Entry #23

I figure that whatever shreds of my sanity I still had left are shot to hell. 
Most  men are disappointed when they find out a beautiful woman who
sparks their  interest is taken.  I was relieved.  I liked Sheila, once she
drew in her claws  and we got past all the crap that went down during
the Pendergrass ordeal.   She's trying to establish herself as a tough,
no-nonsense IA cop in a precinct  full of men.  Now, I'm no social
systems expert like Sandburg, but that's gotta  be tricky.  So I guess she
was just flexing her muscles before.

Ordinarily, I'd have been interested in getting her to flex some other
muscles  this time around, but I ended up dozing off on her couch.  Of
course, the  appearance of a fianc‚ kind of explains why she wasn't
interested in anything  either.

We did have a good visit, a nice dinner, and I feel like a made a friend. 
I was  attracted to Sheila, and for a few minutes there at her place, I
had some ideas  about making a move.  

This thing with Blair is like being on a bungee cord.  One minute I'm
checking  him out, thinking of all the things I'd like to throw him in the
back of the  Expedition and do to him, and the next minute, I realize
how stupid that is, and  I find out that my libido still works just dandy
checking out a well-built  woman.  So it's as if I jump off toward
Sandburg, that doesn't really come  together, so I bounce back to
looking at women, but that's hollow, so I snap  back to thinking about
him and get frustrated and then head out after a woman  and so on and
so on...  I've never done ambiguity well, and this is driving me  nuts.

I've gotten way off track here.  

Most people wouldn't consider getting wax blown out of their ears a
traumatic  experience.  I had a really bad feeling when she came after
me with that  syringe full of water.  I knew Blair was out in the waiting
room--I wondered  how insane I'd look, and how fast the guys from the
psycho ward would show  up--if I started backing away from her and
yelling for him.  I mean it literally  reduced me to that in my mind.  I
can recall vaguely getting my ears blasted  like that once when I was a
kid, and it was no big deal.  I was a little freaked  out at the sight of the
syringe, but since it ultimately wasn't painful and I got a  balloon for
my trouble, it didn't stand out as a big trauma.

As soon as we left the doctor's office, I noticed things were starting to
annoy  me--little things.  It was like my environment was
suddenly...unbearably noisy.   I got home, Blair made dinner--I could
hear every movement--right down to  the oregano sliding together
between his fingers as he sprinkled it into the  sauce he was making.  I
didn't tell him about the wax thing because I figured it  was no big deal. 
Maybe sometimes I want to be normal--I don't want every  little thing
to be a big deal.

We ate, and he finally fell silent when I looked annoyed at every word
he said.   The truth was, his voice was deafening.  Now, knowing Blair
as I do, and  knowing that his speaking voice generally is, if anything,
soft and somewhat  soothing, I was fully aware he wasn't shouting at
me, but it sounded like it.   When I could see I'd hurt his feelings, I
finally came clean.  There was no  reason to insult him when I wasn't
even annoyed with *him*.

I told him about the wax thing, and that everything was louder now. 
He  responded that it wasn't all that surprising that I was having
problems, and  expressed some enthusiasm over what this meant for
the true power of my  hearing.  And he did all of it in what would have
been an almost inaudible  whisper to any normal ears.  Then he worked
with me, slowly raising the  volume of his voice, forcing me to
consciously dial down my hearing as he "dialed up" his voice.  

After a couple hours of this, I had a headache, the food was cold, but I
could  tolerate his voice at a normal level.  As long as he didn't shout at
me or make  any sudden, unexpected vocalizations (God help the poor
guy if he had to  sneeze off schedule), we were okay.  

I thanked God the phone didn't ring for the rest of the evening.  I found
out  later that Blair turned off all the ringers in the house and turned off
both cell  phones.  I could still be reached via my pager, which he knew
would give  Simon a way to get a hold of me if there was a
work-related emergency.

That should have given me a peaceful night's sleep.  It didn't.  Every
little noise  invaded my brain from all sides.  Even the ear plugs Blair
had given me to  protect against unexpected noises didn't help.  I finally
got out of bed and went  downstairs and ripped the pen out of his hand. 
He was writing too loud.   Seriously.  I thought I was going to go nuts. 
I thought maybe I already was.

Blair talked the whole thing over with me for a while, and even though
he  didn't really come up with anything new, it somehow made me feel
better.  He  started to look wilted near three, so we parted company and
I tried sleeping  again.  That's when I heard the whole incident with the
helicopter.  It still  freaks me out to think I was able to hear what was
happening that far away.

Of course, proving cops are dirty is a hell of a tough job even when you
have  concrete evidence.  When you're trying to convince the powers
that be that you  saw someone dropped out of a helicopter a half-mile
out over the water in the  dead of night--you can forget it.  I didn't
blame Sheila for being skeptical.

The office was a whole new descent into hell.   I sat there with my head 
pounding and my hearing pulled in about 300 directions at once.  I was
in such  a damn rotten mood by the time Blair showed up all
enthusiastic that I wanted  to slap the smile right off his animated face. 
Didn't he understand how fucking  miserable I was?  Furthermore,
didn't he realize my sanity was hanging by a  very tiny thread?

When he set that stupid little noise generator in front of me, I was
about ready  to strangle him with my bare hands.  Just what I needed. 
Another noise.  Then  he presents me with these ear plugs that look like
something out of a bad sci-fi  movie.  Little attenae and all.  So I stuck
them in my ears, ready to suffer yet  another assault on my battered
sanity--unbearable rushing noise in both ears.

For some reason, my ears tolerated the noise generators, and between
the plugs  and the one on the desk, it helped me sort out all the other
stuff and dial it  down.  Maybe it had a calming effect.  I'm not sure. 
But it worked.   Then I  thought of all the questions Sandburg was
going to ask about *why* it worked,  and all the experiments he'd want
to tinker with, and my head was pounding,  and my fuse just about
nonexistent.  I almost snapped his head off when he  asked about a
"thank you".  I know I hurt him pretty badly the way I treated  him
about it.  He doesn't deserve to be chewed out because I'm having a
shitty  day, but he usually gets it.  And he cares enough about me to put
up with it.

I got Sheila to let Blair in on the case, which was kind of a stretch,
since he  isn't a cop.  It never hurts to have friends in IA, so I figured
having a friendly  dinner with her would be a good idea.  We had a nice
meal at an Italian  place--not DaVinci's.  I know it's dumb but I don't
seem to ever take dates there  anymore--it's like it's Blair's and my
place, which is really stupid since we only  went there once.  Then we
went back to her place and talked for a while.  I had  the brief thought
of putting the moves on her, but it went as fast as it came.

Since I fell asleep on her couch, I figured the least I could do was invite
her to  breakfast.  She suggested my place--and she'd cook.  I had to
change clothes to  go to work, so as soon as she was ready, we headed
for the loft.  

It was hard to read what was really going on with Blair.  He was
surprised, I  know, to wander out of his room and run into a woman in
the kitchen.  I didn't  worry about it, because Blair doesn't generally
wander through the loft naked  and belching in the morning--though I
have seen him wander out of his room  looking like he just stuck his
finger in a light socket with hair practically on  end, in his underwear,
yawning and scratching himself, to get the coffee  started.  Fortunately,
this was not one of those mornings.  I figured nothing  would happen
that would offend her or embarrass him, and it didn't.

To get back to what I was saying about reading him--on one level, it
was like  he was pulling the old "nudge-wink" routine with me, and on
another level, I  felt like he was really upset that I had been out all
night.  It was his heart rate,  his breathing, the tone of his voice--almost
imperceptible little clues--that let  me know he was really a little
unhinged that I had been out all night and that  Sheila was here now. 
So I told him what happened.  

It was probably my imagination, but it seemed like Blair sort of
plunked  himself in the middle of the whole situation and took over
serving breakfast.   What in hell he was talking about incestuous
relationships in police  departments for, I'm not sure.  I just wish he
hadn't chosen to do it while he was  dishing up my eggs.  I think Sheila
was beginning to wonder just what else  Blair normally dished up for
me in the morning.  Yeah, right.  In my dreams,  maybe.  The wet ones.

At any rate, the noise generators ended up being like training wheels. 
They  helped me learn how to control my hearing, and by the time the
case was over,  I was okay again.

When Blair and I were at the mall the next day, I wandered into a
couple of  stores with him while he bought some mundane stuff like
socks and  underwear--you know, it must be some kind of social
phenomenon--I'll have to  ask Blair.  He's the expert.  When you shop
with someone who buys  underwear, you suddenly feel that all of yours
is old and worn too, and you end  up picking some out yourself.  Maybe
I like shopping for underwear with  Blair.  How kinky is that?

Of course he held up a pair of black silk boxers with big red lips all
over them  in front of himself and wiggled his hips just to crack me up
as I was trying to  pay for my stuff.  Does he do anything the bland,
ordinary way?

And I sure would love to see his ass in those black silk boxers...

Trust me, walking through the mall, trying to carry your shopping bag 
strategically to cover half a hard-on is *not* fun.  Thank God the next
stop was  the food court.  I could hide it under the table until it went
away.  The food at  our mall's food court can deflate anything.

When we went into the music store, I know Blair was watching me to
see if I  was dialing everything down.  I did fine.  We'd bought the
boring stuff like  new floormats for the truck, some blank disks for
Blair's computer, the  underwear--though I guess that wasn't boring
after all--and we'd picked out  paint and a new faucet for the
bathroom--another exciting project that waited  for us the following
weekend.   The other faucet had dripped for the last time,  and even
though I could tune it out now, I was pissed off enough at the 
inanimate hunk of metal to rip it out and throw it in the trash.  

So while we were in the music store, I watched Blair hunting and
gathering.   He goes through this process of picking up about six CDs
and putting probably  five, sometimes all six, back.  He's not exactly
loaded on his stipend from  Rainier, though I know not paying rent
helps.  Of course he seems to lose the  money somewhere, I suspect
mainly on the ancient books and other artifacts  he either borrows or
buys.

I caught him before the re-distribution process, with a record number
of eight  CDs in his hands, and asked if he was going to get those.  He
just laughed a  little and said "No way, man.  Just looking them over." 
So I asked him about  them, and he started describing each one--in that
same enthusiastic way he  does everything.  So I took all eight out of
his hands and headed for the  cashier, with him chasing me down the
aisle, asking me what I was doing.  I  told him to think of it as a bonus
for all his help on the case.  (Actually, it was  a little bonus for the
bump and grind with the black boxers, *and* the noise  generators he
never got his "thank you" for.)  He was as excited as a little kid  with a
bag full of toys.

Of course, now I have to listen to them rattling the doors on his room. 
Who  says *any* good deed goes unpunished?  


Entry #24

I really do get tired of watching good people die.  Mitch Reeves was a
good  man.  I myself walked around suspecting him of being a
psychotic firebug.   But he wasn't, and ironically, it was his obsession
with fire and his research  and work on making those suits that saved
Deborah's and my lives.  

I know Blair's been having some trouble with his eyes lately.  I just
chalked it  up to eye strain.  But he was laid out on the couch when I
got home for about  three days in a row with a washcloth over his face
and his stuff spread  everywhere, half-finished.  So after I pressured
him a little, I find out the kid  needs his eyes checked and can't afford
to go do it.  Like I wouldn't have  loaned him--hell, given him--the
money to do it.  His eyes are his life.  I mean,  everyone's are, I can
attest to that.  But with Blair, he's always reading or  working on his
laptop or grading papers--he's using his eyes intensely every  moment
he's conscious, just about.

So after he put up the expected protests, I made it clear he was going to
a good  eye doctor--not some guy in the mall.  I suppose those guys are
good, but I  wanted him to see an opthamologist.  He was having severe
headaches, his  eyes looked like hell and he was miserable.

I went with him to the doctor's.  I know he didn't need me tagging
along, but in  a way it was good, because I figured he'd have gotten
drops in his eyes, and I  didn't want him driving that way.  Plus, if there
was something significant  wrong, I didn't want him to hear that alone. 
He went to my physical  appointment with me, so I figured I'd give him
the same moral support.

We had a few laughs picking out the frames that went with the new
lenses.   And that was all he needed.  A new prescription.  He thanked
me about fifty  times, but all the thanks I needed was to see those
incredible eyes clear and  lively and functioning comfortably again. 
Which led me to another decision.   If Blair was ignoring something as
vital as his eyes because he couldn't afford  the eye care, what was he
doing about the doctor?  I mean, what if he had  some medical
symptom and ignored it because he couldn't afford the medical  care? 
Or his teeth--did he ignore toothaches too because he couldn't afford
the  dentist?  He just shrugged it all off that most fellowships didn't
come with  insurance packages, but I wasn't letting it go.  He's too
important to me to let him wander around without coverage.

So I called my insurance agent, had him get me the best quotes on the
top  medical, dental and vision coverage.  I knew I wanted the best
company, so  after he got done pitching all the dark horses to me, he
got me the forms I  needed to have Blair fill out and sign.

I had to really argue Blair down to the floor to get him to fill those out
and  take the insurance.  I told him it was only fair since he was
essentially working  free for the police department--i.e., for me.  He
didn't go for that explanation.   So I tried the truth.  I told him that I
didn't want him to get sick or let  something major go because he didn't
have the coverage to get it taken care of.   And that he was too damned
important to me to leave all that to chance.

I didn't expect him to get all misty-eyed on me, and then start crying,
but he  did, and I ended up holding him for a few minutes, which I
didn't mind at all.   He said something to the effect that no one ever did
anything like that for him  before, and that it was too expensive--the
coverage was too good.  I laughed a  little and hugged him tighter.  And
explained to him very truthfully that only  the best would do.  I wanted
to tell him that I wouldn't entrust something as  precious as him to
anything less, but that was more than I felt I should say.  No  point in
making him think insurance was my boring attempt at seduction.  

God, I'm glad Carolyn can't read this.  She'd be in convulsions right
now,  saying that it was just like me to shower the one I loved with
something  romantic like health insurance.  

Divorce is indeed a wonderful thing.  As I polish off the last of this
beer, I  drink a toast to whomever invented it.   At least Blair never
accuses me of  being a bore, even if I am.

Entry #25

I really thought I was done with Colonel Oliver.  When that bastard
popped up  out of the past, it was not a welcome surprise.  Thank God I
had that pain thing  to focus on.  Otherwise, this one would have
probably not ended well.  

You know, what made the biggest impression on me (yeah, even bigger
than  being abducted--that's happened before--which is another story I
don't care to  wallow through tonight) was Blair's reaction to the whole
thing.  I know he  loves me.  He's said it right out.  The whole golden
situation made us both face  that we were important to each other, and
Blair nearly dying made us come  right out and say it.  I know I don't
say much to him along those lines most of  the time, and I guess I
wanted to know I'd said it at least once.  But Blair was  really unhinged
by the whole thing.  

I know he was chased around by gunmen, but he's had that happen
before,  unfortunately.  I also know he's used to not being taken
seriously sometimes by  Simon or the other guys at the station.  And
again, he'd coped with that.   The  incident with Jack Kelso getting shot
shook him up a lot too.  But none of that  seemed to be what really got
to him.  He was worried about me.  

Now that doesn't sound all that surprising, I know.  I'm not surprised he
was  worried or that he cared what happened to me, but I guess it took
me by  surprise just how much.  

I spotted Blair down in the alley while I was still on the roof.  I
immediately  focused every sense on him.  His heart was pounding
almost out of his chest,  his pulse was all over the place, and I could
see a pleading in those big blue  eyes of his--he was more than a little
anxious to see me.  

So I started downstairs, and halfway down, I could hear him pushing
his way  through the cops and forensics people who had begun
infiltrating the building,  and then he was bounding up the steps toward
me, and we met on a landing.  

Trust me, Blair's not big but he's a substantial package to get hit with at
high  speed.  He just about flew at me, still on a dead run from the
steps, and the  impact of his body hitting mine just about winded me.  I
don't think I've ever  had anyone manage to get their arms that tightly
around my neck from that  angle before, so to save myself some
dislocated vertebrae in my neck, I caught  him around the waist and
straightened up, taking his feet a few inches off the  ground.

"Hey, Chief, it's good to see you too," I said through a little chuckle,
once I got  my breath.  He was still holding on, so I did too.

"I thought maybe you were already..."  He blurted the first part out but
then  didn't seem able to finish it.  I didn't think it was possible for him
to squeeze  my neck any harder, but his hold tightened.

"All in one piece, buddy.  I'm fine."  I wasn't sure what to do, standing
there on  a landing with an armload of Blair that wasn't letting go.  I
didn't want to shake  him off, but I also didn't want to be standing there
with him wrapped around  me like a wet t-shirt when Simon caught up
to us.  "I've got to put you down,  Chief.  I'm getting a little tired here." 
I gave him a little squeeze as I put him  back on his feet, and when he
stepped back, he was self-consciously brushing  at his eyes.

"Sorry, man.  Guess I got a little carried away."  He chortled a little
uneasily.   "You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, just tired.  Let's get the clean-up work done.  I'm ready to go
home."

So we did just that.  I gave my statement, filed my report, all with Blair
just  about glued to my side.  He looked uneasy when I excused myself
to go to the  men's room back at the station, and infinitely calmer when
I came back and  resumed my usual seat at the desk--with him in a
chair right next to me,  practically under my elbow every time I moved
to do something.  I got a little  irked with him until I realized that he
had been *that* riled up at the thought  of losing me.  And that made it
really easy to put up with him cramping my  space, and to spare him an
occasional pat on the arm or hand on the shoulder  while we were
talking.

We finally got to go home a couple hours later, and he fixed dinner
while I  showered and changed into my robe.  I was really exhausted,
and it was  catching up with me.  I know I was pretty silent while I ate,
but Blair seemed  to pick up on my fatigue and just silently served me
dinner and sat--again,  practically in my pocket--at the table with me to
eat it.  He didn't eat a whole  lot himself, but I could tell from just
casually monitoring him that he was still  keyed up.  It's funny how
easily I do that with Blair.  With other people I have  to stop and focus. 
With Blair, I just dial things up a little once in a while to  make sure
he's okay--healthy, happy, calm.  He was healthy, but the happy or 
calm part was debatable.

I finally went up to bed, but I knew he was still shaken up.  Again, that
made  me feel sorry for him but it made me feel a warmth I hadn't felt
since...God,  thinking back...I guess I never felt it.  I don't think
anyone's ever loved me that  way.  I never had any illusions that
Carolyn couldn't live without me, and at  times, I seriously doubted that
my death would cost her a hell of a lot more  than a few days'
bereavement leave.  But seeing Blair's reaction to the thought  of losing
me--it warmed something inside that's...I guess that's never really  been
alive before.  As I started dozing off, I remember thinking, "so that's
what  love's all about."

Something disturbed me shortly after I went to sleep.  When I finally
gave in  and opened my eyes, Blair was standing there by the bed,
looking like he didn't  quite understand why he was there or what he
wanted.  I knew.  I could sense it  in every part of my soul, and it
wouldn't have taken a sentinel.  

I moved over and held open the covers, and he scooted into the vacated
space  and curled up with his head on the pillow where my head had
been a moment  ago.  He needed security, and closeness.  Reassurance
that I was really there,  and he wasn't going to wake up and find out
that I was really dead or still  missing.

I spooned myself around him and covered us both.  I felt his hand grab
onto  my arm when it crossed over his stomach.  I asked him if he
thought he could  get some sleep now, and for the first time, he
sounded really relaxed when he  mumbled back that he'd probably
sleep for a week.

Holding him felt so good, I wish we could have stayed like that for a
week.  The way it felt to be loved like that...defied words.


Entry #26

Over the course of my career in the military, then as a cop, I've had to
come to terms with the fact that sometimes it's a necessity to take
another life.  I've never taken it lightly or killed when I could have
handled the situation another way.  For the very first time, I would have
relished killing.  It's unsettling to know there's a part of me deep down
inside that can have feelings that...homicidal...cold-blooded.

When I heard that explosion, and I had that son of a bitch by the throat,
and I thought Blair was dead--all I could think of was making him pay
for taking away the most important thing in the world to me.  Probably
the only person I really ever loved that deeply--and the only one who
ever loved me that much.

In the end, it was only the thought of what Blair would think of killing
someone in cold blood that kept me from tossing the son of a bitch out
the window and watching his innards splatter all over the cement
below.

When I found out he had dropped the bomb through a hole in the floor
of the elevator and everyone was all right--I felt like someone had
removed my spine.  I was jelly.  It was like the shock of losing Blair
and the shock of getting him back sort of smashed together and I could
hardly make it to go downstairs and find the floor where they were
unloading the hostages.

Blair wasn't with the others when I got there.  Joel pointed me toward
the restroom, smiling and saying "the kid looked a little green around
the edges".  

Blair was green all right.  When I got into the restroom, I could hear
him in one of the stalls.  He was down to dry heaves by the time I got to
him.  I know he hates heights, and the whole mess was probably just
catching up with him.  He had held up so well for those people, now he
needed someone to hold up for him.

I knelt there on the floor with him, holding his hair back until he was
sure he was done, and then we just sort of slumped there a minute, me
wiping off his mouth and chin and him just lying back against me like
he had no energy left at all.  It felt great just to hold him, even if he did
smell like sweat and puke at the moment.  All that meant to me was
life. 

When we got home, he flopped on the couch, exhausted.  His stomach
was still upset and he just needed rest.  So I pulled his shoes off and
covered him with the throw.  Then I got myself a book and sat on the
other couch and listened to him breathe.  I thought about terrorists and
hard-nosed corporate types.  I thought about sociopaths like "Galileo"--
pretentious little shits who really aren't important to anyone until they
do something horrible.  I wondered about Kaitlin and her kid.  

And I wondered how I could have ever faced coming back into this
place without Blair.  How I could have come in here and touched his
things and packed up his possessions and cleaned out his room and
resigned myself to deal with his death.  I don't usually have to flee in
terror from mere thoughts.  But these were so painful I couldn't look
them in the face.  I ran far and fast.  I lost myself in the book for a little
while, and in the steady thump of that precious heartbeat.

I told Blair later how proud I was of him.  That's very true.  He's a
pretty remarkable little guy under pressure.  He has an inner strength
that you don't expect from him.  The only reason *I* see Blair fall apart
is because he trusts me.  And when something hurts, he comes to me to
fix it.  I hope he always trusts me that way.


Entry #27

I would have never pictured plutonium being a big threat in Cascade. 
But then, I've learned to expect the unexpected in my life.  

Blair really gave us a good lead with figuring out Sergei's origins.  I
think even Simon is starting to realize that he can be a real asset to the
department, in addition to being my keeper.

Micki is a pretty amazing woman.  She's strong, courageous,
responsible.  I don't know if I could have handled a life as difficult as
hers as well as she has.  But she's made a good new life now for herself
and her sister, who will be getting the medical treatment she needs to
recover.

She seemed interested to see me again.  I know I would find an evening
with her fascinating--just learning more about her life before coming to
this country, her struggles...but I also know she was interested in a date,
not dinner with a friend.  If I could just move past this feeling about
Blair and move on with my life, I would probably have asked her out. 
But she's had enough trouble in her life without having someone mess
around with her who doesn't have any intention of ever making a
commitment.

So it's going to still be up to my overtaxed right hand to take care of
business for the time being, and she'll just have to be a big sleighted
that I wasn't interested.  Better that than hurt when I don't turn out to be
Prince Charming--and instead more strongly resemble the frog.

Blair got an article published in a scholarly periodical this week.  He
was more than mildly excited.  He already has the dander up of some
of the old guys on the faculty, since this isn't the first time he's
published.  He's getting a better reputation at his age than some of them
have now.  While I'm proud of him beyond words for that, it makes me
that much more aware of how unlikely it is that he'll stay satisfied to
hang out with me for much longer.  He's brilliant, talented, and he's
building a significant professional reputation right now.  Why would he
settle for living and working with me?  

I offered to take him out for dinner to celebrate, and he voted for the
Emperor's Palace.  I like that place real well too, so we made
reservations and ordered a dinner for four.  No, we have no pride when
it comes to stuffing our faces, and this was a special occasion.

The food there is good, but one of my favorite things about the place is
the seating arrangement.  When you sit in those curved booths, it's real
easy to end up in the other person's personal space.  And Blair's
personal space doesn't exist.  He started sharing it with me almost
immediately.  So we ate off each other's plates, coaxed each other into
trying some bizarre menu items we flagged the waiter down for from
time to time--just generally had a great time.  

Eventually, I got around to bringing up his feelings about hanging
around with me.  When Blair does something major, like get published,
I can't help but assess the likelihood of this relationship surviving.  I
have to admit, though I don't know if I actually would admit it to
anyone in so many words, I've never been able to shake off what
Carolyn said about me.  Several things, really.  But the overall opinion
of me was that I was a bore.  I was uninventive in bed, I was married to
my job, I was uptight, I was unresponsive and uncommunicative--shit,
the list was longer than I care to remember.  But I *do* remember it. 
As much as I want to forget it.

So I made some leading comment about wondering how long he'd be
interested in hanging around with a boring cop like me.  His response
just blew me away.  He told me I was steady, subtle and deep--translated 
to mean that I was always there for him, I wasn't showy with
my feelings but I showed him in a lot of little ways, and that I had
"layers", which were worth investigating.  And if someone said I was
boring, it was because they didn't look hard enough below the surface,
or something like that.

Man, I felt ten feet tall.  I wanted to pull him into my arms and kiss
him right there.  But just because he loves me and *likes* me, just the
way I am, doesn't me he's ready to change his sexual orientation for me. 
So I let it slide at squeezing his hand.

I find I don't say a whole lot to Blair about what he means to me,
because it runs too deep.  It's probably wrong of me not to look for the
words, because I know it leaves him feeling unappreciated sometimes,
but if I ever turned it loose, I'd never rein it back in again.  Because I
realized what love really is for the first time in my life with Blair.  For
the first time, I've wanted to make love to someone before I wanted to
"have sex" with them.  Yeah, sure, I want to get off on something
besides my own hand for a change, but it's so much more than that.  I
want to touch him, taste him, smell him, zone out on him...I want to
touch every part of him with love...make it so good he'll never go near
anyone but me.  But I want to turn those feelings into something
tangible.  It's like all the lust and love have found their way to blend
together.  I still leer at him sometimes, when I can get away with it. 
But I never really picture slamming him on the nearest horizontal
surface and drilling him to the floor.  I picture kissing him, caressing
him, taking him--sure...but slowly and with all the love that's built up
for so long.  Making a commitment to each other...

Shit, what do I want?  To marry him?  Well, the inescapable truth is, if
he were a woman, we'd have been married last year sometime if he'd
said yes.  Suddenly, gender seems more like a fucking curse than a
biological characteristic.

I'm so damned tired of feeling this way and not being able to do
anything about it.  I'm sick of being alone, and there's someone in my
life that makes it complete...and I can't have him.  Not that way.

Maybe Blair's right about this past life stuff.  Maybe I was an evil
person in a past life, and so now I get to have the thing I really want
dangled in front of me but just out of my reach until I go nuts.


Entry #28

Well, let's see.  First it was plutonium, now it's poisonous spiders.  One
thing I'll say for this city--the criminals aren't ordinary.  If I were to
move to New York City, I'd probably be overworked but bored.  Simple
run of the mill murders, rapes, robberies, etc.   Cascade seems to be
specializing in the exotic.

As usual, Blair managed to get himself right in the middle of the
action.  I'm glad Alec is safe, but the arrogant little shit got himself into
his own mess, and quite frankly, it wouldn't have been worth Blair's life
to get him out of it.  Maybe he learned something from almost being
bitten to death by spiders.  I'm talking about Alec now, not Blair.  He
was only trying to help.

For three nights straight, I was awakened at about two in the morning
to shouts of "get them off me!!!"  After the first night when I flew down
the steps with my gun drawn, expecting to see Blair besieged by several
criminals in his bed, and instead found him writhing around and
kicking the bedclothes all over the place having a nightmare, I was a
little less panicked by it.  

I felt sorry for him, since I could picture how crawly that whole
experience could make you feel.  When I got him peeled off the ceiling
and convinced there were no tarantulas in his bed, he'd look
embarrassed, turn about the color of a fire truck and apologize for
waking me up.

The nightmares I could forgive.  The car fiasco started getting on my
nerves.  I know he loved that car, but geez, if it's dead it's dead.  I
hauled him to six garages while he described the damages and every
time they told him to scrap it.  By the time the sixth garage gave the
same verdict, he was ready to give up.  He was actually sitting there in
tears over a car.

I was all ready to line him out and tell him he was acting like a five-year-old 
over that damned car, but somehow, I can't stay mad at Blair
long enough to really come down on him.  But I still didn't know what
to say to make him feel better when I couldn't understand the outburst. 
When we got home, he locked himself in his room and cried.

I can't stand hearing him cry.  He doesn't really do it all that often, but I
guess I end up writing about it when he does because it rips my guts
out.  After listening to him for a couple of minutes, I couldn't stand it
anymore.  I went into his room and sat on the bed, next to where he had
flopped on his stomach and was crying into his pillow.  Why this
brilliant almost-Ph.D. was sobbing over a dead car, I didn't pretend to
understand.  But he was hurting and there was no need for him to do it
alone.

I just sat there and rubbed his back while he cried.  I didn't say
anything, because I didn't know what to say.  He knew it was a dead
issue, and he knew he would eventually get another car, and he knew
life went on, and he knew all that--so why badger him by stating the
obvious?

"That...car was...special," he choked out.

"I know, Chief.  I'm sorry the whole mess happened.  I know you loved
it."

"I was...supposed to...take care of it."

"It was an accident, Blair.  And you had nothing to do with it."  The
backrub seemed to be relaxing him a little and quieting the tears. 
"When you're ready to look, I'll help you find another car.  Meantime,
you let me know when you need a lift, okay?"  There was a little nod. 
"Why don't you wash up and we'll fix some dinner, huh?"  Another nod. 
I stood up and patted his back one more time before leaving.  

"I'm sorry I made such a scene about this," he said quietly, still not
moving his face out of the pillow.

"It's okay, Chief.  No harm done."

So we fixed dinner together and while he was pretty subdued, he
seemed okay.  I still don't get the whole mess with the car, but like I
said--I can't sit back and watch Blair hurting and not do something. 
Even if I can't fathom *why* he's hurting.  All I know is that it wasn't
long after I went to him that he seemed okay again.  It's a good feeling
to be able to do that for someone--to be able to fix things that are
wrong for the people you love.

This whole love thing is new to me, so I guess it's going to take a while
to figure out.  I know that sounds melodramatic, and I don't mean it to. 
I also don't mean to sound like I'm bashing Carolyn all the time.  We
just really weren't meant to be together.  We wanted opposite things out
of a relationship.  I wanted someone to love, someone to spend time
with, someone to take care of (not because they aren't capable, but
because...I don't know...I guess just because I want to), someone who
could challenge me and be good company, somebody to get old with,
somebody to get into ruts with...somebody to be "one" with.   

She wanted a "life partner"--someone to live with, to love--but yet to
stay totally independent of each other.  Separate bank accounts,
everything halved with both names on it.  I don't object to that because
I have some kind of problem with my spouse being an equal.  It just
seems so...separate.  

Blair and I are all tangled up now--he buys some groceries here and
there, but I don't ask him for rent.  I pay those bills but he does about
75% of the cooking.  We don't divide everything up into whose turn it
is or how much we each paid.  If I'm short on money, he'll pick up our
lunch tabs for a few days or sometimes he'll pay a bill or two he finds
lying around if he's got some extra money.  If he's running out of
money at the end of the month, sometimes I'll buy him something he
needs or "loan" him money to get by for a few days.  Nobody keeps
track.  

The "separateness" between Carolyn and me left me cold. Even when it
came to making love.  She was beautiful, sexy, exciting--but there was
an emotional element missing for me that made it what she called a
"hit and run" experience.  We went at it, and then I wanted to roll over
and go to sleep.  There was a tenderness missing...ironically, the
tenderness I felt turning my whole body into mush when Blair crawled
into bed with me that night after the Oliver incident.  He needed me
and reached out to me, and it felt great to reach back and meet that
need.  

I'm not blaming Carolyn or saying women shouldn't be independent,
but so many times I'd want to do something for her or want her to do
something for me that somehow overstepped my boundaries and she'd
set me straight. After a while, I was afraid to do much of anything for
fear I was going to piss her off and get another lecture on the error of
my ways.

Carolyn felt that becoming "one" with someone else meant giving up
too much of yourself.  She's right.  Not necessarily that it's too much to
give up, but it's a lot, and it's scary.  I know I've invested everything in
Blair, and I know how it would feel to have that torn away.  The thing
is, once someone else has that piece of your heart, you don't get it back. 
It travels with them.

I learned very early on not to invest in my father.  That would be akin
to taking your money and flushing it down the toilet.  Anything I
invested in him when I was little, I lost.  I know it sounds petty to still
hold onto this now, but watching him with Stephen was something I
never got over.  He loved Stephen and was so excited about everything
good the kid did.  He came down on him just as hard when he fucked
up, but somehow, I always felt that when he went after Stephen, it was
to make Stephen a better person (even if it didn't work that way, I
believe that was intention).  When he came down on me, it felt like it
was because he was pissed off at me, not because he cared if I was a
better person for it.  How does being disinterested in a kid make them a
better person?

I don't know how I got off on that tirade.  I guess it's just that
sometimes I'm a little amazed at the feeling of being somebody's
favorite person.  I know that Blair has a tendency to light up like a
Christmas tree over a lot of things, but there's something different in
the way he looks up at me or the way he lights up when he sees me. 
And the way he fusses and obsesses over me.  I know some of that is
his dissertation and his insatiable curiosity over the characteristics and
habits of a sentinel, but a lot of it is friendship, and love.  I don't think
I've ever been "doted on" before.  It's kind of a nice feeling.

Damn.  Looking back over this...never write an entry in one of these
fucking journals after you've been out drinking with a bunch of cops at
a bachelor party, eating greasy food and watching an ugly stripper. 
Frankly, I would have tucked a fifty in her g-string if she'd have put her
clothes back on.

Blair's asleep.  I can hear him breathing, sometimes murmuring in his
sleep a little.  I'm probably disturbing him, pecking away out here at the
kitchen table.  He lets me use his laptop when I want to work at home. 
I just keep my stuff on disks and then take it in to the precinct to finish
it up or print it off.  

He left me a note before he went to bed.  He told me he hoped I
enjoyed the party (he had to attend a lecture on campus tonight), and
that there was a concoction in the fridge I should drink before I went to
bed so I wouldn't get a hangover, and that there was also left-over
chicken in there.

What a guy.

Entry #29

Someone with my abilities should probably know better than to dismiss
the possibility of a psychic helping the police.  Some people have
special abilities beyond the normal (big revelation, huh?), and Charlie
Spring is one of those people.  Why he has to be such an obnoxious,
publicity-hungry little prick, I don't know.  But he is a psychic, and he
ultimately helped us out with this case.  He probably could have helped
more if I hadn't been fighting him all the way.  

I have to sit back an analyze why I did that.  Was it all Spring?  Or was
it because he was another of Naomi's boyfriends?  I don't have any
reason to believe that Blair was abused by any of them, so why do I let
his mother's whole lifestyle get to me all the time?  It's not like I'm in
any position to judge someone else.  

As it turns out, I was half right about him.  He was setting us up so he
could pump up his reputation and ultimately, boost his book sales. 
God, he was willing to use a missing child to do that.  I hope Naomi
truly does see the light where he's concerned, and realizes he's a jerk. 
He's gifted, but you know, you've gotta wonder if he'll ever really
change.

Blair seems to be making another run at it with Sam.  I'm not sure why. 
Those two seem about as compatible as oil and water, but then I'm not
exactly the Cascade PD's resident love expert.  Personally, it seems like
Blair is drawn to women who make him jump through hoops.  There
was Maya, Sam...I don't know about Chris--back when the whole Lash
thing happened.  I just know they eventually broke up and he took it
pretty hard.  So they went out, but he got home a little after midnight--on 
Saturday night.  This is Blair "where's the party" Sandburg?  I'm still
trying to figure that one out.

Of course, that meant Blair would probably be up and at 'em in the
morning to have breakfast together and read the paper.  I didn't regret
that.  He usually brings bagels or donuts and coffee upstairs just about
the time I want to come to, along with the paper.  Even though I usually
have to get up to heed the call of nature by then (why do you feel
compelled when you write to say something like that instead of "take a
leak"?), there's nothing I like better than pulling on an old robe and
flaking out on the bed, eating and reading and visiting with Blair, who's
usually sitting cross-legged on the bed in whatever he slept in--anything
from his undershirt and boxers to a t-shirt and sweatpants and socks--
depending on the weather outside.

We talk about everything from current events to sports to reading each
other any article we think the other person might like--or sometimes
just because we want to hash it over.  Sometimes I start the crossword,
and of course Blair can't stay away from anything that resembles a
brain-teaser, so pretty soon he scoots up and sits where he can look
over my shoulder and put his two-cents' worth in.  

If they ever change the schedule and take my Sunday morning away
from me, I think I'll resign.  What other time do I have a reasonable
excuse to tackle Blair on a bed in his underwear?  I guess I should
explain that.

He got involved in this article they saw fit to place on the back of the
sports section, and he was purposely being a little shit about it--knowing 
he was driving me nuts and just trying to get a rise out of me. 
(God, am I destined to put my foot in my mouth in every entry?  I'm
talking about making me mad.  Shit, I've got to get my mind out of the
gutter--or get a sex life.  That might help.)  Anyway, he was almost
smirking as he went on to enlighten me about another statistic about
the number of immigrants who wear plaid underwear--or some equally
significant social phenomenon--I don't actually remember anything
about the stupid article.  I got pissed off and made a snatch for the
paper, which he was prepared for and leaned back out of my reach.  Of
course that meant he tipped over on his back and damn near fell on the
floor.  I caught him around the waist, since I sure as hell didn't want
him to smack his head on the floor over a stupid newspaper article. 
With both hands on his bare sides under his tank shirt, I couldn't resist
tickling him.  

He started wiggling like a puppy on an electrified fence (not that I've
ever seen that, but that's what I imagine it looking like), squealing and
kicking and pushing at me.  He tried to get away, but that only
succeeded in turning him to a more advantageous angle where I could
really go after his stomach.  He relinquished the paper, but I really
didn't care about that by then.  I was just having fun making him laugh,
and I was laughing myself, and we were more rough-housing around
than me just tickling him anymore.  It turned into a pillow fight at
some point.  Thank God I don't sleep on feather pillows.

When we were done, we were both winded, the room was a mass of
displaced newspapers, mangled bedclothes, there was a bagel on the
floor and Blair and I were laid out on our backs.  Then he made a
comment about what it would look like if we died right at that precise
moment.

I looked at him, flushed and breathless, his hair all over the place,
glasses missing and God-knows-where, lying on my disheveled bed
with even his underwear lopsided from me yanking him around.  Then
there was me--my robe was hanging open, I was panting like I had just
gone several rounds with the world champion, and one leg was hanging
off the bed.  I started laughing, and so did he.  We laughed like fools
for quite a while, then he rifled through the pile of destroyed
newspaper and came up with a portion of the sports section.  We
laughed even harder at that, and then decided we'd better catch our
breath.

We woke up an hour later, feeling pretty damned good.  So we cleaned
up the bedroom and went out to run errands and then came home and
finally painted the bathroom.  Then Blair clicked away on his laptop at
the table while I watched a game on TV.   Doesn't sound like much, I
know, but it's one of the best Sundays I've had in ages.  And if I'm
lucky, it'll happen all over again in a few days. :-)  

Blair's teaching me a bunch of e-mail faces.  I felt compelled to test it.


Entry #30

I keep wondering which incident out of my past is going to be the one
that Blair just can't handle.  He's a peacemaker, honest to a fault.  I've
had to do some things in my life I'm not proud of.  And each time I lay
one of them on him, he listens, evaluates, and asks a few questions. 
And then he accepts it and moves on.  He did that with the whole
Pendergrass issue, and with a lot of little things that I've let slip over
the last couple years.  

Gordon Abbott's fate was partially my fault.  Everyone involved,
myself included, manipulated that poor schmuck into doing what we
wanted him to do to suit our own goals.  In the meantime, we mangled
his life.  I'm so grateful he found his family again, and that he has his
life back.

I'm sorry a man had to be tortured and murdered with a belt sander in
the interim, and that two law enforcement officers had to lose their
lives because of Dan Singleton.  Thank God Joey wasn't with his
mother anymore.  That's not a mental picture a child should have to
live with.  It's bad enough his mother's living with it.

Blair is off and running after Sam again.  He was wandering the streets,
looking for a birthday present, babbling about some kind of 48-hour
window.  I never heard of that.  I've heard of the 24 hour piss-off.  The
day of the birthday--it begins with dawn of that day.  You have from
dawn until dusk to present a decent gift, or propose an absurdly
overpriced evening out.  After dusk you have the option of presenting a
*really* good gift (since you missed the evening out) and if you're on
intimate terms, doing something special to honor the occasion.  (Since
I'm not too good at writing erotica, I'll leave that to your fertile
imagination.)  When dawn of the next day rolls around, if you haven't
done anything, you're in the 24-hour piss-off zone.  The only way out of
it is a life-threatening injury (which makes your insensitivity pale in
importance) or a piece of diamond jewelry.

This is why I make a habit of either remembering a woman's birthday
or not dating her more than once.  It's a hell of a lot easier.

So I guess I can admit I was jealous, and just a little bit happy when
Sam refused his gift.  I don't like feeling that way.  I don't like spending
so much time pining after him and wanting him and hating it when he
mentions a female--let alone pursues one.  So I guess I just let my own
love life evaporate.  Truth is, a good-looking woman can still get my
motor running, but I feel like a real shithead just luring women into
relationships so I can get them into bed and then dumping them.  And
the type of woman who appeals to me probably wouldn't put up with
that anyway.  I think I mentioned before that I like strong women--and
most of them have some definite ideas about relationships, and being
somebody's one-night stand usually isn't part of the picture.  But I have
a significant other in every sense except sexually.  I just don't want to
give that up for the sex.  

Now I know how guys in prison feel.  It gets difficult to come up with
new and creative ways to jerk off.   A perp told me to "go fuck myself"
the other day.  After I got his face acquainted with a convenient mud
puddle, and shoved him in the back of a nearby squad car, sputtering
and cursing, I had to laugh at how accurate he was without even
knowing it.  Technically though, I guess that's anatomically
impossible...

It's been a long few days.  Today was one of the longest.  I think it's
time to call it a night.  I'm not prepared to analyze any more obscene
sayings.


Entry #31

What would I really do if I lived in the kind of environment Marcus
does, if I saw cash literally raining from the skies all around me?  To a
teenage kid you're trying to set an example for, you say you'd "do the
right thing".  What is that, anyway?  You see your old man fighting a
losing battle with slum lords, dealers are transacting their daily
business on the streetcorners, girls younger than you are selling
themselves for money after dark...what's right and wrong in Marcus'
world?  Is it the same as it is in our world?  

I tend to think if you take something that isn't yours, you're stealing, no
matter how badly you need it.  But then I was outraged when I was a
kid and saw the play "Les Miserables".  How could they put this
otherwise law-abiding man in prison for most of his life for stealing a
loaf of bread to feed his child and himself when he had no other way to
save them from starving?  Is this all that different from that? 
Desperate, impoverished people for whom there are no easy options?

I don't know.  I'm starting to sound like Sandburg.  Not that that's
always a bad thing.  Blair is very understanding and empathetic toward
people.  He makes me take a second look at things even when I don't
particularly want to.

Planning his birthday party was actually fun.  I'm not really a party
planning expert, but I made the very wise decision of calling his
favorite student assistant, Jennifer, and asked her to help.  I told her
what I had in mind--a really big blast at the Wilmington Hotel, with all
of Blair's friends from the U as well as all of our friends from the
station.  I wanted a DJ, lots of food, but most importantly, a good guest
list.

She said she'd get the DJ, invite all the right people from Rainier and
order the cake from a woman she knew who did phenomenal large
party cakes.  My jobs were to get the banquet room, order the rest of
the food and invite the cops.  Between the two of us, we put on a party
that not only surprised Blair, but raged on until the small hours of the
morning.  The DJ was great--mixed up all the new stuff with some
older stuff and plenty of dance music.  The cake was...huge.  And very
nicely decorated with a giant "Happy Birthday, Blair" spelled out in
chocolate chips.

The chocolate chip thing is an inside joke.  I don't do a whole lot of
baking (and Carolyn didn't cook, so when we were together, we damn
near starved to death, but that's yet another story).  Anyway, I don't
bake much, but one thing I can make is this chocolate chip cookie bar
recipe that one of the detectives in Missing Persons e-mailed me after I
ate almost half the tray she brought in by myself.

I decided to do that one cold, snowy winter day when the roads were
nearly impassible and there was nothing worthwhile on the tube.  Blair,
who was nearly suicidal with boredom at being shut in and had reached
new levels of creativity in swearing at his laptop, which had seen fit to
eat a section of his dissertation during some sort of application error,
was more than ready to take a break and help me.  That would have
ordinarily been fine, except that I found out he had an insatiable lust
for chocolate chips.  He kept stealing them out of the bag while he did
other stuff to "help out" in this big project that would have gone twice
as fast if I'd done it myself.

But I'd rather do anything with Blair than without him, so I let it slide
until he'd eaten half the bag and I went to put them in the mix, and
found I had this glob of cookie dough with only a few specks in it.

He took a rather severe tongue-lashing that was more a product of
cabin fever than the importance of the chips, and slunk off into his
room and resumed fighting with his laptop.  

Looking at my somewhat gruesome, pallid cookie dough, I wiped my
hands, put on my coat and trudged downstairs to the bakery.  Mrs.
Donoghue, the owner--she's a really nice older lady who usually feeds
me something hot out of the oven whenever I come begging--was
keeping the place open for some inexplicable reason.  No one was on
the street.  But since she lives in another nearby apartment, I guess she
trudged through the snow and opened the bakery like any other day.

Anyhow, I begged a couple bags of chips from her, and went back
upstairs.  Blair was standing at the counter in the kitchen, chewing on
his lower lip, examining the abandoned cookie mixture.

"I really fucked up your cookies, didn't I?"  he asked a little hesitantly
as I came through the door and hung up my coat.  "Are you still pissed
off at me?"

"These are for you."  I tossed him one of the bags of chips, and then
opened the other one.  "These are for the cookie bars."  I started the
arduous task of limbering up the mixture, which was suffering rigor
mortis from being left there, and dumped the chips into it as I went. 
Blair loitered right at my elbow while I did this.

"I'm really sorry, man.  I just got going and I didn't notice how many I'd
taken--" I interrupted his apology by flopping an arm around his
shoulders.

"We're talking about chocolate chips here, pal--not a nuclear holocaust. 
Apology accepted.  No big deal.  Mrs. Donoghue needed to have at
least one customer today anyway."  I looked down into his still-uncertain 
face.  I had really chewed him out royally before, and he was
still a little laid back.  "I'm sorry I snapped your head off over some
stupid chips."

"Next time, you better just make them and not tell me about it."

"Next time I'll buy you your own bag of chips.  Problem solved."  I
smiled and moved my arm back to the cookie project, and he grinned a
little too.

So chocolate chips are kind of a standing joke.  It's the only really
completely worthless food Blair has a weakness for.   Mr. Eat-Right
gobbles those things up like a food processor.

And that's why I told Jennifer that whatever she did, she had to make
sure the cake had plenty of chocolate chips on it.  She did.

But I digress.  Badly.  But then that's nothing new.  

The hardest part of all of it was keeping Blair in the dark.  Have you
ever tried living with a genius and planning a surprise party for him? 
It's damn near impossible.  He finally thought I was helping one of the
guy's plan a bachelor party for his brother.  I had to say something
when the half-assed idiot caterer called and left a message about the
price of spicy chicken wings, or something equally vital.

So what do you buy a guy like Sandburg for his birthday?  I pondered
that question for a few days until I heard him make some off-handed
remark about having to read everything off his screen at home, and
how he liked editing his stuff the old way--red pen on a hard copy.  

The answer landed in my lap as simply as that.  So I went to the
electronics place and bought him a printer the guy in the store assured
me would hold up for printing out long documents on a regular basis at
a decent speed.  He rattled off a whole slew of things it would do,
which sort of shot right over my head for a number of reasons.  First, I
never claimed to be a computer whiz; second, I didn't give a shit as
long as it would print out Sandburg's reams of paper he loved so much,
and finally, because he was one of those 18-year-old twerps who likes
to hear himself use big technical words so it looks like he knows
something.

Blair was in class until about 4:00 on his birthday.  So I knocked off
work early, so I could set up the printer, which had been hidden under
the camping gear in the back of the Expedition.

An hour and a string of unrepeatable curses later, it was hooked up and
functioning.  Blair often left his laptop home if he was going to be
spending time in his office, since he could use that computer. 
Fortunately for my plan, this was one of those days.  

I tied a big blue ribbon around it and stuck the card under the ribbon.  I
looked at the card with a little dismay.  I'd picked up and put back no
less than ten or twelve really nice cards with meaningful verses for
"friend"--and I'd even lived out a few fantasies in the lover category--
before choosing a tasteful, austere card I could have just as easily given
to the paperboy.  I kicked myself a little when I thought of how Blair
would have reacted to one of the more emotive cards.  It would have
meant everything to him.

As it was, when he discovered the printer, I heard this long silence,
followed by Blair's full weight slamming against my back while I sat at
the table, his arms going around my neck from behind as he got me in
this overjoyed choke hold.  That guy could kill a man when he's happy. 
Wonder what he'd have done if I'd yanked him around into my lap and
kissed him senseless?  Probably puked.  If another guy ever tried
kissing me, that would be my reaction.  Any other guy but Blair.  

God, that's weird, isn't it?  I mean, some of the more advanced sex stuff
doesn't take shape real clearly in my mind, but I can picture kissing
him, holding him...and actually, I can picture taking him.  But that's
still letting me have my cake and eat it.  I get to be with the person I
love, *and* I get to essentially have sex the way I've always had it, just
aiming at a different slot.  That's not exactly fair to him--assuming he'd
want to be on the receiving end all the time.  He's certainly been with
women, so why wouldn't I think he'd want to top?  And that *really*
doesn't do it for me.  I've tried to picture that, and all that comes to
mind is OUCH.  Hell, I hate that part of my annual physical.  And that's
one gloved finger.  How in hell could I handle having a tree stump
stuck up my ass in the name of love?  

Maybe the biggest reason I don't make a move on him, even at times
when I feel like he might be receptive, is that I'm scared.  There.  I said
it.  I don't think I can handle having somebody do that to me.  Not even
Blair.  But I want to do it to him, because then I could have the same
sensations of shoving my cock into something hot and tight and
thrusting my way to completion--just like always, only it would be with
Blair, which would be like bringing all the strongest possible feelings
one person can have for another one all together at once.

How did I get off the topic of Blair's birthday party and end up with
anal sex?  I've heard of subject changes before, but I deserve a prize for
this one.

The long and short of it is, Blair had a lot of fun at his party.  The food
was great, the cake first-rate, the DJ did his job well, and everybody
danced and ate until about 2:00 in the morning.  Blair said it was the
only surprise birthday party he'd ever had.  Blair's the kind of person
who was born to have surprise parties.   Now I'll just have to think of a
unique way to surprise him next year.  

I'll just slam him on the couch and kiss him until he can't breathe. 
That'll surprise him.   It'd surprise me, too.  It's late.  I'm shot, and this
thing is rambling into nothingness.  Time to call it a night.

Entry #32

It took me a long time to reconcile what happened to Gil Brody.  He
was young, inexperienced...and I should have put my foot down and
pulled rank and insisted on going with Quinn myself, as originally
planned.  But I knew how much it meant to the kid to prove himself to
his old man, and sometimes one major opportunity comes along in an
entire career to really put your skills to full use.  Gil was very sharp, the
top of his academy class.  And he was so damned urgent about it.  I
gave in.  I have no one to blame but myself.  Even Blair, who normally
takes everything I tell him in stride, couldn't believe I "sent in a
rookie."  I tried to defend myself to him--not that he pursued it or
stayed accusatory about it.  He was just surprised.  My defenses
sounded as flat then as they did when it happened.  Brody's old man
never forgave me either.  I don't blame him.  I never forgave myself.

It was right after that the shooting started.  The first thing I did was
unfasten Blair's seatbelt so he could get down.  I knew he'd panic at the
gunfire, and maybe not think clearly enough to do that for himself and
then not be able to get down.  It doesn't surprise me that my first
inclination was protecting him.   

The worst of the gunfire was directed at the lead car and the van
transporting Quinn.  I almost smiled when Blair returned the favor and
from his crouch down under the dashboard, unfastened my seatbelt and
kept yelling at me to give it up and get my head down.  He actually
tried to pull on my arm at one point to force the issue.  

By that time, he was right.  Staying upright was playing Russian
Roulette, and I'm *not* a betting man.  I ducked down, covering Blair's
head and shoulders with my own while the truck went off the road right
into the heaviest gunfire.  I could feel him jerking with every shot, and
as the glass shattered out of all the windows, I wasn't a whole lot
calmer.  At any minute, one of the gunmen could show up and let us
have it at close range.  I got my hand on my gun, hoping I could get off
one effective shot in time to save Blair.  The way I was covering him,
they'd hit me first.

Then there was a brief respite in the shooting, and I could hear a
helicopter in the distance.  With our situation slightly improved
momentarily, my thoughts went to Simon--who, ironically, like Brody,
had taken my place with Dawson Quinn.  I didn't have time to
appreciate the analogy then, but it hit me like a ton of bricks several
times over as we were trekking through the woods trying to find him.

I called for back-up--frantically yelled for back-up is more accurate.  I
had no idea what was left of the other guys in the convoy.  I realized
with a start that I had unconsciously kept a hand on Blair's upper back
the whole time, discouraging him from sticking his head up at all.

I could see the Expedition was the only mobile vehicle left, so I had to
get back in the action.  I couldn't just sit back and let Quinn get away--
most importantly, I couldn't just sit there and let him waste Simon the
way he had wasted Gil.

So I slammed it in reverse, headed back out on the road, and headed
directly forward toward the van.  I kept the restraining hand on Blair,
both to calm him down (his heart was pounding so fast and loud to my
hearing that I had tune it down) and to make sure he stayed safe.

It wasn't long before I had to duck and just hold the wheel firm without
seeing the road.  Most of the gunfire was aimed at stopping us--so
predominantly at the tires and grille of the truck.  It still was too close
for comfort.  

And as Quinn dragged Simon off to the helicopter, his words sliced me
like a razor: "All you need is cape, Ellison."  Shit, the bastard was right. 
Some superhero I am.  I've stood idly by while he murdered a
promising young cop and then later while his cronies took out a police
convoy and he abducted the Captain of the Major Crimes Division.

So when we started out on the search, I tried to make Blair stay behind. 
My won-lost record with Quinn was pretty sorry by then, and I didn't
want to add Blair to the collection of casualties.  He was, of course,
determined he was coming along.  Like always, I couldn't say no to
him.  The truth was, the selfish part of me wanted him with me.  I just
feel more...complete when he's there, aside from the myriad of other
things I feel.

Leaving him alone was a terrible call on my part.  I don't know what
part of my ass I had my head stuck in when I did that, but I had these
visions of Brody's dead body in that dumpster, and conflicting images
of Simon's bullet-riddled body being left dangling from a tree or some
other perverse theatrical set-up Quinn would devise.  I *thought* Blair
would be safe there, and I didn't plan to be gone as long as I was.  But
once I got started, I really came close to finding them.  Missed, of
course, but came close.  Yup, all I needed was the fucking cape.

Anyway, Blair wasn't where I left him when I came back for him.  I
panicked.  He didn't know his way around, he had a concussion--or at
least I figured he probably did--and there was someone else out there
besides Quinn firing automatic weapons.  (Whatever happened to crazy
mountain men who walked around with old shotguns and made you
marry their over-endowed, scantily-clad blonde daughter, who had
made the whole ordeal worth your while in a haystack somewhere?) 
The ones I run into carry machine guns and blow your ass off when
they don't even know who the hell you are or why you're there.

I was getting pretty unhinged wondering where he was, if he was okay,
and trying to pick up his scent so I could follow him.  Then, all of a
sudden, I could hear, smell and *sense* him nearby.  In moments, he
was bounding frantically toward me, slamming right into me before he
noticed I wasn't a crazed killer.  He started babbling at me right away,
hunching against me almost, but I shushed him so I could hear if
anyone was following him.  It would have been easy to get lost in
comforting him and calming his fears and then get our heads blown off
by whomever was chasing him.

When I heard it was all clear, at least momentarily, I sat him down on
large rock and started checking out his head.  He'd gotten another
healthy blow to add to his collection, but his vision seemed okay, and
he was coherent.  He could follow my finger with his eyes and all those
little tests to see if the wires are still connected.

I sat down next to him and put my arm around him.  He lost no time in
wrapping his arms around my middle and holding on.  I could feel his
whole body shaking, both from the adrenaline and the fear.  I just sat
there with him a few minutes, rubbing his back and talking to him,
letting him calm down.  I knew his head had to be a source of violent
pain by now, and from what coherent pieces of the story I got out of
him, he'd had a gun waved in his face by a man who fully intended to
pull the trigger and kill him in cold blood--for no better reason than the
fact Blair was in his way.

I wiped off his face with a handkerchief I had that was only marginally
drier that he was.  I knew we had to get started again, but I didn't have
the heart to push him away yet.  His breathing was still ragged, and his
eyes were squeezed shut against the pain in his head.  I pulled his head
back down on my shoulder and just sat there with him, rubbing and
patting his back and trying to get him to calm down a little.

"Try to settle down, Chief.  Work on your breathing.  Being out of
breath and your heart pounding so hard is making your head hurt
worse.  It won't be quite as bad when you calm down."  I slid my hand
into his hair and rubbed the one spot on his head that wasn't bruised or
swollen.

I apologized for putting him in danger.  I felt so damned guilty, and
shaken up, to think he'd almost been shot at point-blank range because
I had deserted him.  He's not a cop.  Simon and I both are, and from a
procedural standpoint, if I had to choose Blair's safety or Simon's
safety, I should always choose Blair's, since he's a civilian.  Cops go
into situations knowing the risks, and signing up to take them by virtue
of their jobs.  If you can save a fellow cop or save a civilian, you're
always expected to save a civilian.  I don't know where the hell my
brain was when I left him.  I guess I felt I had such a good shot at
rescuing Simon at that moment, and I didn't sense any sign of danger
where I was leaving Blair--it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

The truth is, I love and respect Simon as a friend and a colleague.  But I
don't think I could make it if I lost Blair.  Certainly not if I lost him that
way.  I think I was just confused and stressed out and made a bad call. 
That's the only answer I can come up with after days and days of
analysis.  I've almost driven myself nuts with it.  There was only one of
me, four assholes to deal with, Simon was a hostage and Blair was
injured and unarmed.  Hell, I was as good as unarmed with one bullet. 
I wouldn't want to relive that experience for anything.

Blair never did follow up on that date he made right before they air-lifted 
him out.  How insensitive of me is it to be glad he was laid up
long enough to cancel?

And contrary to his opinion, I wasn't sadistically enjoying watching
him swing from the bottom of an airplane.  He'd lost too much blood,
and the stoppage of the bleeding was too tenuous to load him in a car
and risk a road trip.  If there had been a way for me to go with him, I
would have. 

When I finally saw him again, he was laid up in the hospital, dopey on
sedatives and painkillers, looking a little too pale for my liking.  I
talked to him for a while, even though I know he was pretty much out
of it.  Seeing how drained he really looked, I realized how close I came
to losing him.  So I told him I loved him, though I doubt he heard me.  

He wasn't in the hospital very long, and when he was released, he was
still weak as a kitten and shaky on the crutches.  I talked Simon into
giving me some of my mound of unused vacation to stay home and
take care of him.  That basically consisted of carrying him around,
since he didn't feel all that good and the crutches were a little too much
for him at first, and fixing his meals and helping him with his personal
needs.  I'm not the most experienced nurse in the world, so I was a little
klutzy at helping him with his bath, but I didn't drop him or anything,
so he survived.   The big problem was that he couldn't put weight on
that leg.  The bullet had passed through, but it had left some damaged
muscles and tendons and, well, a big hole (big surprise there).  While
the wound healed, he had to take it easy, so he didn't start bleeding
again.

Now, he's up to the point of getting around on the crutches, and I'm
doing most of his physical therapy.  It isn't terribly complex--mostly
massaging and regaining strength.  I just like the idea of me doing it on
him instead of someone else.  I realize therapy hurts because I've had it
before, but I think I'm a better judge of Blair's pain tolerance than
someone who doesn't know him, and he's calmer with me doing it.  I
tuned into his heart and his breathing patterns with the therapist, and he
was nervous as a cat the whole time.  I think he was just anticipating
pain, and he usually wasn't disappointed.  When I do it, I know there's
some pain involved, but he's relaxed, and if he's hurting too much, we
stop and either take a break or call it a day.  Sometimes I've plunked on
the couch next to him and given him a hug when he's having a lot of
pain, or is tired out from PT.  Mainly because I'm glad he's alive and
the bullet went through his leg and not his head, and somewhat because
I feel guilty that he was hurt at all.  Again, hanging out with me got
him hurt.  His reply to that is that some professors have been shot by
deranged students, so no profession is guaranteed safe.  I guess there's
logic to that.

Quinn is back in the slammer.  He'll never see the light of day again. 
His girlfriend is headed there too--different prison, obviously.  So the
$5 million is evidence (or I should say the $4.75 million or so that isn't
toast) and no one got what they were after.

Money does some bad things to people, that's for sure.


Entry #33

When I left home for the final time, Stephen and my father were on
their way to Europe.  I was on my way to military school for my senior
year.  Stephen smashed up the car in July, and so when I started school
in the fall, it wasn't at my old school.  I'd been through eleven years of
school with those kids, and it never occurred to me when I walked out
for summer vacation the previous June that I wouldn't go through the
twelfth with my friends.  But life is full of surprises.

The old man figured I must need a more regimented environment,
where I could learn some of the self-discipline and control he'd
obviously been unable to instill in me.  I have a news bulletin for him:
my drill sergeant during my cadet training looked like Mr. Rogers
compared to my father.

I was determined to show him that not only did he not accomplish
making me miserable--hence, punishing me for a full year not to
mention not letting me graduate with my friends--but instead, that he'd
inadvertently done a great thing for me.  I knew that would piss him off
more than if I failed.

Actually, the military school was easier.  It wasn't all about head
games.  Sure, every place has its share of politics and ass-kissing and
game-playing, but there's something very straightforward about the
military.  Superiors give orders and you follow them.  The word "can't"
isn't an option unless you literally drop dead at the C.O.'s feet.  And
then you'd need a signed note from the coroner.

I surprised myself by excelling there.  I think the old man was
confounded beyond words.  I half expected him to drag me back home
mid-year, but he didn't.  I guess he wanted his friends to see that he was
taking a "firm hand" with me.  Actually, I often regret that I didn't
smash up his fucking car.  The only difference is, it was salvageable
when Stephen got done.  Now if I'd done it, they have had to scrape the
fucking thing up with a spatula to move it out of the garage.  If you're
going to do something, do it right and do it completely.  And to see the
old man's face when he discovered *that* mess would have been worth
ten years on a chain gang.

So I graduated a corporal with honors.  My grades were high going in,
and I maintained them there.  There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do but
study and jump through hoops.  I got a full scholarship to Hillside
College, which is a private college just outside of Cascade.  They're a
small outfit, but they have a great reputation.  I got my degree there,
and then decided to join the Army.  Actually, it was the tediousness of
job-hunting and the moronic questions that seemed to crop up in job
interviews that convinced me I had just made a four-year mistake
majoring in Business Administration.  I should have stuck with my
original thought, which was Social Science, but I had at least three
advisors tell me I'd never make much money and would have an uphill
battle finding a job.  The were probably right, but the jobs I was
applying for just weren't right for me.  Oddly enough, being a cop
wasn't at the top of my list.

I went into the Army, and with my background from military school, I
fit in there.  Where it eventually led me is sort of old ground here.  I
don't even know why I felt the desire to rattle it all off again, except
that running into Stephen dredged up all those old issues from the past.

After what happened in Peru, I didn't want to hang around and be
career military.  I had experienced more than enough of it and wanted
to "go home", though I was a bit clueless where that really was.  I guess
it was Cascade, since my family is from there.  "Home" in the more
specific sense turned out to be a big, drafty loft apartment I ended up
buying when my back pay came through.  The loft has a great view,
plenty of space...and it had all sorts of potential, though for some
reason, I didn't do a hell of a lot with it.  I guess my heart wasn't in it. 
Could be why Carolyn said she felt like she was living in a warehouse.

Being a cop seemed like a viable option at that point.  I went through
the academy and put in my time as a rookie.  I was promoted to
detective and assigned to Vice early in the game, when it appeared I
had a knack for it.  I'd gotten the chance to go under once or twice
when I was still in uniform, and did well on those assignments.  That,
coupled with my Covert Ops training, propelled me up a little faster
that average.

Did I see my family at all during this time?  Nope.  I haven't laid eyes
on the old man since the summer after military school.  Since I didn't
turn 18 until late July, when he snapped his fingers, I still had to jump. 
I was there exactly seven weeks.  The morning after my birthday, I
packed my stuff and left for the last time.  

We barely spoke during those weeks.  He was always wrapped up with
his work, which was fine with me.  Stephen was hanging around the
pool with his friends most of the time, drinking beer and figuring out
ways to lure bikini-clad girls over to join them.  

The whole scene at home made me as sick as it always had, so I got
two jobs that kept me away from the house about fourteen hours a day. 
Six hours of flipping burgers and six or seven hours of delivering
flowers was a little mind-numbing, but it gave me my own spending
money and kept me away from home.  Plus, the old man used it as an
example to needle Stephen.  I wish I'd had enough hours in the day for
a third job. <eg> (Blair tells me that means "evil grin" on the e-mail,
and man, it sure fits here.)  The flower job wasn't too bad, actually.  I
wasn't nuts about my responsibilities of setting up the flowers at the
local funeral homes.  I did it right once when one of the regular guys
was sick, so I got stuck with it all summer.  Overall, it wasn't a bad job
though.  I got to drive around all day, everyone was glad to see me--with 
the possible exception of the corpses, who of course, at that point,
didn't give a shit anymore.   

I'm back sliding.  Of course, this whole damned entry has been one big
back slide.  What brought it all on was running into Stephen again. 
Looking back now, I'm glad it happened.  We've made some degree of
peace.  I don't know if we'll ever be close.  That would take a lot of
time and effort from both of us.  We'll see what happens.  But at least
we finally acknowledged that it was Dad who was the problem, not us. 
We were in a competitive, "kill or be killed" situation.  Success was
hard to achieve, because our father's standards were so damned high. 
Sometimes, you could win a cheap victory as a result of your brother's
fuck-up.  

I really didn't want to go on that damned trip to Europe.  I'd have loved
it if I'd thought for one minute that Dad really wanted me along, or that
he'd enjoy a single minute of it when I was the one going and not
Stephen.  But I knew better, and that my going was just a device to
punish Stephen for the unspeakable crime of getting a "B" on an
otherwise flawless report card.  

So in that case, I won at his expense.  So he wanted revenge.  You can
be conditioned so that you just react.  And at a point, you stop
analyzing why you're doing it, or how right or wrong it is.  I think that's
what happened to Stephen.  He was in a full combat mode of sorts, not
really looking at who he mowed down, as long as he achieved his
objective.  And he did.  He went to Europe, I went into exile.

As it turns out, my life is better for that split having happened when it
did.  Maybe that's why I find it easier to be benevolent to Stephen.  At
any rate, I think Blair's rubbing off on me a little (God, if that isn't a
Freudian slip, I don't know what is.).  Unfortunately, I mean that only
in the figurative sense.  But he has a very high tolerance level for
people's mistakes, and he's extremely forgiving.

It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is for me to talk to him about
things I've never voiced to another human.  Not even to Carolyn.  She
knew I was estranged from my family, but she didn't know all the
personal details that went with it.  She got the public version.  Blair got
the whole story.

When Stephen first showed up, and I knew there was a danger of a
murder charge hanging over his head, I admit that I rode the power trip. 
He was in my world now, *I* was the hotshot here, not him.  So I let
him sweat it out, I tried to steer the investigation toward him.  I didn't
really think he'd kill anyone, but it was fun scaring the shit out of him
for a while.  

Blair worked me over pretty thoroughly between the actual resolution
of the case and the rescheduled awards banquet.  He kept after me to
see the whole thing from Stephen's perspective, to understand that we
were just kids when all that happened and we were reacting according
to a set of values that weren't fully developed yet--and so on.

Ultimately, I could see his point.  Stephen and I have made some
progress, but I still don't trust him.  I have this nagging feeling he'd stab
me in the back in a heartbeat if it benefited him.  Nonetheless, at least
we're speaking, and while I wouldn't necessarily turn my back on him
for too long, it's a start.

It would be nice to have some contact with family.  Blair started in that
I should really call my old man.  I think it's the only time Blair and I
have had a discussion recently that ended in my yelling at him and
telling him to mind his own goddamn business.  Needless to say, he
was pretty hurt by that.  Score one more for the old bastard.  He
managed to make me do things I hate myself for even "in absentia".  

Blair spent at least an hour sitting in a lounge chair on the balcony.  It
was about 45 degrees outside, and I know how much he hates being
cold.  I don't know what he was trying to prove by sitting outside, but I
was sure there was a symbolism.  I know I heard some little choked
sounds coming from him, so maybe he thought I wouldn't hear him cry
if he was outside.  He should know better.  

Figuring he'd freeze to death waiting for me to figure it out, I grabbed
the throw off the couch, put on my coat and went outside.  

Blair was huddled in the chair, wearing his coat with his hands thrust
into the opposite sleeves to keep them warm.

"You're going to freeze out here, Chief."  I pulled a straight chair up
next to where he sat.  "Lean forward."  He wordlessly obeyed, and I put
the throw around him.  He wrapped it around himself and snuggled
down into it.  "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you.  Is there any special
reason you're trying to catch pneumonia?"

"I just needed to think a while.  You were right.  I was out of line." 
There was something so sad in his voice that it made me feel like a
bigger asshole than if he'd started fighting with me.

"Maybe a little.  But you didn't deserve to get your head snapped off."

"Sometimes I just forget and stick my nose in your business."

"Forget what?"  Now I was puzzled.

"Forget that I don't have any right to."  He wasn't looking at me.  He
was too busy fiddling with a loose thread on the throw.

"That still doesn't explain why you're out here freezing to death."  I
paused.  "I heard you crying."

"You know, Jim, just because you have that ability, you don't always
have to use it."

"Some things I can't help hearing.  Look, Blair, I didn't mean to hurt
your feelings.  You were just treading in dangerous territory."

"I won't do it again."

"Sure you will.  So will I."  I let out a long breath.  "I'm sort of a loner,
Chief.  You know that.  I haven't had a lot of close friends in my life.  It
might take me a while to get used to having someone...this close."  I
felt like I wasn't making any sense, and he was being strangely quiet. 
That's when I knew I had really lacerated him.  He wasn't bouncing
back fast.  And Blair's nothing if he isn't resilient.  "You're my best
friend.  I don't want to fuck that up."

"You mean that?"  He finally looked at me, smiling a little.  Aha! 
Progress.

"I mean that.  Now can we go back inside?  It's cold out here."

"Sure.  How about hot chocolate?"  Blair asked as he unfolded from his
position in the chair and headed toward the loft.

"What, no herbal tea?"

"Nah.  This is a hot chocolate by the fireplace night.  Plus, my ass is
frozen and tea just doesn't work as fast for me."

That's my Blair.

Entry #34

I can't even picture what it would be like to lose eight years of your life
without warning.  I mean to lose it entirely--to sleep through it. 
(Although if someone had offered me that option when I was ten, and it
would have meant I'd wake up old enough to leave home, I'd have
probably considered it.)

All joking aside, I really felt for Stacey.  You don't realize how many
*little* things change in eight years in the world around you--not to
mention the personal issues of changes in family and friends.  In
Stacey's case, she was on the run with her parents, so there weren't a lot
of long-standing friends or other relatives.  But her parents were dead,
and she'd never really had a chance to deal with the fact she was totally
alone in the world.  That's scary.  You go to sleep a kid, when your
parents are ultimately responsible for everything (this is the only thing I
acknowledge from my childhood that I sometimes miss--someone else
being the one who has to do all the major worrying about life in
general).  You wake up 20, expected to adjust, take responsibility for
yourself.  Not to mention the complication of the fallout of your
parents' activities still haunting you.

Just looking around Cascade the other day, right after Stacey left for
school, I realized how much had changed there in eight years.  The big
shopping mall on the edge of the most thriving retail district was a
vacant cornfield, the restaurant across the street from the loft used to
be a bar, the logo on the diet cola cans was different, every musician I
used to see as I skimmed past Mtv had big hair and leather instead of--I'm 
not sure what to call the hair, and flannel.  Shows that were running
on TV have been canceled for years, entertainers have died, a whole
new crop are at the top, there's a different president...hell, the Internet
happened while Stacey was asleep.

Scary.  Very scary.  School is supposed to help her adjust.  She'll do
fine, I know.  But do you every really adjust?  The things you're used to
have a sort of value you don't realize.  And the time with the people
around you--the ones who matter--is precious.  When Blair almost died
from the golden, and again when he was shot, I realized just how
precious that time is.  In retrospect, I can certainly learn that lesson
from my mother's life.  She was younger than Blair when she died, so
her time on earth wasn't even that long.  Stacey slept longer than I
*knew* my mother.  Maybe that's why my father was never well-adjusted 
as he was raising us.  Maybe I looked too much like her-- from
the photos I've seen, I really do resemble her a lot.  While there's a
certain resemblance between Stephen and me, he looks like my dad.  I
take after my mother, and maybe there was something painful in that
for him.  Maybe it reminded him that he couldn't really ID her after the
car accident, or so I found out later.  That's not the kind of thing people
tell a four-year-old.  I investigated it myself once I became a cop, and
what pitiful little drizzle of information was there, I got it.  I needed to
know.

So Stacey is at school.  I get a letter from her just about every week,
sometimes twice a week.  She always says to tell Blair "hi", but I never
understood why she didn't bond with him more.  He knocked himself
out trying to draw her out, be supportive...  It's not that she didn't like
him.  Not many people can *not* like Blair.  But she gravitated toward
me.  Maybe it was that I was closer to the age her parents were when
they were killed.  I'm a bit younger, but if she were 12, I'd be the right
age to be her dad.  Blair thought she had a crush on me, and in a way,
she did.  But the *why* of it points more toward her wanting a male
source of stability and protection to replace her missing father.  

Shit, give someone a couple psych classes in college and they think
they're Freud.  

Anyway, I've been looking into some possible driving/camping
excursions I could take.  I need some time away from everything. 
Oddly enough, I even feel like I need some time away from Blair.  It's
not that I won't miss him the minute I start out on the road.  But I have
this feeling that I need to re-establish a separate identity for myself. 
He's got to be making progress on his dissertation, and when that's
done, life is bound to take him elsewhere.  I think it would be good for
me to take a trip totally alone, find out that I do, in fact, function
without Blair at my elbow every minute.  

I also have some thinking to do.  Spending my life wishing for
something that isn't going to happen isn't healthy and it isn't productive. 
I miss having someone in my life *that way*.  Blair's here, but I need
an excuse to touch him, I sure as hell can't kiss him or make love to
him or take him out on a date or slow dance or make out on the couch--
in other words, all the things that lovers do.  I know there's a void in my
life, and since I *can't* fill it the way I want to, I have to figure out how
to fill it.  And with Blair right there every minute, it's sort of filled and I
don't think about it.  But almost two years of indecision is enough.  I
always want Blair in my life somehow, but I have to make the break
and crawl off somewhere and let the wound heal and then put him in
the right perspective in my life.  Not as my significant other, or my
lover, or my life partner--but as my friend.

That having been said, I don't *feel* any differently.  I still want him in
all the wrong ways.  But wanting and having are two different things. 
Spending my life wanting isn't my idea of a good time.  

Don't know where I'll go yet.  I've been up in Canada fishing before.  I 
know a guy at work who has a cabin there--in the middle of nowhere,
no telephone...and great fishing.  Think I'll ask him if I can borrow it
for a few days.  The weather's turning nice now.  In another couple
weeks it'll be a lot warmer--and so up in Canada, it'll be great fishing
weather.

I hope Blair isn't too hurt when he isn't asked to go along.  But this is
something I need to do.


Entry #35

Well, I'll say one thing for the cabin.  It's certainly rustic.  I'm out in the
middle of nowhere.  I have to go outside to use the john, the fish didn't
bite all day so now I'm eating a cold can of baked beans because the
fucking hot plate doesn't work, and it's decided to be unseasonably
cold.  My ass is frozen, the chimney flue is clogged, so I came close to
asphyxiating myself while trying to thaw out said ass, and it's at least
twice as far from here to town as he said it was.  The cell phone is out
of range, I got a flat on the Explorer halfway up the trail through the
woods, which he warned me were home to a pack of wild dogs.  I guess
I should be grateful I wasn't a life-sized Milk-Bone while I changed the
tire.

The bed is lumpy, there are rats in the crawl space (I can hear the little
fuckers carrying on down there), the roof leaks--which I learned about
fifteen minutes ago when the goddamn rain started.  The spider I'm
watching in the corner between the walls and the ceiling is only slightly
smaller than Sandburg.  His brother is building a house over the bed.

I had promised Blair I'd call him tomorrow.  If I live through tonight
and tomorrow's a reasonable day for a little fishing, I might let it slide
for a day.  He's busy anyway, and driving back down five miles of
washboard road that just about knocks your nuts up your nose every
mile or so when you hit a pothole, doesn't appeal to me when I could be
enjoying myself.

I am going to enjoy this vacation if it kills me.


Entry #36

It rained the whole fucking day.  I'm writing this son of a bitch of a
diary in long-hand on a notepad while I sit on a couch whose springs
should be registered as lethal weapons.  I guess I don't have to worry
about finding a woman.  I don't think I'll be capable of fathering any
children after trying to sit on the left cushion.

Why was it again I came here?  I know it had something to do with
getting my head together.  I think the only thing I've managed to come
up with is a well-formulated plan to murder Tom Doherty in Vice, who
loaned me the keys to this hell hole.  

Remember the rats I mentioned?  Guess who I shared my toaster
waffles with this morning?  Guess the smell of fresh meat brought a
couple of the hardier souls upstairs.

Tomorrow, I'm driving into town to do three things: call Blair, check
into a hotel, and buy some C-4 to put this place out its misery.


Entry #37

Back in civilization.  Got a room at a bed and breakfast in the little
town near the cabin.  I have to share a bathroom, but hell, I had to walk
fifty feet in the rain to use one for the past two nights, so this didn't
look too difficult.  

I can't reach Blair.  I've tried the loft, the university, the station...I'm
getting worried.  It isn't like him to disappear this way, and he never
said he was going anywhere.  If I can't get a hold of him by morning,
I'm calling Simon and heading back.  I have a bad feeling about this.

I haven't really had a lot of time to reach profound conclusions about
my life.  Two nights were merely survival of the fittest between me, the
rats, the spiders, the leaks and the mad dogs.  Last night was spent
sitting like a toad in this cramped little bedroom, trying to reach Blair
every hour on the hour.  

Why is it that this trip is making me realize how much I love having
him with me, and how much I worry about him when he isn't around,
when it's suppose to help me snap out of the Sandburg Syndrome?


Entry #38

Called Simon at six this morning.  He was delighted to hear from me. 
It's Saturday.  I asked him to take his spare key and go to the loft to see
if Blair was okay.  I got the usual lecture about how Blair's a grown
man and he's probably just out sowing some wild oats, nudge-wink.  So
how come he doesn't stay out all night two nights in a row when I'm
home?  It's not like I impose a curfew on him or anything.

Simon finally agreed, after a few choice obscenities muttered under his
breath, to go check on Blair.  He called me back about seven-thirty and
told me that the loft was empty, everything looked fine.  He said
judging by the disorder in Blair's closet, he couldn't tell if he'd taken
clothes with him or not.

That didn't make me feel any better.  What if someone did something
to him while he was sleeping?  What if he met some bad fate while he
was out somewhere else?  If no one's around to look for him, it would
be too late by the time anyone *did* take action.  

I called Jennifer, his student assistant.  She was supposed to be working
a few hours a week with him at the campus during the summer
sessions.  Classes haven't officially started for the summer yet, so she
informed me that he wasn't spending much time at the campus anyway,
and she wasn't due back to work until next week.

All this being equal, I'm heading back for Cascade as fast as I can get
there.  There are plenty of back roads, so hopefully I can make good
time, especially with the lights and siren.


Entry #39

I've been home for over 24 hours now.  There's no trace of Blair
anywhere.  His car is still parked out front.  I can't tell if clothes are
missing either.  I went through everything in the room--and I hated
doing that because it felt like a colossal invasion of his privacy.  But if
I could just find some concrete sign that he had packed.

There isn't a lot of underwear in the dresser drawer, and I can't find a
couple of his favorite shirts.  His backpack and laptop are still here, so
that makes me think that maybe he's just low on underwear and maybe
he tossed the shirts for some reason or they're stuffed in some obscure
location that only makes sense when you reason with Sandburg logic.

I found a three-ring notebook in the drawer under the boxers and tank
shirts that were there.  A quick scan of the first page told me it was a
diary.  I snapped the cover shut and put it back just as fast.  

I pulled some strings with the PD and have a missing person report out
on Blair, plus I've been out looking for him off and on all day. 
Nothing.  Nada. Zip.  He's just...disappeared.

I realize the first thing I should do as a good cop is read his diary from
cover to cover to see if there's anything going on in his life I don't know
about that could get him into some kind of trouble.  If he's involved in
something he hasn't told me about, and he needs help, it might be the
only way for me to find him.

As much as I hate to do it, I guess I'm going to have to read it.  I hope
Blair can forgive me for that.  I would never do that to him if I saw any
other way.  But he's been gone for at least two, maybe three days now,
and I don't know what else to do.

Entry #39

I don't even know where to begin to deal with everything that's
happened in the last few days.  

First, Blair wasn't abducted or dead or injured or even maimed a little. 
He was at St. Sebastian's.

Guess what he was doing there?  Trying to figure out how to get over
the feelings he was having for me and get on with his life.

I read his diary.  When I think of all the time we've spent sending
missed (and mixed) signals to each other, feeling lousy and lonely
because we couldn't have what we wanted--and all it would have taken
was one word from one of us.  Both so damned afraid we'd lose what
he had...we just kept faking it, living like friends...  If all those lost
months weren't so damned sad it would be funny.  So all those little
increases in heart rate, averted looks--they were all there.  I wasn't
imagining it.

We made love as soon as Blair got home.  I fell asleep in his room,
after I read the diary.  He's a verbose little guy, and it took me a few
hours to get through it.  

When he got home, he woke me up, and all I could think of was that
we had wasted enough time, and by some miracle, he was okay, and we
still had that chance.  I pulled him into my arms, and after lining him
out about not leaving a note, we were all over each other.  Clothes flew
in all directions, and finally, after all this time of beating myself over
the head about this "unrequited love", we were there, in bed together,
skin on skin, humping fast enough to start a friction fire.  

It was magical, if not very romantic.  After we both spurted all over
each other like Old Faithful, the bed collapsed.  Between the pure...joy
of what we'd discovered about each other, and finally getting together--
and the amusing scene of the ruined bed and the two of us naked,
sticky and tangled up in the middle of it--we started laughing.  We
laughed for a long time before we got ourselves back together enough
to talk about what was going on.

It was only after the frenzy quieted that I had a chance to really stroke
his skin, taste him, memorize the feeling of his naked body against
mine.  It was beyond anything I could have fantasized about.  That
body met every unanswered need that had gnawed at me for years now. 
Even before I met and married Carolyn, during all the years I had
useless relationships that went nowhere, and then all these months--hell, 
years--of wanting him and not being able to have him... 
Physically, Blair is a joy to look at and to touch.  He's not only
responsive sexually, he's the most affectionate person I've ever been
with.  He meets every caress with a snuggle, every kiss with returned
enthusiasm, and having him sleep in my arms is like finally feeling
complete.  

I can't picture not holding him every chance I get--not just after we
make love.  We slept together on the couch this afternoon while I was
watching the game on TV.  Totally sexless, really.  He just likes to
crawl into whatever personal space I'm in and share it, so he decided
that my body, where I was stretched out on the couch, was a more
appealing resting place than the other couch.  So he lay down on top of
me, settled down, and dozed while I watched the game.  

This is the first time I've been with anyone I would have let do that. 
We weren't groping around, kissing, nothing.  I was watching TV, and
he wanted to be close to me, but he was bored with the game and tired
out from a *very* active morning, so he slept on me.  And having that
precious bundle of energy sleeping peacefully on my chest was the best
part of the afternoon.  Despite the fact that one arm went to sleep and I
was stiffer than a board when I got up two hours later.

So far all we've done is a lot of kissing, cuddling, making out, hand
jobs and some pretty healthy humping.  As for the future, we've pretty
well decided that it's going to be the two of us.  

I really want to make love to Blair--all the way.  I feel he'll probably
say yes, but I don't know how I feel about that.  I want to top, but I don't
know if I'm ready to return the favor.  But this relationship is worth
whatever it takes.


Entry #40

I asked Simon if I could have a couple days off this week.  He was a
little curious as to why I suddenly felt the need for a vacation, when I
supposedly just had one, but he okayed it.

Blair and I drove to Oregon to a bed and breakfast I read about in the
Sunday paper's travel section.  Oh--remember those Sunday morning
paper-reading sessions?  The only downside to this relationship is that I
think I read a grand total of about three pages of the paper this week. 
When I had Blair there in his underwear, all warm and smelling like us
from our lovemaking the night before, the sports page was sort of anti-climatic.  
I'm wondering if I'll ever get sick of waking up to him and
just lying there, kissing a little, saying all the stupid, sappy things that
people in love say...  When I have to be away from him now, it feels
like half my soul's been torn out.  I don't know how I feel about that
feeling, since this is the first time I understood all those melodramatic
songs about the agony of separation.  

Is it possible someone can go through this much of life and never have
been in love before?  For real?

I wonder sometimes if Blair suspects me of having a diary, or of
working on something other than police reports.  He lets me use the
laptop anytime he isn't using it.  Right now, he's sitting there on the
couch, those little glasses in place, reading a battered old text book he
found at an estate sale that he claimed had something fascinating in it. 
Mostly, I was too busy watching him while he talked, loving his
animation and enthusiasm...I didn't pay much attention to what he said.

He looked up at me a few minutes ago, and gave me one of those big
smiles.  I've been physically distanced from him for all of an hour, and
even now I want to go over there and pounce on him.

Since we got back from Oregon, it's been even worse.  Two days of
being together all the time, and finally consummating the relationship.

We got to the inn early afternoon, and checked in.  It was situated on a
wooded lot, in the country, and boasted nature trails for long walks in
the woods.  I don't think we saw the outside of our bedroom for more
than a couple of hours in those two days, so we could have been in a
camper by the side of the freeway for all the difference the setting
made.

I know the fair thing would have been to talk it over, decide who'd do
what first and how far we'd go, but when we were finally there, I
pounced on Blair.  I don't think I've ever divested anyone of their
clothing quite that quickly and efficiently, nor have I managed to
somehow get naked myself while having some part of my body busily
making love to my partner at the same time.

I took my time learning every inch of his body.   I picked him up and
laid him back down on the bed so his head was on the pillows, instead
of hanging over the other side.  I started with his forehead, promising I
was going to kiss every inch of him.  And I did.  I opened up my sense
of taste and touch and smell and let Blair fill up every one.  Of course
hearing and sight seemed to dial up of their own volition, picking up on
his little love sounds, his heartbeat, how amazing he looked...a little
flushed, but relaxed and open...ready to let me in, in more ways than
one.

I kissed every part of his face, then nibbled down his neck to his
shoulders.  His skin is like silk.  Except for that soft dusting of hair that
shows up here and there.  It's springy and soft and I love getting it
between my fingers, just like I love tangling my hands in that beautiful
stuff on his head.  And I can never get over how good he smells.  And
tastes.

His legs were spreading almost on their own as I worked my way
down.  It doesn't take Blair long to get worked up, and when I got down
near his cock, I know he was thinking I was going to take him in my
mouth.  I did that once before, and surprisingly to me, it wasn't
disgusting.  It was Blair.  And that made it wonderful.

I ignored the telephone pole springing out of his groin, and kept on
dusting his body with little kisses and licks.  I never wanted to make
love to somebody that completely before--nuzzling their armpits or
their groin area wasn't really a big source of arousal for me.  Until
Blair.  It's like the love that's there is so...*massive*...I just don't know
how else to express it.  I keep hoping that maybe he'll realize what he
means to me if I can show him, somehow.  I think he does.

I kissed and licked the little creases where his thighs join his groin, I
licked and sucked on his balls, and then I made a decision.

I've never rimmed anybody in my life.  Quite frankly, the concept has
always made my stomach flip over and wretch.  But then, so did the
thought of giving another man a blow job.  But this was no "other
man", this was Blair--my Blair.  And if I could do that for him, maybe
he'd understand that he was the most precious thing on earth to me.

He was writhing above me now, whimpering for me to do something
about his "condition".  I knew I was going to have to do something
about my own before much longer.  I also knew what I wanted most to
do if he'd let me.

I licked my way down from his balls, kissing and sucking at the
sensitive skin just below his hole.  I finally reached under his thighs
and gave him a little push, and he drew them up for me.  I hadn't really
seen Blair this way before.  We'd humped a lot, sucked each other off a
time or so, and had hands everywhere.  But this was new.

I moved down and started licking at the little pucker.  Blair let out a
surprised little moan, and I could see his knuckles going white as he
clutched handfuls of the comforter.  I found making love to this part of
Blair was no less wonderful than any other, and before I realized what I
was doing myself, my tongue darted into his center.  Not tentatively or
slightly, either.  It just slipped in and out, dragging little cries out of
Blair with each movement.

And he said the magic words while I thoroughly licked him and took
him with my tongue:  

"I want...you in...there...please, lover."  That's exactly how he said it. 
I'll never forget it.  His voice was strained with arousal, and I know he
was a little scared, but he also knew what he wanted.  

I moved up to kiss the backs of his thighs before encouraging his legs
down to the mattress.  He let me turn him on his side, and I dug around
in the travel bag I'd brought for the lube.  I had conveniently tossed it
beside the bed for easy reach.

He was already wet and a little slippery from my tongue, but I would
never rely on something as temporary--and fast-drying--as spit to keep
him comfortable.  If, in fact, he could be comfortable with me shoving
a considerable cock into that tiny little hole.   At that moment, thinking
of pushing inside of him, his opening looked like a pinpoint and my
cock looked like a sequoia tree.  If there's one thing I can't stand the
thought of, it's hurting him in any way.  

I tried to turn my thoughts positive.  If I got hung up on thinking I was
going to hurt him, I'd deflate like a punctured balloon and the party
would be over.

I started coating him with the lube, first with just one finger.  He
seemed to actually like that degree of intrusion.  So I let him get
relaxed, just massaging him with my finger, feeling the opening stretch
a bit.  Soon, I lubed up another finger and returned with two.  There
was initial resistance, then he relaxed, thrusting his rear back toward
my fingers.  Again, I let him get relaxed and used to the sensation of
the two fingers moving, massaging and stretching.  

"Feel okay, sweetheart?"  I asked him.  I started calling him 'sweetheart'
and 'baby' after the first time we made love.  He never objected.  He
reciprocated by calling me 'lover' or just 'mine'.  I don't know why I
love that so much when he does that, but he often just says "I love you,
mine."  And I'm jelly.  He could have anything he asked for.  My life,
the keys to my truck, first choice of radio stations for the rest of our
lives...  I don't know where he came up with it, but I never knew what
love really felt like until he fell asleep in my arms after mumbling, "I
love you, mine."

I got off track.   He answered me with a very pleased groan and a
wiggle of his hips.  I slowly withdrew the two fingers and he muttered
something unintelligible but distinctly disappointed.

"Need more slippery stuff, baby.  And another finger.  Hang on."  I
knew the next step was really going to stretch him, and he probably
wouldn't like it at first.  I kissed his shoulder and cuddled him closer
before slowly working the three fingers inside.  He was more relaxed
than I thought, having enjoyed the extended internal massage he'd been
getting.  I reached around front and found his cock, pumping that while
I worked the three fingers inside him, stretching and preparing.  He
really started moving with me then.  As vocal as he is, Blair isn't a
screamer during sex.  But he makes these delicious little love noises--a
whole symphony of little whimpers and grunts and groans--that just
drive me nuts.  He was doing all that now, and I finally dragged a little
outcry from him when I found his prostate.  I didn't know at first how
that'd feel--I know it's intense, but that can be good or bad.  For Blair, it
was apparently good.  He got almost impossibly hard after that, and by
the way he was taking all three fingers, thrusting his hips back to make
me really fuck him with them, I knew he was as ready as he'd ever be.

I slid the fingers out and greased myself up.  With as much lube as I'd
used, I expected to slide right through him.

Stretching or no stretching, the first few seconds was touch and go.  His
heart rate skyrocketed, his erection faltered, his breathing got ragged--in 
other words, everything about his body let me know that this
definitely didn't feel as good as the fingers did.  I asked him if I should
stop, but he told me to give him a minute.  Leaning my forehead on his
back as we lay there, I wondered how much longer I could just stay
there with the head just inside.  I pushed forward a little, almost
unconsciously, and he let out a moan that was pure pain.  I froze.  This
was a disaster.  I figured we had our answer, and it just wasn't going to
work.  No way in hell was I going to go any further.  It was as if Blair
read my mind.

"Come on, lover, I can take a little more now," he encouraged in a
strained voice.  I *did* feel his muscles relaxing.  So I pushed in a little
further, and then waited.  That was the key.  I had to wait for Blair's
okay.  Fear had made him tighten up on me when I moved too fast, so I
slowed it down and let him set the pace.  I was in serious pain by the
time he encouraged me to move again.  It took about four increments
before I made it all the way to the hilt.  Once I had, we both just lay
there, exhausted and adjusting.  I know I could have just pushed in and
he'd have probably adjusted to it, but I wasn't willing to hurt him any
more than absolutely necessary, and I didn't want to tear him by forcing
the issue.

"I think you can move now," he said, after what seemed like an hour.  I
guess in reality, it had only been a minute or two.

I started helping him out by keeping his mind on his cock for a few
minutes, pumping away.  My other arm wrapped around him and held
him close to me.  When I started thrusting, it was gentle, and pretty
soon he was moving with me, enjoying it.  He came first, and I've never
felt anything like those muscles clamping down on me in waves while
he spurted all over my hand, gasping out my name.  I finished soon
after that, pumping a few times more, a little faster than before.  I just
held him after I came, waiting to soften a little so I could slide out
without hurting him too much.  I knew he'd be sore no matter what
precautions we took.  Even the woman I'd had anal sex with who liked
it admitted that she didn't do it often, and was sore afterwards.

Not that I'm comparing Blair to a woman or anything, but since I
haven't had sex with other men before, it's the only frame of reference
I've got.

I asked him if he was okay as soon as I slipped out of him.  He just
looked up at me with this big sleepy, sappy smile and said "I love you,
mine."  I took that as a yes and pulled him into my arms and cuddled
him while our arms and legs seemed to get all wrapped around each
other of their own volition.  I hooked a corner of the comforter to bring
up over us--mainly over Blair because he hates being cold.

"Thank you, sweetheart.  That was...more beautiful than I thought." 
And it was.  The physical sensations blew me away.  The love shocked
me by the sheer power of it.

We slept for quite a while all tangled up that way.  When we came to, I
got dressed and drove into town for some food.  Blair was still drowsy,
and I think he wanted some private time to clean up and...I don't know,
just kind of get his thoughts together.  When I got back, he'd made the
bed and turned it back again, showered and had the room lit with
candles.  The little devil had packed them in his suitcase.  He was
sitting there on the bed, reading a book, glasses halfway down his nose,
when I came in.

I showered and then joined him in bed, and we fed each other the
cooling Chinese take-out along with the champagne we'd brought with
us.  It was kind of a gastric nightmare, but orange glaze tastes best
when licked off Blair's lips, so Chinese was a must.

We didn't actually make love again that night.  Blair admitted, after
much pressuring from me, that he was sore from earlier, even though
he enjoyed it while we did it.  He was just as happy to cuddle and kiss
and fool around and let it go at that.  That was fine with me.

Entry #41

Back in the daily grind again.  Blair's at the university part of the time,
and I'm at work.  The best times are when we're together, even if we're
working a case or washing the vehicles.  I keep kidding Blair that all he
needs to wash his car is a bathroom cup of water and a toothbrush.  He
responded by spraying me with the hose.  Of course, I had to tackle him
for that.  

I have to remember that we're in a public parking lot when I do things
like that.  I was glad the couple that passed us on the way to their car
missed the part where I had both hands down his shorts groping his wet
ass.

I want to buy a house.  I know that sounds ridiculous--to buy a house so
you can grope your partner's ass outdoors.  It's more than that, though. 
I'd like a place that we could really have some privacy, maybe have a
pool.  Blair could have a better herb garden than the one he grows in
the old pan on the balcony.  We could lie outside at night and watch the
stars, make love in the grass...

Yeah, I know.  I'd need an estate in the country to get away with doing
that outside.  I can dream, can't I?  Meanwhile, I have to learn to keep
my hands to myself when we're outside.  Funny, but I never wanted a
house when I was with Carolyn.  All it meant is I'd have to mow the
lawn, trim hedges and generally get into the whole suburban
homeowner thing.  I still don't want a house in the suburbs, sandwiched
in with screaming kids on all sides, nosy neighbors with beer bellies
and neighborhood associations.  But someday I want to buy us a really
nice house, on some land...I want...permanence, I guess.

Blair topped the other night.  I guess I'm stalling by going off on talking
about houses.  I've been trying to figure out how I feel about it.  I guess
since it happened, I keep hesitating to ask that of him now, because I
know it's a hell of a strain.  I mean, it's beautiful when it happens with
someone you love as much as we love each other, but it sure takes
some getting used to.

Blair was as gentle and careful and patient as humanly possible.  I don't
know where that guy got his control from, because I took a hell of a lot
longer to enjoy myself than he did when things were reversed.   I don't
know if it's some deep-seated psychological thing, or if my asshole is
circumference-challenged or if he has an oversized cock that should be
registered as a lethal weapon.  Whatever it was, it felt like I was
stretching out to accommodate a baseball bat--wide end first.

He worked on me a long time with his fingers, and by the time he got
three in there, I was enjoying myself.  If anyone had told me before that
I would enjoy having three fingers wiggling around up my ass, I
wouldn't have believed it.  But lying there on the bed, spooned together
like before--only reversed--I was getting relaxed and it felt pretty good.  

I think it was just instant panic when I knew the Big Moment was
coming.  He'd spent long enough getting me ready that it should have
been easy.  And maybe that's what was wrong--I was beating myself up
for not accommodating him as fast as he did me, and that made me
tense up more, and it the more tense I got, the more sure I was messing
everything up.  

I don't know if I could have stopped in the middle of everything like
Blair did, and started over.  He had to be dying back there, but when he
could see I was tensing up and that the partial penetration was hurting
me, he withdrew again and went back to using his fingers.  Although, if
he's anything like me, knowing he was causing considerable pain was
enough of...shall we say, a deflating factor.

The second try worked.  I guess I knew he wasn't going to do anything I
couldn't handle, and he'd reassured me over and over again that it
wasn't strange that it was this difficult.  I'm just used to believing what
Blair tells me, even if he is sugar-coating things a little.

When he was all the way inside, and I had time to get used to being
filled up like that, it started coming over me in waves what it meant.  I
had part of Blair inside of me.  Not only were we joined, but I finally
*was* doing something that conveyed the magnitude of what I felt for
him.  I've never given myself over like that to anyone else, and I never
will.  Only Blair.  Only he would be worth the physical effort to do it,
and only with him would I end up enjoying it.  And he's the only person
I'd trust with that kind of power and control.  You're pretty helpless
when you're impaled that way, and being hurt is almost a given.  

Almost.  I don't mean I wasn't sore afterwards.  I felt like someone had
driven a dump truck up my ass.  But I wasn't bleeding, and it wasn't
severe enough that I'd never want to do it again.  To my amazement, I
actually liked it.  When we were moving together, joined that way...it
was like the pain and effort of getting there just faded.

We had a really good talk the next morning.  Any talk we have while
we're lying there in bed naked and sticky and all wrapped up together is
a good one, but then I enjoy talking about getting new spark plugs if I
have a naked Blair in my arms while I'm doing it.

But we talked about the whole sex issue.  What we liked, didn't like. 
What had gone well and what had been a minor disaster.  We both
enjoyed the experience of having intercourse--and we both liked it both
ways.  But we kind of agreed it wasn't something we'd be looking for
every night.  We both have killer schedules, and sometimes just a
simple hand job and a lot of cuddling does the trick.  The Big Moment
isn't something either one of us are likely to want to rush through, so
that's something we do when we have time to do it right, make it last,
and make it good for both of us.  Maybe someday when we're
experienced at this stuff (and let me tell you, I'm willing to do a *lot*
of practicing), we'll be better able to throw each other on the floor and
fuck each other blind, but for now, we both need to *get* experienced
and take it at a comfortable pace.


Entry #42

We faced a major challenge today.  I sort of forgot myself and kissed
Blair on the mouth when he dropped me off at work.  The truck's in the
shop, and I can borrow a car from the garage at the station, but I
needed a lift to get there.  He had to go to the U, but he took me to
work first.  I didn't notice that a couple of guys I used to work with in
Vice were walking past the front of the car where Blair had pulled up
to drop me off.    

He saw the double-take and strange looks we got, and I didn't like the
way it seemed to make him feel.  Like my best kept dirty secret.

We never made any announcements to anyone.  We've gone on like we
always have, working and living together.   Blair has honored that and
not spread it all over the campus, although I know he was a little
disappointed when I admitted that it would be easier for me if we
weren't "out".  At least not in so many words.  When we once got
together, he was ready to take out an ad in the local papers, put up a
billboard, and shout it from the top of the Social Sciences Building at
Rainier.

I was ready to keep on keepin' on, living my life and having
relationships with my coworkers that were unchanged by my new
relationship.

I hate myself when I realize that it hurt Blair very much to keep on
going just like always, only if anything, with less touching than we'd
been doing before.  I was conscious now of what people would think,
because there *was* something there for them to discover.  Before, I
didn't care what anyone thought, because there was nothing going on.

He watched them go into the entrance, deep in conversation about the
"aberration" they'd just witnessed.  Well, I could hear it for myself, but
Blair certainly surmised it.

"I'm sorry."  His voice was barely audible as he looked down at the
steering wheel.  

"It's not your fault, sweetheart.  I'm the one who kissed *you*,
remember?"

"Yeah, but it's my fault because when you drop me off at the U, I
always kiss you goodbye.  You just got in the habit, and I shouldn't've
ever done that because you didn't want to be out."

I thought back of all the quick but sweet little kisses I get from Blair
whenever he's coming or going.  He never does it anywhere it would
make me uncomfortable, but anytime we're in his territory, or out of
the view of prying eyes, he always kisses me goodbye, or hello, for that
matter.  Now he was apologizing for that.  I couldn't stand that.

So I pulled him over toward me and kissed him again, longer this time,
with plenty of tongue.

"Don't ever apologize for kissing me, sweetheart.  I treasure those
kisses, just like I treasure you.  Got it?"  I watched him fighting tears,
and then a big smile took over, forcing a couple out on his cheeks.

"I got it.  I love you, mine."  He reached up and touched my face, and I
captured his hand and kissed it.  "Do you think they'll make trouble?"

"If they do, they won't get far.  Simon isn't going to come down on me
over it, and I doubt like hell he'll even be shocked by it."

"But they don't let people who are involved be partners, do they?" Blair
was looking at me with real panic in those big blue eyes now.

"That would be true if you were a cop.  But you're not.  There's nothing
on the books that says I can't sleep with a consultant to the Major
Crimes Division."  I smiled when I said that, because it always made
me happy that Simon had seen fit to put in his bid to have Blair's
services be limited to Major Crimes.  The chief had balked at first,
because once Blair had proven himself on a couple of cases, he felt
Blair could be of value to all the departments.  He'd pirated Blair once
or twice from me to put him in another department on an difficult case
that would utilize his expertise--one was the theft of artifacts from a
local dig site, and another was a very weird ritual homicide which was
the domain of a task force.  

It was after the homicide case that I went in to Simon and basically
blew up at him.  Blair had been dragged to crime scenes, made to go to
the morgue and look at the carvings on a partially decayed corpse--I
was irate.  Blair was having nightmares, not to mention the fact he
staggered out of the morgue and lost his lunch in a nearby wastebasket. 

I told Simon that Blair was not the equivalent of Mike Hampton's 
drug-sniffing dog that anyone could borrow when the case warranted.  And
even Duke didn't go out on calls without Mike.  It's true that Blair is an
adult, and a very competent and expert one at that, but he's not a cop,
and he's not used to rotting corpses and mutilated corpses and ritual
homicide.  Not that anyone's *used* to that, but cops are trained to deal
with it.  Blair isn't.

Simon put in the request, fought for it, citing our workload and the fact
that we have murder cases and other, well, "major crimes" to deal with
on a daily basis.  He told the chief that having Blair removed from our
department might not be a hardship at the moment it happened, but
could cause us problems when something arose quickly, as it often did. 
There was a lot of bickering, but fortunately, Simon's in pretty good
with the old curmudgeon, and he got his way.  And the way it reads,
Blair isn't my partner, per se, just another person who works in the
same division.  Simon just "assigns" him to consult on *my* cases.  I
knew there was a reason I liked Simon.

"I don't want to ruin your life, Jim," he finally said.  He was looking
wilted again.  I could see I was going to have to play smashface a little
more and lick his tonsils a few times before he got the message that he
*was* my life.  So that's what I did.  When he came up for air, he was
panting and looked like he was ready to go a hell of a lot farther right
then and there.

"You *are* my life, dummy.  Don't forget it.  The only way you'll ruin
it is if you aren't in it.  Got that?"

"Got it," he responded, smiling and blushing a little.  I kissed his cheek
quickly.

"Gotta go, sweetheart.  Call me about lunch, huh?"  I said as I got out
of the car.

"Why don't you pick me up about one--in whatever sleek machine you
can get from the garage."  Blair knew the sarcasm would get me, as the
last car I'd borrowed from the police garage had died in the middle of a
high-speed chase.  The whole issue of having my truck in for service
every five minutes pissed me off because the department had clamped
down on me and wouldn't help out with my insurance--after I totaled
two trucks in as many years.  So now I was driving a "classic."

"Just watch your mouth, Sandburg," I admonished him through the
open window of the door I'd just closed.  I felt stupidly sad to see him
put the car in gear to drive away. //You're in bad shape over that little
guy, Ellison.//

"I'd rather watch yours."  He winked at me and pulled out, leaving me
there to contemplate what I'd gotten myself into by falling in love with
him.  And on those happy thoughts, I headed in to work with a sappy
grin on my face.

The End...for now ;-)