it out. Yes, a nice, long talk was what was called for. With some relaxing atmosphere, maybe. Nice dinner. Soft music. Candlelight. Hot sex .

No!

"Sandburg!"

Blair started guiltily, feeling his face go hot again. "Yeah. Simon. You're right. Go easy. No problem."

Simon sighed and leaned back in his chair, observing Blair wearily. "I may have done more harm than good," he said glumly. "I don't know if I did right here, Sandburg."

"You did right," said Blair earnestly, leaning forward. "Really. It'll be okay now. We'll talk. We'll work it out. You did right."

"I hope so."

"I I really appreciate this, Simon. I know it wasn't easy."

"Sure it was. Piece of cake," growled Simon uncomfortably. "I handle stuff like this all the time, can't you tell?"

Blair felt an absurd lump in his throat. "Simon ."

"Forget it, Sandburg."

"No, man, I won't forget it," said Blair feelingly, ignoring the tell-tale warning signs that Simon had reached the end of his endurance. "It was a true act of friendship. I won't ever forget-"

Simon yanked open the drawer and pulled his badge out again, then slapped it belligerently into his pocket, teeth clenched around his cigar and glaring. "That was not a request! Forget it!"

"Ah. Right," said Blair, grinning weakly. "Forget what?"

"Out," barked Simon with his fiercest expression, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door. "Go find Ellison and keep him out of trouble. What do you think we keep you around for?"

*

Jim never drank on duty. Never, that is, until today. Well, he was doing a lot of things these days that he'd never done before. What the hell? Jim lifted his beer, his heightened senses performing a perpetual scan of the crummy bar he had parked himself in. He almost wished the senses hadn't bounced back so fast this time. Despite the fact that the owner very wisely provided as little light as possible for a very large room, Jim could clearly see that the crud was about a half an inch thick on every visible surface. He could smell the men's room from where he sat at the bar, and the few customers that populated the place at the moment were down-and- outers who made their own unique contributions to the olfactory barrage. The customers' shoes made tearing noises as they resisted the sticky suction of the filthy floor. Jim took a sip of his beer, struggling not to make a face as he did so. Watered down. This was his fourth and he still felt like he was drinking out of a toilet bowl.

Yeah, the place was as bad as he remembered, but it had been Curtis Krakowa's favorite dive. One of the scumbag's friends owned the place. If he was in town, sooner or later he'd show up. It drew him like roadkill draws maggots. And Jim had a few cautionary words to deliver to Mr. Krakowa.

He knew he shouldn't be here. It could be construed as harassment. No, strike that. It was harassment. Jim had every intention of making it very clear to Krakowa exactly which of his internal organs would see the light of day first if anything happened to Blair. If he had to sit here all day and all night for a week, he was going to make sure Krakowa got that message. Jim looked up as a large group of people shuffled in, and he glanced at his watch. Yeah, almost two. Time for the place to start filling up with more losers.

He was vaguely surprised by a persistent trilling from his pocket, and fished out his cell phone. "Ellison."

"Jim, it's me."

Jim set down his beer and tore his gaze from the door, cradling the phone against his neck. "Hey. Sorry, Chief. Didn't mean to ."

"I know. Don't worry about it. Where are you?"

Worried. He was worried. "At the Den."

There was a moment of stunned silence. "The Den? What the hell are you doing in a hole like that?"

"Just soaking up the atmosphere, Chief."

"Sounds like that's not all you've been soaking up."

"Just a beer with lunch."

"Uh-huh. So are they serving botulism or ptomaine today?"

"Both. It's a buffet."

"You stay put. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"No!" Jim shouted before he could stop himself. "No," he repeated more calmly. "I'll see you at home later."

"What's going on, Jim?"

Even more worried now. "Nothing's going on. I'm just ."

"Don't bother obfuscating! I'll be there in five minutes." The line went dead before Jim could answer and he shoved the phone back in his pocket.

Damn kid. Damn beautiful, lovable kid. Why did he care so much? Jim was nothing but a screw- up, didn't he know that? Blair should go talk to his old man, he'd fill him in on .

"Well, look who it is."

Jim swung back toward the bar to see a large - no, a fat - man with long, stringy blond hair leaning against the other side of the bar with a greasy grin on his face. Jim snorted contemptuously. "Yeah, I just couldn't stay away, Vento. Who could resist Shangri-La?" Jim gestured broadly to the filthy room and its equally filthy occupants.

Vento smirked. "Might not be healthy for you to be in here, Ellison. Friend of mine got paroled a little while back, and he's a regular customer. Don't think he'd be happy to see you in here."

"That would just break my heart," said Jim with shocking sincerity. "So what time does he usually slither in?"

Vento leaned over the bar, his smirk becoming slightly more menacing. "Watch your mouth, Ellison. Curt has connections now. You'd better stay out of his way, or you could find yourself very dead very fast. Just a friendly warning," he added hastily, leaning away as Jim met his gaze squarely.

Jim smiled faintly, catching Vento's frantic, darting eye movements toward a small group of very large, very drunk and very dirty men sitting at a booth in the back of the bar. Reinforcements, no doubt. "Connections, huh? Now how does a lowlife scumbag like Curt Krakowa get connections?"

The man's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "You do a few favors in the joint, you make friends. And I'm serious, Ellison. Talk like that gets back."

"Well, I'm not going to tell him," said Jim pleasantly. "And I know you're not going to tell him. So I've got nothing to worry about, do I? Who was Crackers cuddling up to in the joint?"

"That mouth of yours is going to get you-"

"So how long since you've had a health inspector in here?" asked Jim casually.

Vento muttered an obscenity. "Curt'll have your balls hanging from his rear view mirror by the time he's done with you, Ellison. You want to die? Fine. Be glad to help. Curt shared a cell with Morgan Wyatt's brother Jack for five years. Jack owes him, bigtime, and Morgan don't forget favors to family. So if I was you, I'd make myself scarce, because all it'll take is for Curt to point you out ."

"Careful, careful," said Jim with a small smile, subliminally aware that the reinforcements were beginning to take notice of their conversation. "Someone overhearing that might think you were threatening a police officer. You wouldn't want anyone to misunderstand your friendly concern."

"Yeah," snarled Vento. "Friendly." He snatched up a glass and splashed some gin into it.

"So Crackers does favors for the Wyatt family, huh? Does that include Anna?" Jim let his smile become suggestive.

Vento froze in the act of lifting the glass to his mouth, staring at Jim with wide eyes, then glanced around nervously. "You got a death wish, Ellison. Let me clue you in. Nobody touches Mrs. Wyatt. Nobody looks at Mrs. Wyatt. Nobody talks about Mrs. Wyatt. Got it? Because if Morgan don't do something about it, Pete Calkins will."

"Calkins?" Jim hadn't heard much about Wyatt's money man lately. He tended to keep a low profile, distancing himself from Wyatt's more colorful activities.

Vento glowered. "Pete don't appreciate people trashing his sister. He practically brought her up. Nobody messes with her. Nobody."

Jim fell silent for a moment. He hadn't realized that Calkins was Wyatt's brother-in-law. He had wondered why about a year ago Calkins and Wyatt had suddenly gotten so tight. That must have been when Wyatt had gotten married. Jim grimaced. Calkins had evidently secured his place as Wyatt's right-hand man by putting up his sister as collateral. "You've been studying the lifestyles of the rich and famous, Vento," said Jim lightly, watching the reinforcements rise from their seats and make their way slowly through the thickening crowd toward the bar.

"Curt and Wyatt are like this," hissed Vento, thrusting two fingers toward Jim in a variation of an obscene gesture. He was obviously at the end of his patience. His gaze darted frantically from the door to the back of the bar and back to Jim. "And so are me and Curt."

Jim cast a casual glance toward the door, curious. Vento was obviously expecting someone, and given his reaction to the subject under discussion, it was probably Krakowa. The noise level had been rising steadily as more and more customers drifted in. A second bartender had started pulling beers. Jim recognized a lot of the faces; he'd busted a lot of them at one time or another. He became aware of hostile stares and muttering. He shrugged marginally. So? Let them try something. He was in just the right mood for it.

"Is this guy giving you trouble, Jerry?"

Jim turned to see the largest of the reinforcements standing on his left at what he was certain was supposed to be an alarming proximity. The others slowly formed a half-ring around him, their stance casual.

"No, and he's not going to," growled Vento ominously. "He's leaving right now."

Jim lifted his beer and took another sip. "I don't think so."

"Listen, Ellison! Whatever you've got going with Curt, take it someplace else! I don't want any of that shit going down in my place."

"Afraid he'll think you set him up? Yeah, he just might," said Jim softly, feeling the hot breath of one of the men closing in behind him. Just one shove, that's all he'd need .

"Jim!"

A pleasant, familiar voice reached Jim's sensitive ears and eased its way through his beer-induced haze like a warm spoon through soft butter. The itch to slug someone that he'd been so carefully nursing for the past few hours disappeared at the sound. He turned hastily toward the door and leaned around the bulk of the man on his right to peer down the long, crowded room. After a moment, he caught sight of a young man with a pair of bright blue eyes and a mane of dark curls making his way slowly through the maze of people between him and the bar. The man's appearance was so incongruous to his surroundings that for a moment Jim didn't grasp the reality of his presence. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he did.

Oh, shit.

Blair. In the Den, for God's sake. Damn! Jim hadn't realized how much time had passed since Blair's call. He should have met him outside.

"Fine," he snapped to Vento. "I'll take it someplace else." He rose from his stool, but was pushed back onto it by the man in front of him.

"I don't think Jerry wants to see you here again," he said belligerently.

Jim opened his mouth to respond, but another familiar voice, this one distinctly unpleasant, rose above the white noise of the crowd to capture his attention.

"How much, Angel?"

The words pounded through Jim's sensitive hearing like a hammer. He knew that voice all too well. Ignoring the man standing in his way, he brought his heightened vision to bear on the source of the sound, freezing in alarm as he did so. An arm had caught Blair across the chest.

Blair looked up at the owner of the arm, startled. "Excuse me?" Then an expression of recognition and disgust settled over his features. "Let me by." The arm pulled back only enough to place a hand on Blair's chest and shove his back to the wall. Krakowa appeared from the crowd, pressing the palms of his hands to the wall on either side of Blair as he leaned toward him. Jim leapt from his stool and threw himself in Blair's direction, but was blocked by the man in front of him. He could hear Krakowa's next words clearly despite the distraction.

"I've been thinking about you, pretty boy. I figure if Annie can afford you, so can I. How much?" Krakowa laughed into Blair's face.

Enraged, Jim finally bowled over the man restraining him and started plowing his way through the crowd. "Krakowa!" There was no reaction from either Krakowa or Blair. It was obvious that neither of them could hear him in the din of the crowded room.

Blair shoved Krakowa back roughly, eyes blazing. "Keep your hands off me, you sick son of a bitch!" Blair began walking toward Jim again, his jaw set in a way that spoke volumes to Jim about anger and fear, but Krakowa grabbed his arm and yanked him back before he had taken two steps.

"You like it rough, don't you, pretty boy? Yeah, I'll just bet you do-"

Jesus oh Jesus, this is what he wouldn't tell me Jim shoved the last few people out of his way, oblivious to spilled drinks, falls and curses, and made his way to Blair's side, who turned to meet his gaze with a strange expression of both relief and concern.

"Jim-"

Jim yanked the restraining hand from Blair's arm, pushed Blair behind him, and came face to face with Krakowa.

"Ellison," stammered Krakowa, clearly caught off guard.

"Let's get this straight, you miserable little shit," snarled Jim wildly, leaning into Krakowa's startled face. "The next time you come within ten feet of my partner I will personally make you wish you had never been born. Are you reading me?"

The people around the three men turned to stare at the confrontation, muttering and whispering. Jim couldn't have cared less.

"Jim," said Blair in a quiet, steady voice. "Let's just go, okay?"

"Partner?" Krakowa's gaze travelled from Jim to Blair and back again. "Partner?" He started to laugh. "Pretty boy's a cop? Oh, this is too rich. What's the matter, Ellison? Major Crimes running out of men?"

The next thing Jim knew he was shoving Krakowa up against the wall. Once twice three times again and again. He was dimly aware that Blair had him by the arm and was shouting to get his attention, but he couldn't hear what he was saying. And he couldn't see anything but Krakowa's frightened face. "You fucking cockroach!" Jim hissed venomously. "Sandburg is ten times more man than a hundred of you! If I find out that he's so much as caught sight of you, even once, I will be FedExing your guts to your scumbag boss within twenty-four hours. Just try me!"

"Jim! For God's sake, let go of him, man! Come on!"

Jim froze for a moment, listening to Blair's voice. It had guided him successfully through so many tough spots for so long now that doing what it said had become second nature. He let Krakowa go and stepped back, breathing hard. The silence that had fallen in the bar roared in his ears. Krakowa stared back at him, panting, eyes wide with fear and hatred. Jim felt Blair pull gently on his arm.

"Let's go, Jim," said Blair in a soft, firm voice. "Right now."

"I'll have you up on charges, Ellison," said Krakowa in a low, malignant voice infinitely more chilling than a shout. "You and More Man, here. And that's just for starters."

Jim stared at the vicious sneer on the man's face, fighting the instinct to wipe it off the old- fashioned way. He wanted to take this son of a bitch out. He'd be doing the world a favor.

Blair stepped between Jim and Krakowa, facing Jim. "Let's go," he repeated evenly.

Jim tore his gaze from Krakowa's twisted face to look at Blair. Blair. He had to get Blair out of here. "Yeah. I'm with you, Chief." He turned toward the door, shepherding Blair in front of him. Krakowa's strident voice cut through the undercurrent of murmurs as they crossed the threshold and stepped onto the street.

"Gotta nice piece of ass, there, Ellison. Get it for free, huh? More Man's just one of the perks of the job!" The voice dissolved into an acid cackle.

The meaning of the words eluded Jim for a moment, until he saw Blair's body stiffen, saw him turn toward Jim, an expression of dismay crossing his face. Jim came to a halt on the pavement, staring at Blair, then back into the dark bar, where Krakowa's laughter was still audible.

A potent wave of rage and self-loathing washed over Jim. All his desire for Blair suddenly appalled him in a completely new way. It sickened him. What was the difference between Krakowa's twisted fantasies and Jim's? Nothing, at least as far as Blair was concerned. Blair wouldn't want anything to do with either one. At least Krakowa had the poor excuse of being a sociopath. At least he wasn't guilty of betraying a friend's trust. His words were more an indictment of Jim than of himself. And those words told Jim loud and clear that Jim Ellison and Curtis Krakowa were all too much alike.

"Let's get out of here," said Jim dully.

Blair steered Jim's truck through the intersection, then stole a look at the man sitting next to him. Blair had been amazed that he had been able to get Jim to fork over the keys so easily. It had taken next to no persuasion. Jim had handed them over without comment, then climbed into the passenger seat and stared out the window wordlessly for the next ten minutes, chalk-white, dead- eyed and silent.

Blair drove toward the station, doing his best not to succumb to the temptation to pound the steering wheel in frustration and anger. That demented son of a bitch. Piece of ass? Get it for free? Perks of the job? If he wasn't the non-violent type, he'd have gone back in there and and . Oh, hell. Get himself beaten up, probably. But he'd get a few shots in first. He wasn't anybody's piece of ass. And Jim Ellison was no more capable of treating him or anyone like that than a river could run the wrong way.

Blair glanced at Jim again and started yet another round of silent swearing. Jim was still wearing that Mr. Freeze face of his. Blair had learned to hate that expression hate it because he knew now that Jim wore it only when he was in severe pain. And if there was anything Blair couldn't stand the sight of, it was Jim Ellison in pain. He had to say something. "Jim, don't let him get to you. He's sick, man. He's out of touch with reality. He doesn't have any idea of who you are."

Jim nodded remotely, and Blair stifled a groan. The timing couldn't possibly have been worse. Why now? Why the hell did this have to happen NOW?

Blair couldn't help feeling that he should have found some way to avoid that confrontation. Maybe if he'd paid more attention when he'd entered the bar . Blair shook his head at the thought. When he'd entered the bar, Macho Man Ellison had been about to take on what looked like two tag teams of professional wrestlers. Blair's only thought at that moment had been to get to him as quickly as possible. Nevertheless, if he had been paying any attention to his surroundings, he would have spotted Krakowa. And then what?

Fight? Jim would have come charging to the rescue anyway. Turn and run? Leave Jim there? Not an option in any universe. Oh, hell.

Krakowa scared the hell out of him, and Blair had no problem acknowledging it. Those few moments of being pinned to the Den's filthy wall were among the most frightening Blair had ever experienced. He hadn't been that close to that much warped hatred since Lash. Anybody who claimed not to be afraid of Krakowa was either lying or profoundly stupid. Blair admitted to himself that he'd never been more relieved in his life than when he'd looked up to see Jim plowing through the crowd like a bulldozer through a crystal shop, hell-bent on wreaking a little diplomacy, Ellison-style.

Blair suppressed a sigh. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the rescue. He had needed Jim's help to get out of that situation without somebody getting hurt. Blair smiled wryly. Probably himself, although Blair suspected that if pressed he could give as good as he got. But rescuing Blair had exposed Jim to a characterization of his feelings that, if taken seriously, would undermine Jim's very perception of who he was. The fact that anything that psychotic had to say on the subject would carry any weight with Jim showed just how much hell he had been putting himself through over this.

Okay. Enough analysis. What was required here was some positive action. Blair pulled into the McDonald's drive-through and ordered a large cup of coffee. "You need some food, buddy?"

There was no answer. Blair looked to Jim in alarm, then sighed softly. Jim had fallen fast asleep. Oh, well. Probably just as well. He hadn't gotten any more sleep than Blair had, probably less. Add to that a major BPS crisis, God only knew how many beers and a generous portion of overthe -top macho posturing, all before three o'clock in the afternoon. No wonder the poor guy had crashed. Even a superhero has his limits. Blair grinned conspiratorially to himself, imagining Jim's reaction to such a statement. He hated it when Blair called him a hero of any kind. Hated it with a passion. So of course Blair called him one whenever possible, just on principle. He wondered what Jim would say if he knew that Blair really meant it.

Jim stirred and muttered something in his sleep. Blair caught a couple of disjointed words in Chopec, and gave him a sharp look. Good. "Soften him up for me, okay?" murmured Blair quietly. "I need all the help I can get."

The words were no sooner out of Blair's mouth than he heard the muffled trilling of Jim's cell phone. Jim slept on, oblivious, but the phone kept ringing. Blair sighed. It had to be Simon. He was probably not worrying again. Smiling, Blair reached inside Jim's jacket and pulled out the phone.

"Hello?"

"Sandburg? Where the hell are you? Where's Ellison?" There was an edge to Simon's voice that made Blair clutch the phone more tightly. Something had happened.

"He's right here. We're on our way back to the station. What-"

"Are you two all right?"

"We're fine. Simon, what's-"

"Did you keep him out of trouble?"

"Ah ... for the most part."

There was a brief silence, and Blair held his breath. Simon sighed and continued, evidently deciding not to pursue it. "Get over to the harbor, the end of 14th Street. Now."

"Simon, tell me-"

"Now!"

"Okay, okay! Just-"

Simon hung up, and Blair gave the phone an incredulous stare. What was Simon so worked up about? Krakowa couldn't have filed charges this fast, could he? No. Blair doubted that he would at all. What was at the end of 14th Street? Nothing but a lot of mud, as far as Blair could remember. It must be a crime scene. But then why hadn't Simon explained what was going on? Blair sighed and turned the truck toward the harbor. He should probably wake Jim up. He glanced at his friend and sighed. No, he should probably sober Jim up, and fast. They were only a few blocks from the loft. Blair hung a hard left. Yes. Shove his head under some cold water, get some hot coffee into him, and he just might be able to survive Simon on the warpath.

Jim groaned in his sleep, and Blair reached over to lay a hand on his arm. "Jim? Come on, buddy, wake up."

"Blair," murmured Jim in a despairing tone that hurt Blair to hear. "Don't ."

"Jim," said Blair a little more urgently. Wherever Jim had been a few minutes ago, he was someplace else now. He must be having one hell of a dream - or nightmare. Blair shook Jim's arm gently. "Time to wake up."

Jim abruptly gasped and lurched forward in his seat. Blair flung an arm across Jim's chest, managing to keep him from diving into the dashboard. "Jim! Easy, man, you're okay."

Jim clutched Blair's arm for a moment and stared around him, then exhaled and leaned back in his seat. "Geez. Sorry, Chief. Must have dozed off."

"For about twenty minutes," said Blair softly. He knew from the look on Jim's face that he wouldn't be hearing about this dream, not for a while, at least. Jim was white to the gills again. "Here," he added, lifting the lukewarm coffee from the cup holder. "Maybe this'll help."

"Thanks." Jim accepted the coffee and took a sip, then looked back to Blair. He seemed to be struggling for words for a moment, then muttered, "Sorry, Chief."

"For what?" asked Blair, keeping the tenderness out of his voice with difficulty. "Your taste in watering holes, maybe? It's sure gone to hell."

"Look, I'm really sor-"

"Don't be sorry! Just " Blair paused and gathered his thoughts carefully. "Just tell me what you were doing in there."

Jim shrugged. "Just blowing off steam, I guess."

"Ah. Steam. I get it," said Blair drily. "Smoke signals. I guess they worked, huh?"

Jim set his jaw stubbornly. "I'm not reading you, Chief."

"Oh, you're reading me just fine. You went there to draw out Krakowa and put the fear of Ellison into him, right?"

Jim said nothing.

"Right?"

Jim took another sip of his coffee.

"Oh, well. More data for my dissertation. I've decided to add a chapter on BPS," said Blair casually, observing Jim carefully out of the corner of his eye.

Jim kept sipping his coffee.

"That was an impressive alpha-male threat display, and I've seen a few in my time. I especially liked the FedExing-your-guts business. Now that was original."

Jim's mouth twitched slightly.

"So how do you do that, exactly? I mean, does FedEx have a special container for guts, or what?"

Jim hid his mouth against his coffee cup.

"Do they, like, charge extra for delivering guts?"

Jim choked on his coffee.

"I guess if you give 'em enough business they give you a bulk rate, huh?"

Jim sputtered and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "Sandburg...."

"I know, I know. These details are all old hat for a professional Blessed Protector, but they're new to me. I'm learning, man. Now, while you're packing up the guts...."

"For crying out loud-"

"Do you, like, have something to psych you up, like some kind of Blessed Protector Fight Song?"

Jim finally broke into quiet laughter, nearly spilling his coffee as he did so. "No."

"No? Aw, c'mon, man, tell me what it is. Something retro, right?"

"What ... what have you been smoking, Sandburg?"

"'Live and Let Die'? 'We Are the Champions'? Oh.... I've got it. It's 'Don't Mess Around With Jim', isn't it?"

"Never ... heard of it," managed Jim, controlling himself with a visible effort as he hastily gulped down some more coffee.

"You know, man, the old Jim Croce song." Blair drew a deep breath and sang at the top of his lungs. "You don't tug on Superman's cape...."

"Everybody's looking at you," growled Jim, scrunching down in his seat.

"You don't spit into the wind...." Blair waved as a passing motorist favored him with a glare.

"Dammit, you're ... you're endangering other drivers here...."

"You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger...."

"Just ... just knock it off." Jim pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes as the drivers on either side stared at them curiously.

"And you don't mess around with Jim."

Jim's laughter erupted again, and he managed to slam his coffee cup into the cup holder only after he'd spilled most of the contents. "Shut up! Shut up! God, Sandburg, do anything to me but sing!"

"Dah doo dah doo dah dah dah dee dee dee dee dee," finished Blair happily with a little seat- dancing, determined to do the thing thoroughly since he had started, and delighted with the results. If he had known he could reduce Jim Ellison to this level of helplessness by singing, he would have started years ago.

"You're a maniac," gasped Jim. "Watch out! Keep your eyes on the damn road."

"Come on, Jim, sing with me." Blair tooted the horn merrily, drawing more annoyed stares.

"I don't sing," snapped Jim, straightening his baseball cap and making a gallant effort to compose himself. "And I hate to break this to you, Sandburg, but neither do you."

"You're jealous," returned Blair cheerfully.

"You're certifiable," retorted Jim, a grin breaking through. He glanced around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. "Where are we headed?"

"First to the loft and then to the end of 14th Street. Simon called. I think it's a case." Blair turned onto Prospect Avenue.

Jim sat up straight and shot Blair a sharp look. "You think it's a case?"

"Simon wasn't in a very communicative mood. Sounded like he was in a hurry."

"Then so should we," said Jim impatiently. "Why are we going to the loft?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it, tough guy, but you smell like you fell into a vat of Jerry Vento's finest."

"You'll make someone a wonderful little mother someday, Sandburg," growled Jim. "Just drive to 14th."

"Forget it. If you get canned for being drunk on duty, then where the hell am I?"

"I'm not drunk," said Jim icily.

"Fine. You're not drunk. You still stink. You must have been sitting in that hole for quite awhile to soak up that much atmosphere." Jim glared at him, but Blair couldn't have cared less. Anything was better than that damned Mr. Freeze expression. And Jim's color was back to normal too, thank God. "You went right there from the station, didn't you?"

Jim shrugged and said nothing.

"C'mon, Jim, talk to me. What were you thinking?"

"Look, Chief, I said I was sor-"

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want to understand."

Jim's expression softened, but he remained silent.

"Did you really think you could scare him off?" Blair asked softly, already knowing the answer. Jim had thought so. He thought he could protect Blair from every evil in the world. Or maybe he just thought that he should be able to. Blair's throat tightened at the thought. He'd rather have Krakowa throw him against a hundred walls than see Jim do this to himself.

Jim glanced at Blair uncertainly, then looked away again. "I did scare him," he said finally, with a certain amount of grim satisfaction. "I smelled it on him."

"How long do you think he'll stay scared?" pursued Blair softly.

"Not long," conceded Jim.

"Well, you certainly got his attention. Do you think he'll make trouble for you?"

"Let him try," Jim growled.

"I don't want him to try. I want him to leave you the hell alone, which he probably would have done if you hadn't gone looking for him." Blair kept a level tone with difficulty. He pulled up in front of the loft and parked.

"He wouldn't have left you alone, so what the hell good would that have done me?" snapped Jim. "We'd have wound up facing off no matter what. At least now he knows he'll have to go through me first."

Blair pounded the steering wheel in a sudden surge of fear and frustration. "I don't want him to go through you. I don't want him anywhere near you. I don't want anything to happen to you, okay?" Blair caught himself, clenched his teeth and clutched the steering wheel to keep from saying any more. Every declaration of love he'd ever fantasized about making screamed in the back of his mind. This was it. He couldn't stand this anymore. This silence was killing both of them. As soon as they got upstairs, he was going to tell Jim everything he'd ever wanted to tell him. One way or another, Blair was going to make this man understand that he was dearer to Blair than his own life and that whatever Jim was feeling for him was okay with him. Hell, more than okay, it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And Simon could damn well wait while he did it. Blair grabbed the door handle.

"Yeah, I know," said Jim, so gently that Blair froze in his seat and looked up at him, startled. It took him a moment to realize that Jim was responding to his words, not his thought. Jim seemed to have been caught off-guard by what Blair had said, but then he always seemed surprised and confused when someone showed they cared about him. Jim rested a hesitant hand on Blair's shoulder and Blair fought hard not to lean into the touch. "It'll be okay, Chief. Nothing's going to happen to me."

Blair drew a deep breath for control and did his best to look skeptical. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're invincible."

Jim grinned a little weakly. "I thought you'd catch on sooner or later."

"Come on," returned Blair gruffly, pushing open the door. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"When exactly did I lose this argument, Chief?" Jim swung out of the truck and waited for Blair on the sidewalk, an amused, resigned expression on his face.

"Same time you always do," returned Blair matter-of-factly, coming to Jim's side.

"Before I started it?"

"I thought you'd catch on sooner or later."

"Blair!"

It was a piercing shriek, and Blair whirled in the direction of the sound to see a sandy-haired woman running across the street, dodging the passing traffic by mere inches. It took him several stunned moments to realize who it was. "Anna?" He bolted into the street toward her, dimly aware that Jim was two steps behind him.

Anna ran toward him, sobbing, arms outstretched, seemingly oblivious to the cars that whizzed around her, blaring their horns. Blair threw both arms around her in relief, pulled her out of harm's way and practically carried her to the sidewalk as she clung to him, sobbing hysterically.

"Blair. Blair, he's dead. He tried to help me and he's dead, he's dead...."

"Shhhh." Blair held her, realizing that it was pointless to ask questions of someone in this condition. The convulsive tremors ran through the woman's body told him everything he needed to know right now. Glancing down, he was alarmed to see that she had fresh cuts and bruises on her arms, and her clothes were dirty and torn. God only knows what she'd been through to get here. He was grateful to see her alive and in one piece. If anything worse had happened to her after letting her go off with Krakowa, he'd never have been able to forgive himself. "You're safe now. You're okay." Glancing up over Anna's shoulder, he realized that Jim was standing close beside them, watching Blair with an achingly sad expression which disappeared the moment he realized Blair was returning his gaze.

"Is she all right?" asked Jim quietly.

Anna gasped and turned toward Jim's voice with a terrified expression.

"It's okay, it's okay," said Blair soothingly. Afraid she'd run off again, he put an arm around her shoulders. "This is Jim Ellison. He's the friend I told you about."

"The ... the cop?" stammered Anna a little wildly.

"That's right," said Jim a little stiffly.

Anna stepped toward him deliberately, still shaking violently. "I want you to arrest my husband. I want you to arrest Morgan Wyatt."

"You're willing to press domestic assault charges?" asked Jim, looking surprised.

Anna stared at him blankly for a moment. "Domestic assault?" she quavered faintly. "No! I want him charged with murder."

What were the odds?

Simon stared at the man lying dead at his feet. He had the unnerving feeling that the universe's mechanism for distributing coincidences evenly had somehow broken down, leaving all overworked and underpaid police captains to pull their collective hair out. He'd put even money on the fact that the bookies were going crazy today, too.

"Maybe I was really evil in a previous life," he muttered to himself.

When Brown had called in from the scene, saying that the victim was Morgan Wyatt's right-hand man, Simon had been certain there'd been a misidentification. Pete Calkins, dead? After what had gone down with Blair just a few hours ago? It messed with the odds, and Simon had a great and abiding faith in the odds.

But Simon knew the man's face. And there it was, what was left of it, lying in the harbor-side mud for all to see. Multiple gun shot wounds. It hadn't been an easy death from the look of things. Simon wondered grimly which of Wyatt's many business rivals had decided to raise the stakes so dramatically, and how many corpses would result from the ensuing war. Wyatt wasn't going to take this lying down.

Unless, of course, it had been an executive decision of his own. It wouldn't be the first time that Wyatt had terminated an employee in the literal sense. But the word on the street was that Wyatt and Calkins were tight. They were brothers-in-law. It seemed unlikely that Calkins could fall from favor so quickly. Then again, family always made the best suspects.

Simon grimaced. Ordinarily he'd put Ellison on this. Brown was a good detective, but he didn't have Ellison's experience or his special edge. And a special edge was what the Cascade PD would need to get an arrest, let alone a conviction, in this case.

But Ellison was freaking out over Wyatt and Krakowa crossing Blair's path. He was as close to the brink as Simon had seen him since the Alex Barnes business, and that was saying something. Simon didn't want to think about Jim Ellison interviewing Morgan Wyatt under these circumstances. Jim might steady down after he and Blair had their talk, but Simon doubted it. Blessed Protector Syndrome, as Blair had once pointed out to him, was like alcoholism. You had it for life. All you could do was take it one day at a time. As long as Blair was in danger, Jim would be a loaded cannon. The best Simon could do was make sure that Jim wouldn't be a loose cannon as well.

Which meant limiting Jim's involvement in this case. Simon sighed loudly. Yeah, that would go down so well. Simon looked forward eagerly to informing Jim Ellison that he was being fitted for a leash and muzzle. Jim always appreciated such considerations. And where the hell was he? Simon had told Blair to report almost half an hour ago. Maybe Blair was doing whatever the hell he did - Sandburg voodoo or whatever - to get Jim calmed down, focused and in shape. The kid deserved a salary for that alone. Still, they should have been here by now.

Simon's cell phone rang, and he grimaced. It had to be Ellison. God forbid he just report for duty like every other detective on the force. He yanked the phone out of his jacket pocket. "Banks."

"Captain, we have a little sit-"

"Ellison, where the hell are you?"

"On the way to the station, sir. If you'll-"

"What we have here is a failure to communicate, Detective, and its name is Sandburg."

There was a brief pause, long enough for Simon to process the impression that there was something wrong in Jim's voice. When Jim spoke again, the impression became a certainty. Simon managed, with some difficulty, to suppress a curse. Something had happened.

"He gave me your message, sir, but something's happened."

"This had better be good."

"Mrs. Wyatt is with us."

Simon briefly considered asking Jim if he had been drinking, then reminded himself that if Jim had been drinking Simon didn't want to know about it. "Mrs. Morgan Wyatt?"

"Yes, sir. We need to place her in protective custody as quickly as possible. She's a murder witness."

Simon sighed in dismal comprehension. The odds had suffered yet another staggering blow. "Pete Calkins."

"Yes." Jim sounded surprised, then continued in a subdued tone. "You found him."

"In the flesh." It was only then that Simon realized what the presence of Mrs. Wyatt at the murder of her brother was likely to mean. "Tell me we've got Morgan Wyatt for murder," he said sharply.

"I think we do, sir," replied Jim with a sort of savage satisfaction in his voice.

"Don't let that woman out of your sight. I'll meet you at the station in ten minutes."

*

"It's okay, Anna. We're going to get you through this."

Jim glanced over at Blair, who had wrapped his jacket around the trembling woman and was holding her protectively. Jesus, he had been right this morning after all. He was jealous. It didn't matter that Jim knew there was nothing between Blair and this woman. It was enough that Blair put his arms around her.

I'm pathetic.

She was scared to death, for God's sake. Blair was trying to comfort her, to calm her down. He'd do the same for anyone who needed help. Blair was too big-hearted to do anything else. And Jim was still jealous.

This is sick.

"He won't stop until I'm dead," said Anna through chattering teeth.

"You'll be in protective custody soon," said Blair evenly.

"What about you?" stuttered Anna miserably. "Who will protect you?"

Jim grit his teeth and took the turn into the station garage a little more sharply than he had to.

"I've got all the protection I can handle, believe me," said Blair in a wry tone, giving Jim a funny little look over Anna's head as they came to a stop.

Jim caught the look and found himself steadied by it despite everything. He shouldered open the door and piled out, shaking his head. How did the man do it? No matter how bad things got, no matter how badly Jim wanted to crawl under his rock, Blair always found some way to coax him out again. And things were pretty damn bad at the moment. The power Blair had over him scared the shit out of him sometimes. He took Anna's arm as gently as he could and steered her quickly and firmly to the elevator.

"Where where did they find Peter?" she asked faintly as the elevator doors closed.

"In the mud down by the harbor," said Jim without giving his answer a thought. It took Blair's horrified look and the new tears in Anna's eyes to make him realize what he had just said. Anna turned to Jim, a tear traveling down one cheek. Jim cursed himself silently. "I'm sorry," he stammered helplessly as the doors slid open. What the hell was he doing? Was he this low? "I didn't-"

"I know what he was," whispered Anna. "But he was the only real family I ever had."

She and Blair moved past him into the crowded bullpen and headed for Simon's office, running a gauntlet of curious stares. Blair's mouth was set in an angry line, and Jim groaned inwardly. The devastation in Anna's face had hit him hard, and he found himself putting himself in her place. What if it had been Blair lying in the mud? Why the hell was he taking his petty jealousy out on this poor girl? Jim followed them wordlessly, hating himself all over again. He stood in the doorway to Simon's office, watching as Blair settled Anna in a chair.

"You'll be okay now. Captain Banks will be here soon. He'll take care of everything."

Anna nodded numbly. "Could I please have some water?"

"I'll get you some," said Blair hastily. He sidled past Jim with a muttered, "Try not to take a stick to her while I'm gone, okay?" and headed toward the break room.

After a moment's hesitation, Jim pulled up a chair next to Anna and sat down. "I apologize, Mrs. Wyatt," he said quietly. "I wasn't thinking."

"Yes, you were. You were thinking, 'Pete Calkins is dead, good riddance,'" said Anna wearily but without rancor.

No, not exactly. Jim had been thinking how good it would feel to have Blair hold him like that and how much he hated that Blair was holding someone else instead. But it was certainly true that he wasn't mourning the passing of Pete Calkins. He groped for something he could say honestly. "I'm sorry you lost family," said Jim after a moment. "I know how that feels."

Anna lifted her gaze to his face for a moment, and Jim was startled to see a discerning intelligence in those green eyes. "Thank you. And I'm sorry that I've gotten your friend involved in all this. I would never do anything to hurt him. Blair is the only friend I have in the world now."

Jim nodded, wearily deciding that he was even more of a mean shit than he had originally thought. And he was certainly slipping up in the inscrutable department if this total stranger had been able to see how worried he was about Blair. "If you have to have just one, Blair's the best choice you could make."

Anna wiped her eyes and nodded. "Morgan knows about him. And Curtis Krak-"

"I know."

"Please watch out for him."

Jim smiled faintly.

"I mean, more than you usually do."

"What?" Jim stared at her, startled.

"I saw how you ran out into the street after him," explained Anna tremulously. "It's the kind of thing a big brother would do." She drew a shaky breath and tried to go on, but something seemed to hit her quite suddenly and she broke down, sobbing quietly into her hands.

"I'm sorry," said Jim helplessly, patting her shoulder awkwardly. Please don't make me feel any more like a shit than I already do. "Don't try not to worry about Blair. I'll keep an eye on him. It'll be okay. You'll get through this. We all will." Jim stifled a sigh. Well, it had been bound to happen sooner or later, but it still came of something of a shock to hear himself sounding like Sandburg.

Jim heard a small sound behind him and looked up to see Blair standing in the doorway with a glass of water in his hand, smiling at him for all the world as if Jim had just saved the universe or something. Oh, God. Of all the many Sandburg smiles that did dangerous things to Jim's libido, the "I'm so proud of you" smile had always been the worst. It ripped him up inside to see it now, now that he knew damn well that he deserved neither the admiration nor the trust and affection it implied. Jim stood up and removed his hand from Anna's shoulder as if it burned him.

"Any sign of Simon?" he asked harshly.

*

Simon barreled through the elevator doors into the bullpen. "Where?" he barked succinctly to Rafe, who hastily pointed in the direction of Simon's office. Oh, it was a damn good thing that Ellison was here. If he had pulled one more stunt today, Simon would have pinned his ears back, no matter what kind of a case he had put together against Wyatt. Simon was willing to cut Jim a lot of slack. The guy was under a hell of a lot of pressure right now. And a good man always deserves some slack, never mind a good friend and an extraordinary cop. But Simon had a precinct to run, and he couldn't have his officers constantly disregarding his orders. If Jim needed some leave time to get himself together, all he had to do was ask. God knew he had it coming.

Simon strode through the door of his office. A battered-looking young woman was sitting on a chair in front of his desk, drinking a glass of water and looking like she was trying hard not to cry or pass out. Blair was sitting next to her, speaking to her softly. He looked up at Simon with a relieved expression. Jim was standing across the room, staring out the window. He appeared to take no notice of Simon's arrival.

Simon took one good, long look at Jim's face and grimaced. He knew that expression all too well. Something had happened since he had seen Jim last. Something nasty. Something that had shut Jim down emotionally and had probably shut his senses down, too. Something that would make Simon Banks' life ever-living hell until it was resolved. Simon didn't doubt that Major Crime's unofficial shrink had been on the job. Blair had at least coached Jim past the inevitable Zombies-R-Us phase ... somewhat. Not that Blair was looking too good, either. Simon muttered a particularly foul obscenity under his breath. Wasn't having one kid enough? When had he stopped being a police captain and started being Dad to these two pains in the ass?

Simon closed the door behind him. "Welcome back, Detective," he growled to Jim.

Jim started and turned toward him. "Sir?"

Yup. Senses gone. Jim hadn't even heard Simon come in.

"Anna, this is Captain Banks," said Blair quietly.

Simon turned his attention to the young woman. God, she was black-and-blue everywhere he looked. "Mrs. Wyatt, do you need a doctor?"

"No," replied Anna unsteadily. "I'm all right."

Simon eased himself into his chair. Shit. All of the conventional platitudes like "sorry for your loss" and "my condolences" seemed hypocritical in the extreme. He was a cop. This woman was Pete Calkins' sister and Morgan Wyatt's wife. She knew damn well that he wasn't sorry that Calkins was dead and Wyatt was the prime suspect. But he had to say something.

"My condolences," he said quietly. He found he didn't feel that bad about saying it. He was sorry - for her. You couldn't help but feel sorry for a woman - not much more than a girl, really - who had just lost the last family she had, no matter who he was. And if the rumors were true, she hadn't had much to say about who she'd married. He certainly couldn't imagine any woman in her right mind marrying Wyatt out of choice. Simon's gaze swept over her cuts and bruises. That son of a bitch. If they really had a chance to put him away . "We'll do everything possible to guarantee your safety."

Anna shivered slightly. "Blair told me." Blair reached over and drew his jacket around her gently. Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Jim move restlessly from the window to Simon's chair and back again.

Simon cleared his throat uncomfortably. This was never easy, and Jim prowling around behind him like some caged animal only made it harder. What the hell was going on? "I understand," he said as gently as possible, "that you witnessed your brother's murder."

"Morgan killed him," said Anna simply, as if she were too tired to cry anymore.

Shock. God knows Simon had seen enou