Disclaimer: All characters having appeared or been mentioned on the
UPN series, "The Sentinel" are the property of Paramount Televison
and/or Pet  Fly Productions.  All I know for sure is that they aren't
mine, <sniff> and I'm not making any money off this.  I *am* having a
lot of fun.

Rating: MAO for m/m sex, some language

Author's Notes: This story is a follow up to "The Sandburg Chronicles". 
It can be read as a stand alone piece, as references to events in the first
story are pretty easy to understand on their own.  Its timeline runs just
beyond the end of the second season.  Regarding the guys' third season
dalliances--for this story's purposes, I'm ignoring them.  (I love having
the power to annihilate the BOTWs!)  The entries are numbered to
correspond with the episodes until the final ep of the second season. 
Numbers after the "Sleeping Beauty" reference are just, well, entry
numbers.  Jim is not as anal as he's accused of being, because he didn't
organize his diary with titles. 

Thank you to my ever-loyal beta reader and sounding board, Virginia
Call. ;-)  
***********************************************************

The Ellison Reports
(Transcribed from Jim's diary by Candy Apple)


Entry #1

I've always been told you're supposed to confess all your honest
feelings when  you start this  kind of a journal or it doesn't really serve
it's purpose.  Okay.   Here's an honest feeling.  I hate  writing these
damned entries.  It's only  marginally less annoying that writing those
damned  reports every time I stop a  jaywalker.

I've also always wondered what possible good something like this does. 
It's  not as if the  unnamed person or entity to whom you're speaking is
going to do  anything about your situation.  I did read one time that a
good way to deal with  problems that frustrate or frighten you was to
write about them.  So here I am.   I'm frustrated, though a little less
frightened than I was a couple days ago.  But  I'm jumping ahead of
myself here. 

I spent eighteen months in the jungle in Peru.  That was not by choice. 
While I  was there, I found I had a knack of picking up on things before 
anyone else did.  I  don't know a better way to explain it than that.  I
heard  things before others heard them--sometimes they never *did*
end up hearing  them--spotted things in the distance way before 
anyone else, plus my senses of  smell and taste seemed so acute at
times that it was a curse.  It  was great for  tracking, but lousy for living
in any degree of peace.  I was able to discern  things  through my sense
of touch that quite frankly surprised me.   I didn't  think much about it
after  I left the jungle.  I thought it was just one more way  the human
body can miraculously adapt  to its surroundings and challenges.

Everything seemed to be back to normal when I got home.  Well, as
normal as  you feel after  spending 18 months in the jungle.  The whole
pace was hard to  catch up with again.  Maybe  that was the biggest
adjustment.  I had plenty to  do with the tribe, but I didn't need a
Franklin  Planner to keep track of it, nor  did I have to be obsessed with
how many minutes it took me  to complete  something.  I still refuse to
be a slave to a calendar book, but I had to get over  my  habit of just
figuring if the job was done by sundown, I was okay.  Oddly  enough,
my superiors  at the PD are a bit more exact than that.  When the chief 
says "on my desk by 3:00", he means  it.  Stuff like that was hard
getting used  to again.  There were days I wanted to throw in the  towel
and go back to the  tribe.

Then I met Carolyn.  She was intelligent, talented at her job,
confident--and  not too hard on  the eyes, either.  She was in every
sense an equal, and it was a  real pleasure to work with her  on a
number of cases at the PD.  Maybe I was  confusing my enjoyment of
her company and  my respect for her ability for  love.  I don't know.  In
any event, we got married.  It was a  disaster from the  start.  I have to
admit that I tend to be traditional about marriage--I don't mean   I
expect a woman to stay home and have babies.  One of the main things
that  attracted me to  Carolyn in the first place was seeing her in action
on the job.   But I guess I wanted to take care  of her and provide for
her, and I didn't  understand--still don't--why calling her "baby" or 
"sweetheart" pissed her off  so much.  I thought she knew I respected
her as an equal.  I always  kind of  hoped she'd call me something
besides "Jimmy".  I despise that nickname  anyway.   What's wrong
with "honey"?  "Lover"?  Something besides "Jimmy".  

I'm really getting off-topic here.  Maybe there's something to this
diary-writing  thing.  I never  really thought too much about all
this--never realized it still  nagged at me.  

Carolyn and I finally called it quits after a couple years of misery.  It
was  better to end it, but  it still hurt like hell because it was her idea. 
The way she  did it--man, all she had to do was tell  me she wanted a
divorce.  She didn't  have to list off everything she wasn't getting out of
our  relationship.  By the  end of the discussion she had me trying to
promise her all the things I  could  do differently or better or whatever.  
How pathetic is that?  I never really  stopped to  think about the fact
that one thing she said was true--we weren't  meant to be together, and
we  weren't cut out to be married to each other.  It  just seemed like if I
admitted that and said  "okay", I was admitting to being  "cold,
unresponsive, insensitive, disinterested, dispassionate,  set in my ways, 
unimaginative in bed...oh, yeah, and uncultured.  In other words, a
waste of   good oxygen.  At first, she was just going to tell me that she
was unhappy and  wanted a  divorce.  Ever the detective, I had to know
"why".  Not smart.

When Carolyn divorced me, I threw myself into my job--oh, I forgot--I
was  "more in love with  my work" when I *was* married.  Guess that
makes me  downright obsessed now.   But that  job has been my
mainstay, and I'm good at  it.  There are times it isn't much different
from  holding the border with a  bunch of tribesman.  As corny as it
sounds, there's this "tribe" of cops  holding  the border against an
enemy that comes in a remarkable number of shapes,  sizes, ages  and
walks of life.

Maybe I got so rattled by what started happening to me because it was
interfering with my  abilities as a cop, and that's about all I've got left
that means anything to me.  

I was on a stakeout, in a tent, working on a major case.  It was similar
to being  back in the  jungle, in that I was on my own, living in
primitive conditions,  keeping watch.  I started  noticing things
again--hearing things louder, seeing  things more clearly and from
farther  away...  Then it seemed like all of a  sudden, my senses were
attacking me.  Noises deafened  me, lights almost  blinded me...I had
dinner with Carolyn and thought the food had been   purposely dowsed
with an absurd level of spice as some sort of joke--but it was  fine
when  Carolyn checked it.  It was like having all my senses on some
kind  of turbo charge.  I lost it and  kissed her, right out on the
sidewallk in the rain.   She informed me that if I had kissed her like 
that before, we'd still be married.   Well, if I had kissed her like that
before, without her consent,  without  warning, in public, in the rain,
with lots of tongue, she'd have decked me.  I  always felt  like I needed
an appointment with her to get physical.  This time, I  had to
experience what it  was like to just indulge that sense of touch and taste 
right there and then.  I felt like I was a  slave to my senses.  

I've got a news bulletin for her--if kissing her had felt that way when
we were  married, we'd have never left the house.

What was so bizarre about all this was that I could get so focused on
just one  sensation that  everything else blacked out around it.  If it
hadn't been for  Sandburg, I'd be the hood ornament  on a garbage truck
right now, thanks to  that little problem.

I guess that brings me to explaining how I dealt with this mess.  I went
to the  doctor.  Logical.  Must be something physiological going on. 
They ran tests.

While I'm waiting for the results, in strides this confident little guy with
a pony  tail and glasses  trying to tell me he's my doctor.  I should have
known I was on  the edge of insanity when I  believed him.  Then he
gives me a business card  and tells me to go see an anthropologist.  
What's more unbelievable is that I  went.  By then, I was reaching.  The
tests showed nothing,  my senses were  still crazy...I couldn't keep
living that way.  I had to do *something*.  Going  to  see Blair
Sandburg was a last resort.

I already felt like I was making a colossal mistake when I reached his
office  and found not a  stodgy old professor in a moldy tweed jacket,
but the  pounding of primal drums and this frizzy-haired guy dancing
around like an  idiot.  It took me a minute to recognize him from the
hospital.   His hair was  out of the pony tail, he was dressed in a white
shirt and printed vest, dancing   around his office, minus his glasses,
babbling on about the Stones or  basements in Seattle or  something.  I
almost bolted.  If I hadn't been  desperate, I would have.    Or would I? 
There was something about him that drew me in, as much as I  hated to
admit it  to myself.  I took an inventory of him right then and there.  It 
doesn't take me long to do that,  with everything on his heightened
level.  I  made a profile in my mind of his face, his eyes, his  hair, his
body, his scent--I  know this is sounding a little weird, but that's not
how I mean it.   I just can't  help putting people through a sort of
on-the-spot inspection when I see them.   Plus,  when I was in the
jungle, I could smell things like fear, and I knew when  people were
lying to  me.

This guy was as nervous as a cat, but he was sincere.  So I listened. 
When he  started telling  me I was some kind of throwback, I got angry. 
I was there for  help...solutions.  And all I was  getting was a bunch of
anthropological  bullshit.  So I grabbed him and slammed him against 
the wall.  Looking back,  it was a fairly shitty thing to do since he's a
head shorter and a hell of  a lot  lighter than I am.  But he's a spunky
one.  He looked a little panicky, but he  didn't back  down either. 
When I cooled off enough to realize that I really  didn't have the right
to come into  his office and rough him up, I let go of him.   And the
more he talked, the more I listened.  But  it all still seemed too  damned
*academic*.  I needed *practical* solutions.   Furthermore, I  don't 
want to be somebody's guinea pig.  The last thing I want is to be
Cascade's  answer to the  Elephant Man, with Sandburg in his straw
hat, bringing in the  circus crowds to see his freak.

He was still babbling about something when I took off out of there.  I
already  felt like I'd made  a mistake going there in the first place.  I
didn't want him  chasing me across the grounds  hollering about my
problem.

One minute I was watching some kids throwing a frisbee, the next
minute, I  was on my face  under a moving garbage truck with
Sandburg.  Then he was  up and pacing around carrying on  about it.  I
was wondering how long I could  live with that energy level.  I still
have days where  I'd still like to slip a valium  in his herbal tea just to
settle him down a little.

I guess seeing that I was as out of control as I was, I felt like I had no
choice  but to trust him,  since he seemed to be the only one who
understood what was  wrong with me and thought he  had an answer
for it.  Not a cure, but a way to  control it.

I never would have pictured working with Sandburg as something good
for my  police career.   I still don't have a clue how to get him past
Simon.  But he's  teaching me how to channel my  heightened senses to
look for clues--I never  would have thought of using my enhanced
eyesight  to shoot a bullet *into*  someone else's gun.  But Sandburg's
gotten me *thinking* the right  way to  handle this.  I still don't feel like
I have a 100% grip on it or anything, but I  don't feel  as frantic as I did. 
I think it's conquerable.

The kid's decent back up, and he can help me get this thing with my
senses  under control--he  tells me I'm a "Sentinel".  He's got volumes
of ratty-looking  notes, old books and neatly-typed  papers about this
sentinel thing.  The point  is, it's a major relief to have someone else to
talk  to who doesn't think I'm  nuts.  Suddenly, it seems like my career
isn't destined for the toilet,  and I don't  feel like I'm losing my mind. 
That by itself is everything.


Entry #2

I told him not to use that damn "thin blue line" thing.  What does he do
first  chance he gets?   You guessed it.  I pity this kid's parents.  Or
maybe I blame  them.  He's never heard of doing  as he's told.  He's late
a lot, and he never  shuts up.  Furthermore, he thinks he knows 
everything--and what's a damn  sight more annoying than that is that he
almost does.  I've never  seen anybody  know so much about so many
things.  But then I've never known too many   geniuses, and for all his
quirks, this guy is one.

So why was I so worried about him when all that shit went down at the 
station?  He's only been  around a couple of weeks, but he's helped me
a lot in  that time.  Part of it is that I feel  responsible for him.  People
talk about  ride-a-longs with the cops like it's no big deal.  It's a  *very*
big deal.  Or it  should be.  When you take an unarmed civilian into
your realm of armed   criminals and armed cops and high speed chases
and potential disasters like  these, it's a  damned huge responsibility. 
And Sandburg, who hates guns and  violence and belongs in the  quiet
halls of a university library, trusts me to  watch out for him in my
world.  The first time  something major happens, and  he's in danger,
he's alone.  God, I felt guilty about that.  I would  have never  left him
there if I thought there was anything dangerous about it, but he was in 
the  middle of a whole building full of police personnel.  This has
*never*  happened in Cascade.   In most cities.  But it had to happen
here, now.

There was no way I was letting Kincaid get away.   Going for that
helicopter  was a little over  the edge, but not only was the lunatic
getting away, he had  Sandburg with him.  It would be  a pretty sure bet
he'd kill him and dump him  when he'd served his purpose.

I've got to hand it to him.  For an anthropologist, he's a pretty decent
cop in a  tight situation.   He kicked Kincade out of the helicopter--and
though I  wouldn't have chosen to have him  swinging from my legs, it
beat getting my  head blown off.

It was kind of a relief in one way dropping the kid off at his place.  I
was tired,  and all I wanted  to do was go home and crash.  He was all
wound up tight and  ready to go all night.  He seemed  disappointed
that I wouldn't go out for a beer  with him, but I'm sure he's got tons of
friends  at the university he can dig up to  go pub crawling.  I outgrew
that scene a few years ago.

It's funny.  He wears me out when he's around, but for some damn
reason, I  miss him when  he isn't.  I guess I miss having someone to
talk freely to--I can't  exactly publicize this thing  with my senses.  He's
got a real manner about  him--a way of lighting up when he sees me. 
He  probably does that naturally.   He's a people person.  And he did
say I was his thesis on feet.   For an egghead  like Sandburg, that's
probably the ultimate turn-on.  


Entry #3

Sometimes I still can't believe Danny's dead.  You know, I didn't see
him as  much as I should  have anymore.  People mature, grow up,
grow apart...   Danny had his own life, and a busy one.   He went into
the academy, then  decided to go for his degree.  I was so proud of him
for making  that choice.   Danny was always smart, and he could be a
good student with his eyes closed.    Carrying a "B" average in high
school was nothing special to him.  It was just  what happened 
naturally.  So when he died, he was only two semesters away  from his
bachelor's degree.  All  those hours studying...and for what?  Now that 
lively young brain is rotting six feet under.   

Death really has no mercy.  I guess I should have learned that by now. 
When  my mother died,  I was too little to really figure it all out.  I just
knew she  wasn't there anymore.  And that  seemed pretty merciless. 
She was young,  pretty...and she was my mom.  If death could take  her
away just like that...shit,  it couldn't have any mercy.

I lost it in the alley.  Danny's blood was oozing out of him.  His life was 
running out on the  cement in the rain, and somewhere in the shadows
was the  son of a bitch who did it.  I was  so...I don't know...I was
overwhelmed.  If I'd  been thinking, maybe I could have gone after 
Juno right then.

When I saw that damned red dot heading right for Blair, it hit me pretty
hard  how much I've  come to depend on him.  I yelled for him to get
down, and he  did, but he made his way over  to me right away.  Like
always, he was there to  help.  I know he does most of what he does for 
his dissertation, but that night,  he was really there for me.  I don't
remember everything that  happened, but I  know he was there, making
me accept Danny's death, and then trying his best   to calm me down,
which couldn't have been easy.  I know I made it hard for  him, but he
hung  right in there.  By the time the other units were arriving, I  had
my act marginally together.   Thanks to Blair, I didn't make an ass out
of  myself in front of all my colleagues.

He tried to offer to come over or spend time with me that night, but I
brushed  him off.  Truth  be told, I was embarrassed.  I don't like to put
on big emotional  scenes, and that had been a  whopper.  I wanted to
get away from him as fast  as possible.    Then I had a beer with
Beverly, which lasted a whole fulfilling  ten minutes.  If that.  She took 
one sip of beer, I said two or three sentences  about Danny, and she got
up to leave.  I guess I  would have been better off  with Sandburg.  I
*really* felt that way when my hearing and taste   just...shorted out.  I
thought about calling him, but he'd have run me through  paces of tests
and  experiments, and I didn't have anything left to give anyone  by
then.  So I went to bed and  finally dropped into a sort of stupor that's 
somewhere between sleeping and waking.

We nailed the Juno brothers.  I say "we" because Blair really hung in
there  with me.  He didn't  have to be part of my illegal wire-tap
operation, but he  stood by me.  He kept me from  dismembering Juno
on the courthouse steps,  which was no small item.  He's turning into
one  of the best friends I've ever  had.  But I have to keep remembering
that when his dissertation  is finished,  he's history.  Getting too used to
him being around is kind of pointless.

It's been almost a month since Danny died.  Blair visited the cemetery
with me  after we nailed  Juno.  He brought flowers.  I didn't think of
that.  They were  hyacinths, and he told me some  story about a
mythical god whose blood  spilled and flowers grew...I wish I could
remember  the legend now.  It was  beautiful at the time.  I'll have to
ask him sometime.  Maybe at dinner.   I told  him I'd treat tonight, and
I'm going to be late if I don't get moving.  I came up  with  something
related to my senses to ask him as an excuse to drag him back  out for
dinner  tonight.  Couldn't very well tell him I was just lonely and 
wanted to hear the flower story  again.

Entry #4

Only Sandburg could live next door to a drug lab and not suspect
anything.  If  it were anyone  else, I'd be suspicious that he was one of
their customers.  But  there he is in this God-awful  neighborhood, all
by himself in a drafty old  warehouse, wearing gloves while he watches
TV,  studying monkeys.  And  while he's taking notes on Larry the ape,
the guys next door are  manufacturing  enough junk to keep the street
trade up and running.

The first thing that crossed my mind when I showed up there with the
video  camera he'd asked  to borrow was that he wasn't going to get by
long living  there alone.  I've known right along  he lived in a rough
area, but maybe I  didn't think about it...or care...until now.  Maybe it's 
because he rides with me  that I feel so damned...protective of him. 
Maybe because he's  smaller.  I don't  know.  He's no sissy.  He can take
care of himself.  It's not like he needs me  to  play daddy to him.

I still can't believe sometimes that I was so thoroughly enjoying
watching TV,  sharing a bowl  of popcorn with Sandburg and a small
ape.

After the explosion, and when some of the furor of police procedure
was  winding down, I went  to check on Sandburg.  There he was,
loading  everything he could fit into his car.  It was like  a four-wheel
equivalent of the  rag tied to the end of a stick.  When he started asking
about  staying with me, it  was hard to keep refusing him.  It was hard
not to offer in the first place.   Ape  notwithstanding, the idea of having
that warm, loyal little bundle of energy  camping out  in my drafty barn
of a loft was pretty appealing.  But it was only  temporary, and he
would be  off and running again.  I didn't want to let myself  in for the
adjustment from companionship  to living alone.  I didn't make it  real
smoothly after Carolyn left, but I made it.  I don't want to  do that
again.   The whole damned relationship with Sandburg unnerves me.  I
need to be   careful not to get too attached to him.  This is only a
temporary thing.

I came downstairs the next morning after he'd stayed over, and he was
cooking  breakfast.  It  smelled like coffee and eggs and toast, and there
was somebody  there chattering away.  Much  nicer way to wake up
than coming downstairs  and eating a stale bagel by myself.  I teased
him  about courtship rituals.  I  don't know where the hell that remark
came from.  Except for the fact  that as  good a cook as he is, if
Sandburg had boobs, I'd probably marry him.

I'm glad things worked out all right for Gaines.  He's a good guy.  We
all need  to slow down  and learn a little when we're young and starting
out.  He's no  different.  I think he finally  understands that nothing that
goes down under  Simon's command has anything to do with  color,
either way.  

I did get a kick out of watching Sandburg carve out his own little niche
among  all those elderly people.  How did this conversation get back to
him again  anyway?

I didn't get a kick out of what Larry did to the loft.  


Entry #5

Every time I think I've seen it all, something comes along that's even
weirder  than what I'm  used to.  Lash was one of those "somethings". 
What was so  remarkably dangerous about this  guy was his ability to
fit in.  We were all  awed by his expertise as he helped us track the
killer,  and then he turns out to  be committing the murders and feeding
the press himself.

I never honestly believed that Blair would shoot off his mouth to the
press.  I  know he's not a  cop, but he's far from stupid.  His antics at the
church didn't  help matters, but I really wasn't  angry with the kid.  He's
inexperienced with  this stuff and he thought he was helping.  I know 
he felt responsible for Lash  getting away, and ultimately, he was the
one who paid for that  mistake.

When Simon suggested I should "cut him loose", something inside of
me  twisted.  I can't.   Frankly, that scares the hell out of me.  I didn't
want him to  move in because I didn't want this  to happen.  I didn't
want to depend on him.   To *need* him in any emotional way.  I know
I  need help with this Sentinel  thing, and I'm grateful for all the zillions
of little things he comes  up with to  help me live with my senses,
control them, and often put them to optimum use  in  the field.  But I
didn't want to need him emotionally.  I haven't had good  luck with
that.   Everyone I ever needed, I've had to let go.  So I've pretty much 
resolved not to do that anymore.   But Blair didn't take no for an
answer.  He  moved in, but he did more than that.  He just adds so
much by...being there.   He fills a void I didn't think I'd ever have filled
again.  

He handled himself with Lash like a real pro.  He was in a hopeless
situation,  but he kept the  maniac talking.  And he had enough spirit to
get right in Lash's  face even though he thought  he was going to die.  I
don't know if I'd have  handled it as well as he did or not.  Most of the 
tight situations I've been in  haven't been quite that hopeless.  But being
bound in chains, in an  empty  warehouse, with a deranged serial killer
is about as hopeless as it gets.

I followed their voices, and when I saw that bastard trying to force
something  down Blair's  throat, I wanted to kill him with my bare
hands.  When I  eventually did kill Lash, it was  necessary.  I had no
choices.  But pumping five  bullets into somebody never made me feel 
relief before.  Sure, you're relieved  when you're out of danger, but
killing another human being  isn't something I  generally feel good
about.  When I looked down at his dead face, and thought   about what
he'd put Blair through--the full extent of which I didn't even know 
yet--and that he  was planning to kill him...it was all I could do not to
smile.   Maybe that makes me a throwback  just like Blair said I was. 
But I think of  the nutty professor as one of my own now, and I take 
care of my own.

When I got back to Blair, he was a little out of it, but he rallied fast. 
When he  figured out I  wasn't Lash, he got this pained expression on
his face, and I  knew he was working hard not to  break down in front
of me.  I went to work  on the chains, trying to keep up a reassuring 
dialogue while I did it.  I told him  Lash was dead, it was over--things
like that.  

I pulled him out of the chair and supported him.  I knew he needed to
get his  land legs back,  and he was a little woozy from the drugs.  I let
myself feel the  impact of how scared I had been  of losing him.  I had
pushed that down the  whole time I worked at rescuing him, because
the  magnitude of the feeling  blindsided me.  I didn't know he meant
*that much* to me.  I knew  he meant  more to me than I wanted him
to.  But not *that much*.  

He was exhausted, and he needed to let go.  I pulled him into my arms
and held  him close to me,  rubbing his back and trying to reassure him
that it was okay  to let it out.  That everything was  safe now, and that I
was there to look out for  him and that it was okay to lean on me.  The
tears  finally let loose, and he  cried for a long time while I held him.  I
know he was scared, but the  drug  was also removing a lot of his
inhibitions.

It felt way too good to have that warm body clinging to me.  I let
myself  experience Blair  completely in that few minutes.  I opened up
my senses, took  in his scent, his temperature, the  feeling of his skin
and muscles and bones,  the soft texture of his hair, the sound of his 
heartbeat and breathing and his  crying.  That's when I felt the nipple
ring.  I knew that would  get him if I  brought that up later.  I smiled at
the thought.  He was alive, okay, in my arms  and  coming home with
me.  He'd be healthy and alive and around the next day  to joke with. 
He'd  be there to fix breakfast and listen with that intent  expression
when I talked and mess up the  loft and leave the bathroom smelly  and
worry about me and give me that big smile of his...  

By the time Blair stopped crying, I was as afraid as he was when he
was with  Lash.  I realized  that the warm armload snuggling against
me was the most  important thing in my life.  I felt  things for him that I
hadn't felt for  anyone--not even Carolyn.  Blair's smart and capable and 
independent, but he  still needs me sometimes.  And it's nice to be
needed.  He needs me and  I need  him.  He fills up the lonely void and
he...shit, I can't believe I have to quote  Debbie  Boone.  I *am* as
pathetic as I think.  But he "lights up my life".   There, I said it.  I think
my  next move ought to be burning this journal.  It's  looking more and
more like a junior high girl's  diary every day.

I took Blair to the hospital, over all his protests, so they could check
him out.  I  wanted to be  sure the drug wasn't toxic, and I also wanted
to know for sure  than Lash hadn't done anything  else to him he wasn't
telling me about.

Once he'd pulled himself together at the scene, Blair was trying to keep
up his  usual chatter,  though it was a little slowed by the drug and his
fatigue.  I spent  most of the time cursing  myself for that speech I had
given him on learning to  detach and distance himself.  The poor  kid
didn't feel like he could let down  his defenses and react at all.  I could
hear every other  system in his body  screaming out its stress while he
was forcing an occasional smile and  prattling  on.  What I told him
held true for a cop in the field--or for someone working  with  cops. 
But it didn't mean I was going to think less of him for being afraid  or
traumatized.

It didn't surprise me that about two hours after we parted company to
go to  bed, I heard him  screaming.  It took some doing to bring him out
of the  nightmare.  He did his best to get away  from me, and I have to
hand it to him,  he almost succeeded a couple of times.  I hated to scare 
him more, but I had to  nail him down long enough to bring him
around.  When he woke up,  he was  shaking like crazy and crying, not
really in control of himself at all.  I took him  in my  arms again and sat
there rocking him while he cried and told me little  fragments about
Lash  and his nightmare.  

It's been a long time since I held someone I loved close like that.  I felt
sorry  for him that he  was having nightmares, but at the same time, I
buried my nose  in all those soft curls and  relished the warm weight of
him nestled against me.   It's one thing to hold a woman after  you've
had sex--not that I've really had  dozens in my bed since Carolyn, but
there have been  a couple.  But when you  have a good physical thing
going, sometimes you do the holding thing  because  you know it's
expected.  Instead of rolling over and sleeping off the action, you  
cuddle.  But it's something else to hold someone in your arms because
they  need you and  because you love them.  God, when did I start
loving him?   What the hell am I going to do  when he's done studying
me?  How am I going  to live in this place alone when he's gone?  

Sometimes I get angry at Sandburg.  I want to yell at him and ask him
where  he thinks he gets  off making me feel this way about him when
he's just using  me for a study subject.  I know  I can't do that, but it just
wells up sometimes  and then I snap his head off about something and 
then get a look at those big  sad eyes and feel like a giant asshole.  And
sometimes when I look  at those  eyes, I see something beyond
academic interest in them.  It's like I see a  reflection of  what I feel. 
But then he mentions some other curvy co-ed he's  been with and I
wonder if I'm  crazy for even toying with...with what?  What is  it
exactly I'm toying with?  And what in hell  does loving my best friend
have  to do with being jealous of his sex partners?  Is that what I  am? 
Jealous?  

I think I just need to get out more--"get a life" so to speak.  

The nightmares were almost a nightly occurrence for a while, but they
seem to  be getting better  now.  Blair doesn't say anything about Lash
when he's awake,  so I know that's why it keeps popping out at night.

Looking back over this entry, and this whole thing with Lash, I know
I've got a  problem.  How  in the hell am I going to handle it when he
packs up his  backpack and says "It's been real,  man", collects his
doctorate and moves to  some remote third world country to live
among the  natives?  I'm not going to  handle it.  It's going to rip my
guts out.  And I only have myself to  blame for  letting him get to me
this way.


Entry #6

Just when I think I've found a reason to get pissed off at Blair, he turns
around  and tells me he's  doing it for me.  I don't get sick often, but
when I do, I feel  lousy.  And my mood matches it.   So while I was
staggering around the loft in  my robe, nursing a major cold, the sound
of tribal  jungle music or whatever it  was really put me on edge.  

Blair was working on clearing my sinuses.

The next thing that pissed me off was whatever the stinky pan of weeds
was he  had on the stove.

Oh, those were for me too.  The music did nothing but make my head
pound,  and what I could smell of the pan of weeds made my eyes
water, but it's the  thought that counts.

The evening went from bad to worse, and I ended up spending most of
it  swinging from the  bottom of a moving train, high on cold medicine. 
Really.   The only reason I'm not dead is  because I got a hold of myself
enough to think  back on some of the work Blair had done with  me on
zeroing in on one of my  senses and blocking out the others.  The lights
were killing my  eyes, driving  me nuts, distracting me from everything
else.  Once I learned to block that out   and concentrate on touch and
hearing (though not as acutely, because the  underside of a train  isn't
exactly a quiet place), I was able to make my way to  the back to hop
on the train right-side  up again.  Then I came to and punched  a doctor. 
As far as I know, a terse letter to the chief  was the worst that came  of
that little error.

I hated to leave Blair holding the bag--or the gun, as it were.  I don't
know if he  could seriously  look another human being in the eyes and
then kill him.  Our  options were a little limited  though.  It seemed like
everything that could go  wrong, did.  Of course, I could have gotten 
caught under the train, so I guess  not *everything* that could go
wrong, did.  

For all his remedies and witch doctor routines, Blair ended up with my
cold a  few days after  mine got better.  I felt kind of guilty.  I know I
sneezed all over  him all the time.  He had a lot  coming together at the
university and we were  busy on a couple of cases, and I felt really
sorry  for him.  He won't take the  over-the-counter stuff, and when he
came staggering out of his  room with a  flushed face and 103 fever the
other morning, I *informed* him he was calling   in sick.  I literally had
to pry the backpack out of his hand, turn him around  and shove him 
back into his room.  

I had one day of feeling really horrible and running a fever when I had
my  version of it, but  looking back, I had Blair cooking for me and
running to the  pharmacy for my prescription (I  *don't* have any
problem with artificial  substances to knock illness) and pumping
fluids into  me.  When it was his  turn, Blair was still keeping up his
schedule at the university, tagging  along  with me on one particularly
cold, rainy day and then sitting around the station  with wet  hair and
damp clothes for the rest of the afternoon.  Nobody was  fussing over
him to keep  warm or lie down or take it easy.  It was a wonder he 
wasn't hospitalized, now that I think  about it.

He almost died of shock when I went back in his room with a basin of
water  and a washcloth  and a pitcher of ice water.  He was stunned that
I, too, called  in and was working at home for  the day, and even more
flabbergasted that I  planned to work on bringing his fever down in a 
completely natural way, just  like he wanted but was too sick to do for
himself.

The sponging off and great quantities of ice water finally got the fever
down  by early evening.   He really unnerved me getting that sick.  He
finally told me  he used to get really sick when he  was little and caught
a cold.  That  information would have been helpful before I sneezed in
his  face a half dozen  times and then just the previous day had dragged
him all over Cascade in the   pouring rain and then let him sit around
wet while he was already running a  fever.  As usual, he'd die before
he'd "wimp out" on me, especially in front of  the other guys at work.

I have to admit, somewhat guiltily, that I enjoyed the time we spent
together  that day.  He was  quieter, more introspective, and all we had
to do to pass the  time was talk, since he was in bed  and I was sitting
there trying to cool him  down.  We covered a lot of ground.  I learned
some  things about his life, his  attitudes.  And as usual, I spilled my
guts a lot more than I planned  to.  I think  Blair could get a life history
out of the Sphinx.



Entry #7

Blair's sitting a few feet away, grading papers.  He could be home
doing that,  but instead he's  been here with me all day, helping to put
the reports on the  Brackett mess together.  And now,  after midnight,
he's working at the end of  my desk, adding his familiar little clutter to
my  otherwise pristine and  perfectly organized work space.  He'll feel
my eyes drilling holes into  him  pretty soon if I don't stop staring at
him from behind the monitor.  

I just finished typing up the last of the report, and sent out a couple of
e-mails,  thanking some  people who consulted on the case.  Mainly,
they just offered  opinions which didn't do a hell  of a lot, but you never
know when you'll need  someone's expertise in the future.  Now I'm 
doing this.  He's so damned  engrossed in those papers that he hasn't
noticed yet it's past  midnight and  we're the last two here.  His eyes'll
be bloodshot as hell, and he'll probably  doze  off on me halfway home. 
He's been up since dawn, putting together  notes for his lecture this 
morning.  The class met at 8:00, and since he'd been  so tied up with
me and this case, he'd had  absolutely zero time to work on  that.  So he
put in a full work day by the time he joined me  here after lunch.   And
now he's put in an eleven-hour day with me.  He hasn't asked me a  
"Sentinel question" all day.  He's just been here for me.

I didn't know I was staring at him with a sappy smile on my face until
he looked up and smiled back.  

"You look tired," I said.  He does.  He looks exhausted.  He just kept
smiling.

"We got a lot done today.  Pretty much wrapped up the Brackett
paperwork."

"I'm almost done.  You want to get a bite to eat?"

"Can we take it home?"

"Sure.  I'll just finish up here and we'll get going."  

And so I'm back to this briefly.  What all that means is that we'll stop at
a drive-thru window,  get a bag of take-outs, he'll sleep the rest of the
way home and then rally long enough to eat  part of his with me and
then crawl into bed.

Lee Brackett did drive one point home to me that I've really known all
along.   Sandburg can't  ever publish this dissertation.  I didn't care at
first.  I needed  help, so I figured I'd take it and  worry about stifling
him later.  But his whole  life is tied up in this dream of getting his
Ph.D.   I'm not sure just what to do  about this.  If I tell him that, tell
him he can't study me anymore  and can't  publish what he's got, he'll
pack his things and leave.  And I wouldn't blame  him.   To tell him
he'd wasted the last several months of his life would  probably piss him
off.  It  would piss me off if I were in his position.

God, it's more despicable to keep this going when I know he can't
publish.  Or  can he?  Is it  worth it to me to keep him around now and
let him have his  dissertation and then deal with the  consequences? 
Just one lunatic who got  his hands on some old papers Blair had
written ended  up forcing me to help  him steal an airplane.  What in
the hell is going to come next?  Then  there's  the exhibition factor--do
I hear circus music, or is that just my imagination?


Entry #8

I've never had a more miserable dinner in my life.  It wasn't Drennan's
fault.   She's good  company.  We actually could have had an
interesting conversation  if I hadn't had one ear on  Blair all evening. 
He didn't join us for dinner.  Maya  arrived right before we ate.  I knew
it was  going to be a disaster.  And in a  way, it's all my fault.

I heard their conversation.  I try to be ethical about this heightened
hearing  thing, but I couldn't  help it.  I had the feeling the kid was
going to get hurt in a  big way, and I couldn't tune it out.   She dumped
him.  Royally.  Did she have  to tell him she hated him?  I don't know. 
Kind of  reminds me of Carolyn in a  way.  You can tell someone you
don't want them anymore without  twisting the  knife.  Why do people
do that to each other?  Is that a woman thing, I wonder?    I've never
been dumped by a man, but speaking from my occasional  experience
as the "dump-or", I've always tried to make it gentle--polite if  possible. 
But like Carolyn when she left, Maya  had to leave plenty of damage 
behind her.  His helpless little "I love you" tore at my heart.  He  really
did fall  hard for her.  I felt sorry for him and at the same time I wanted
to tell him  (from  experience) "get a little dignity because throwing
yourself at her feet  isn't going to gain you  anything but scuff marks on
your ass when she's done  wiping them there".

She left, slithering out quietly.  She looked a bit uneasy when she
passed me,  as if she expected  me to say or do something.  I wanted to
tell her not to let  the door hit her in the ass on the way  out.  I
refrained.  I have to quit being so  overly defensive of Blair.  He's a
grown man.  He can fight his own battles.  

I didn't know what to do with him.  If we'd been alone, I'd have gone in
there  and tried to make  him feel a little better.  Talked to him a while. 
Held him  while he cried if he'd let me.  Judging  by his contrite
attitude and  embarrassment at having fallen in love with her while
doing  undercover  snooping for me, he probably didn't want to share
his tears with anyone.  Least  of  all me.

So I tried to draw him out.  I thought maybe he'd be able to pull out of
it with a  distraction.   But he didn't.  So I pushed my food around while
I listened to him  crying in there by himself.   It wasn't audible to
Drennan.  I turned on the  stereo after I left Blair.  He doesn't have a
hell of  a lot of privacy with a  curtain between him and the kitchen.  I
figured if he broke down, he  deserved  a little dignity when he was
done.

She left early, convinced the evening was a disaster and we were
incompatible.   We were  sickeningly polite at her departure.  I knew I'd
never see her again.   That should have bothered  me, because she was
attractive and I liked her.  But  if I'm looking to feel for a woman what
I  feel for Blair, I'm going to get  intimate with my right hand for a long
time to come.  See--that's  what bothers  me.  I'm not gay.  I never have
been.  I'm not against it or anything, it's just not   my preference.  I've
always noticed a nice figure, long legs, a shapely ass or a  nice set of
boobs.   Like any other normal guy.  I've never evaluated other  men's
equipment.  I figure they don't  have anything I haven't got--just a 
different version of it.  So where's the lure?

Maybe that's what's wrong.  I'm used to being *attracted* to someone
and then  building  feelings for them after that.  I have all the right
feelings for Blair, but  I'm not gay.  The sex  thing just isn't happening. 
I don't forsee it happening,  even if he was willing.  I mean, as guys  go,
I like the way he looks and the  way he smells, and how warm and
complete I feel on the  rare times I hold him  in my arms.  But I haven't
had to fight against ravishing him on the floor  or  anything.  But the
absence of all those warm feelings when I approach an  attractive
woman  is making it so damned hollow that I don't care if I ever lay 
eyes on her again, let alone whether  or not I get her into bed.

Blair wasn't crying by the time Drennan left.  He wasn't asleep either. 
So I  cleaned up the  dishes and put things away and then went into his
room and sat  on the bed.   He was playing  dead, but I knew better.  I
laid a hand on his  shoulder and told him it would get better.  It does, 
eventually.  It's like a death.   When it first happens you feel wiped out,
but slowly, you struggle  your way  back and rebuild.  You just don't
picture it happening when you're hurting so  much. 


"It's my own fault," was his almost inaudible reply.   I rubbed his
shoulder a little.

"Doesn't make it hurt any less, pal.  Besides, I put you in that situation
to start.  I'm not blameless either."

"I'm sorry I screwed up the whole thing."

"It was because of you that Maya tipped us off.  You didn't screw
anything up,  Chief."  I could  hear him working to control new tears.  I
knew I should at  least let him have his pain privately,  if that's what he
wanted.  He had clung to  me when he needed me before.  Maybe this
time he  just needed to work  through it, and wanted privacy.  "How's
your head?"  I gently tugged on  one of  the wavy sections of hair.

"Hurts."

"Want some aspirin?"

"No."

"Okay then."  I patted his shoulder and got up, starting for the door. 
His voice stopped me.

"When?"

"When what?"

"When does it get better?"

"Soon, buddy.  You'll see."

"Okay.  G'night, Jim."

"See you in the morning, Chief."  

I went upstairs.  I wanted nothing more than to go to him and hold him
and  make him feel  better.  I hate seeing him hurt in any way.  Instead,
I went  upstairs.  I had to start backing off  a little and he obviously
needed some  privacy.

I still have to laugh when I think about him nailing those guys out in
the street  with that fire  hose.  I guess brains will step in nicely for
brawn in a tight  situation.  He accomplished what  the cops
couldn't--just because he was smart  enough to try it. 

The car insurance guy is probably going to hassle him.  Whether he
wants me  there or not, I'll go with him.  I'm sure we can reach some
reasonable  agreement.

Entry #9

Well, I certainly know the old equipment still works.  And all my
concerns  about not getting  turned on by women can be laid to rest. 
Somewhat.  I still  don't fully understand this "thing"  that just
happened.  But from the first time I  laid eyes on Laura, I was so turned 
on I couldn't see straight.  I  wanted her then and there.  Shit, I'd have
done her on the pool table  if I could  have.

I should have known it wasn't going to work.  Cheap pick-ups in bars
usually  don't.  But it was  a decent bar, with a nice clientele.  And
Sandburg decided I  should get out more and meet  people.  Is that a
subtle hint?  Does he feel like  I'm sniffing around after him all the
time?   Maybe he's testing me to see if I'm  het or if I'm thinking about
jumping his bones.

I guess if it's the "het test", I passed.  Big time.  She was as excited
about me (I  thought) as I  was about her.  We were all over each other. 
I never had sex that  intense, and I never cut loose  and used a woman
wild and hard that way.  She  loved it.  The rougher I got, the better she
liked  it.  She kept goading me on to  "make her scream".  I think we
did it three times during the  night.  

Normally, I would say that sex alone wouldn't sustain a relationship.  If
I could  have sex like  that anytime I wanted it, I might reconsider.  Of
course, we'd  both be dead in a couple years,  tops.

So why did I worry if Sandburg seemed to look hurt that I'd stayed out
all night  and that I was  so turned on by this woman I couldn't see
straight?  Maybe  mind-blowing sex just gets you in  a horny frame of
mind.  Maybe that's why I  stood there and assessed those big blue eyes,
the  full lips, how impossibly cute  he looks when he's in one of his
studious modes.  Hair pulled  back, glasses in  place, deathly serious
expression on his face.  I try not to think of Blair in   diminutive terms. 
He's short, but that doesn't make him stupid, weak,  incompetent or less
of  a man. He doesn't deserve to be evaluated as some  "cute little guy"
when he's got the brains he's  got, and he's able to handle some  major
situations as well as he does.

But I can't help it.  He *is* a cute little guy, and I had the most
overpowering  urge to throw him  on the bed and kiss him senseless.  I
chalked it up to my  libido being stuck in overdrive and  my mind
translating everything into sexual  terms.   So I brushed him off, and
pushed aside any  thoughts of him in that  way.  When my
hormones--pheromones--whatever--settled down, so  would I.  
Actually, letting my animal urges drive my behavior was kind
of...liberating.  I  just  picked up the message she was giving off and
went for it.  Part of me  wanted to stuff a sock  in Sandburg's mouth
before he could say something to  break the spell.

I shouldn't have been surprised that everything fell apart.  The only
problem is  that I'm in this  frenzied state and have no one to work it
out on.  Is that why  I'm taking an inordinate interest  in Sandburg
bending over to dig around in the  refrigerator?  Yep, that's gotta be it. 
I guess  writing this entry out long-hand  here at home wasn't such a hot
idea.  I'm spending most of my  time checking  out my roommate's ass,
speculating on how it would feel to get a hold of him,   slide those
jeans down and grab handfuls of ass, kneading and stroking.  How 
would he look  on his back with his legs apart?

Shit, Ellison.  Blair deserves a hell of a lot better than that.  You
leering at him  and figuring  out how it would feel to grope his ass and
nail him to the  mattress.   Just because this disaster left you with a
bunch of unsatisfied urges  doesn't give you the right to use
him--without his knowledge, even--to create a  bunch of sexual
fantasies in your head.  

"Hungry?"  Blair asked.  He was standing there innocently in the
middle of the  kitchen, eating  an apple.  He figured I was staring at
him because I wanted  food. //No thanks, Sandburg.  I'd  rather have
you naked on your back.  I want  your ass, not your apple.  Thanks
anyway.//

"No, I'm fine."

"Still feeling a little down?"  He joined me at the table.  The glasses
and the ponytail.  So help me God, he *is* cute when wears those
glasses.

"I'll get over it." //Dammit.  He just showered and washed his hair an
hour or  so ago.  Smells  good too.// I felt really guilty by now for what
I had been  thinking, and I didn't realize I'd said  "I'm sorry" out loud. 
He looked puzzled.   "For not taking your opinions on this very
seriously  at first," I recovered.  He  smiled a little, seemed pleased.  

"That's okay.  I know you couldn't help it."  

Then he started turning the apple around in those long fingers while he
was  thinking.  He  raised one finger up and licked apple juice off it. 
Does he have  to be so damned sexy without  even trying?  I've seen a
lot of women very  calculatedly suck a finger, lick their lips--various 
little sensuous moves.  And  they look artificial.  But Blair is genuine. 
If he's licking his finger,  it isn't for  effect.  It's because he has apple
juice on it.  Wonder how he'd react if I  grabbed  his wrist and said,
"here, let me help you with that".  Scratch that.  I  know how he'd react. 
 He'd sit there and let me do it.

Hot water isn't a problem at the moment.  Blair has all he needs.  I've
been  taking cold  showers for a week.  Probably will be for a while. 
Whatever this  pheromone thing is, it's  powerful.  My motor's ready to
start up at the slightest  little stimulus.


Entry #10

Talk about moving from the sublime to the ridiculous.  I've been away
from  this writing  project for a little while--which seems to have been
a good idea,  judging from the direction the  last entry was taking.   But
what I was really  talking about was going from spending most of  my
free time thinking about  my sex life (or lack of same) to spending my
vacation at a  monastery.  

Scratch all those syrupy things I said about Sandburg.  The only thing
I'd like  to do with his  ass is kick it right now.  I know he meant well,
and that's the  only reason I didn't leave him  with the monks.  If he
thinks it's so damn cool  to spend a vacation with no television, phones, 
sports or recreational  activities, he should try living in the jungle for
eighteen months.  I  certainly  am more than familiar with the value of
solitude and meditation--though none  of it  involved incense or strange
primordial chants in my case.  I spent a lot of  time alone, prowling 
around the jungle like an animal, and quite frankly,  unless it's coupled
with fishing or hiking  or some other worthwhile activity,  spending my
vacation away from the modern conveniences  is *not* a big  treat. 
Having some overzealous monk wake me up at 5 AM swinging on a
bell   and then doing nothing all day is *not* a vacation.  If I wanted to
get up at  dawn and spend the day unable to do anything I wanted, I'd
have stayed at  home and gone to work.

Having vented that hostility, I *am* glad we were able to help the guys
at St.  Sebastian's.   They're good people--I know that sounds like a
statement of the  obvious with monks, but what  I mean is, they're very
human, very kind  people.  They're *people*, not strange, other-worldly 
beings with pained  expressions on their faces like you see in the
religious paintings.  These are   guys who left regular lives--acting,
sales, administration--to devote themselves  to God.  I  couldn't do that. 
I don't have what it takes.  I bet any one of them  could hack the army. 
They  have enormous strength of character.  But it takes  another kind
of strength to put yourself  completely at the end of the list--God's 
number one and everyone and everything else seems  to fill in the other
slots.

At any rate, everything ended pretty well.  The monastery lost a couple
of  members, but that  was almost inevitable under the circumstances. 
I'm just  glad we were able to stop it before  more had to die.  Still, it's
a real loss when  one of those guys die.  They're a rare breed to  begin
with.  Of course, they feel  they're going somewhere better.  To a
reward.  That we're the  ones suffering  here on earth.  I like to think
that.  It means my mother went to a better place   when she died so
damned young--and if that's true, and she's happy...well, it  *does*
make it  a little less grim.

Simon is promising me more vacation time again soon.  I worked
through this  one, and then  a major case landed in our laps, and the
chance to extend this  one went out the window.  

Blair apologized left and right for screwing up my vacation.  I don't
know why  I can't stay mad  at that guy for more than thirty seconds. 
He looks up at me  with those big eyes and that  expression with just a
hint of fear that I'm going  to really come down on him...like I ever
have.   Or would.  I can't keep up a  healthy tongue-lashing at him, let
alone really bawl him out.  I  tease Blair  about his tendency to stretch
the truth, but he's really very genuine when it  comes  to his emotions. 
They play out on his face instantly.  And any time I've  really snapped
at him,  I see a little flash of hurt that's usually sufficient to  make me
feel guilty as hell for about three  hours afterwards.  

So I let him off the hook pretty easily, and told him next trip was my
choice.   He brightened  up all of a sudden, and asked if I really meant
he could go  along.  I said sure, I was planning  on it.  He just beamed
about it, and then  said he figured I'd be mad that he'd screwed up my 
time off and wouldn't want  him along again.  He also said he'd go
anywhere and do anything  I wanted.   Well, we'll see about that...


Entry #11

I seriously considered scrapping this whole diary project after the last
several days.  So much has happened that I don't know where to start to
explain it.

Simon took Daryl to Peru for a conference.  I thought it would be a
great  experience for the  kid when he first mentioned it, and of course
Blair was just  exploding with all these  suggestions of places they had
to see while they were  there.  Little did any of us know what  they
would end up stepping into.

Then Blair knocks the legs right out from under me.  He has the chance
to go  to Borneo to  study, under the supervision of his mentor, a guy he
informs me  is one of the most prominent  anthropologists in the world. 
I've never heard of  him, but then to me, Blair is the most  prominent
anthropologist in the world.   He's the *only* anthropologist I can
*name*.

I thought he was talking a few weeks, maybe even a month or two,
since it was  a long trip.  He  comes out of nowhere telling me that it's
going to be at least a  year.  I could see he was excited  about going.  I
also know he felt obligated to  me.  So I tried to cut the ties for him
pretty fast.   I pulled back my inclination  to really make a sap out of
myself and ask him how in the hell I  was supposed  to keep my act
together without a guide.  What I really wanted to ask him was   how I
was going to face living in this place alone again, eating alone, 
vacationing alone, riding  around alone...I felt so frantic inside that I
wanted to  scream at him not to go.  Pull him into  my arms and hang
on and tell him I  needed him too much to be without him now. 
Because for  Sandburg, that  year's separation probably would have
marked the end of our relationship.  He   would have gained notoriety
from his involvement in that, and probably found  a better  dissertation
subject and gone on without me.

I didn't have time for a lot of misery and self-pity.  We got the distress
call about Simon right on the heels of the job discussion.

I know I was snapping at Blair, being unneccessarily abrupt with him. 
But I  had to move my  focus away from him.  I had to start detaching. 
And it was  going to be a damn tough process.   But Blair didn't go
along with that.  He  seemed to cling to me more tenaciously than ever. 
The  more I pried him  away and pushed him back, the harder he hung
on.  The poor kid never   jumped out of a plane before, but he did it just
to stick with me.  Screamed all  the way down,  got stuck in a tree, fell
out and ended up with a lizard in his  shorts, but he survived it.  Then 
he dusted himself off and followed me.

Blair was a big help to me, and all along, he was trying to reaffirm that
we were partners.  Why?  It was all going to end in a matter of days
anyway.

The first night there I had a dream.  It was bizarre.  Images of a
panther, me  chasing it through  the jungle...Blair helped me work
through the symbolism,  to see it as an animal spirit guide.   I *did*
follow the panther in my next  dream, and it presented me with the
choice of being a  sentinel and taking the  leap or giving it all up.  I
chose to take the leap.  I don't know why.  I  guess  because deep in my
heart, I knew it was the only thing that might drag Blair  back to me 
when he was done traipsing around Borneo.  Wrestling all these 
hyperactive senses alone  wouldn't be my choice.  This "gift" is a
bizarre mix  of agony and ecstasy.

Sometimes I still don't understand how we managed to get Simon and
Daryl  out of that camp  alive.  It was a hellish battle, gunfire
everywhere.  I didn't  know how many I was hitting or  when they'd hit
me or the truck.  I was never  so relieved as I was to step off that plane
on  American soil.  Well, almost  never.  I still had the issue of Blair's
impending departure to face.

It was a real battle to force the words out to bring up the subject, to
urge him  to call back and  give them an answer.  I knew what it was
going to be.  I was  totally unprepared for his  response.  He told me he
was turning it down, and  that he understood now that this whole  thing
went beyond a thesis--that it was  "about friendship".  

If I had said anything to that, I would have spilled my guts.  So I just
smiled at  him.  I wanted  to grab him and hug him and thank him for
being in my life  and staying there.  I wanted to tell  him how afraid I
was of losing him.  And  then I thought of what that would all sound
like, and  how a free spirit like  Blair would feel about being smothered
that way.  So I kept quiet.  But  I was  never so happy in my life.


Entry #12

I have long since learned that emergency rooms should be reserved for 
impending death cases.   So when the dust settled from the battle with
Weston,  I loaded Blair in the truck and headed  home.  Angie and her
daughter were  safely tucked away in their hotel suite again, and as
lousy  as we both felt, the  reports would wait until morning.  

I've been in a lot of fights and taken a lot of blows in my life, so it's not
that  novel an  experience for me to sit in the corner and nurse bruises. 
I feel a little  guilty that Blair is getting  all his major pain experience
from hanging out with  me.  He holds up pretty well--I think he's  afraid
I'm going to think less of him  if he doesn't.  The truth is, unless you're
in law  enforcement, see a lot of action  in the military, or live in a
severely abusive environment, you  probably aren't  used to getting
slugged in the face, knocked out or otherwise assaulted.  It   always
hurts, but it's harder to deal with and shakes you up a hell of a lot more 
when you're not used to it.

It was actually sort of funny how we tended to our injuries.  I was
trying to put  ice on Blair's  head and talk to him about symptoms and
check his eyes and he  was constantly in motion,  getting antiseptic and
trying to fix up the damage on  my forehead.  As lousy as we both felt, 
we had to laugh by the time our arms  got in each other's way about the
third time.  We finally  took all our stuff to  the kitchen table and sat
there and did one thing at a time.  

"You did great at the house, Chief," I told him while I refreshed the ice
bag for his head.

"He knocked me out, Jim.  Twice.  I didn't do anything worthwhile.  As
usual."

"You distracted him when you knew he'd probably kick your ass.  It
gave me  the opening I  needed to save Angie and Pam."  I sat next to
him at the table  and carefully held the ice against  the side of his head. 
He seemed to lean into  it, wincing a little.  "Head hurts a lot, huh?"

"N-not much worse than other times."  He wasn't trying to take the ice
bag  back from me, and  I could tell he wanted a little TLC, but thought
he was  acting like a baby to ask for it.

"Hurt those times too, didn't it?"  I asked, smiling a little.

"You're probably hurt worse that I am."

"I've got a few bruises.  I'll be fine.  Besides, I've got a pain dial.  You
don't, remember?"

"I tried mind over matter, but it's not working."

"Let's go sit on the couch.  It's a little more comfortable."  I led him in
there  and sat down,  bringing him down right next to me.   "Lean on
me.  I'll hold the  ice bag for you for a while,  huh?"  He seemed
surprised by that offer, but he  seemed to like the idea.  He snuggled
against  me with the good side of his  head on my shoulder and I held
the ice on the sore side.  "How's  that?"

"Ice helps.  I'm sorry to be such a pain.  I can do this myslef--"

"You're fine, Chief.  Just stay where you are and rest." //And let me
hold you.   God, that feels  good.  I love feeling you breathe against me,
knowing it makes  you feel better to be close to  me.  That you need
me. //

I never thought it made you weak to need another person, which is
good  because Blair and I need each other very  much.  There's
something intense  about that.  And it's a need that goes beyond
"convenience".   I need Blair to  help me control my senses--and to give
my life some meaning.  He needs me   to give him some of the stability
he's never had, to protect him sometimes--and  I think he  counts on me
as a safe haven.  I know a lot of the danger he gets  into is because he's
with me,  but sometimes he just has a rough day at the  university or
something personal goes wrong, and  he seems to come to me,  even if
he doesn't always talk about it.  I know when he's hurting and  I like to 
make it better somehow.

He dozed off with an arm around my middle and his head on my
shoulder.  I  sighed and smiled to myself. //This has to be what heaven
feels like.//


Entry #13

It's taken me four years to put what happened to Jack Pendergrass at
least in  perspective.  I  never really got over it.  I figured he was
dead--I respected Jack  very much, and I pride myself  on being a
reasonably good judge of character.   And while he was out trying to
break the  Brackley case, what was I doing?   Screwing with his
girlfriend.  She said it was over between  them, so it's not so  much that
I feel guilty about going to bed with her.  She was single, I was single,
and she was through with Jack.  She would have been through with him 
whether I was  in the picture or not.  But we were probably coming
about the  time Jack tried to call me for  back-up.  So he died and I got
off. *That* I feel  guilty about.  

No one ever believed in Jack as completely as I did when he, the
Brackley kid,  and all that  money disappeared at the same time.  Even
when his car was  hauled out of the water, everyone  speculated on how
he'd ditched it and made  a run for the Bahamas...or some other sordid 
scenario.  Jack was a good man,  even if he had his faults--just like
anybody else.  Why was  everyone so  damned determined to see him
as a dirty cop?

Internal Affairs decided I was involved.  I think sometimes they don't
have  much exciting stuff  to investigate, so they stir something up. 
Oh, they find  pot in somebody's locker, or they catch  a male and
female rookie making it on  duty, or they find out that a patrolman
turns his back  on something for some  kind of payoff.  But juicy stuff
like murders just doesn't come across  their  desks too often.  This was
too good not to turn into a full-blown witch hunt.  If  Simon  hadn't
bent a few rules, I'd probably be in jail by now.

Blair and I got in and had a good look at the car.  I found bullets and
bullet  holes that indicated  that Jack had been shot.  I'd have felt badly
about that, but  I already knew Jack was dead or  he wouldn't be
missing this long.  It wasn't  news to me.  I just needed proof.  There it
was.

I know I really took cheap and almost obvious advantage of the chance
to get  close to Blair  while we looked at that car.  Holding his wrist
like that,  standing behind him--it was almost  like slow dancing.  I
wondered what that  would be like--slow dancing with him.  Hell, do
you  slow dance with another  man?  I don't know a hell of a lot about
that.  Do you just jump each  other,  thrust a few times and get it over
with?  Maybe I'm hopelessly hetero with  feelings I just  can't figure out
for this one particular little guy.  But I want to  wine him and dine him
and buy  him things and slow dance with him...God, I  never really
wanted to do all that with Carolyn.   Of course, she would have  taken
it as a slur on her womanhood if I'd showered her with what  she would 
have no doubt considered "corny" presents.  If I had tried to "take care
of her".   I  still don't understand why that's wrong.  I mean, if you love
someone, is it so  bad to want to  take care of them?  

Blair takes care of me all the time.  Aside from the whole mess with
my  senses, he's always  there for me, he cooks for me (I don't have a
food fetish,  though I know I've mentioned his  cooking more than
once--but he's good at  it), he fusses over me if I'm sick or hurt.  I like
to  take care of him.  I like to  make sure he's got what he needs, and I
like to treat him to meals  when we go  out--I know he doesn't have
much spending money.  In short, I want to take  care  of Blair.  Protect
him and do things for him and buy things for him and  make him
happy.  I  know he doesn't need me to do it, anymore than Carolyn 
did--he's capable, resourceful--and  he'll have a damn fine set of
credentials  when he finishes up his dissertation.  It's not a matter  of
thinking less of the  person you want to take care of.  It's a matter of
love.  Carolyn never   understood that, but I think Blair would.  I think
he already does.

I wonder how Blair would react to being spoiled the way I want to spoil
him.  I  wonder if he's   liberal enough to consider being wtih a man. 
And if he did  consider it, would he give me the  second look?

I guess I got off the Jack track there pretty far.   Needless to say, all
ended well  enough.   Emily's married and has a beautiful little boy. 
Jack's finally been  brought home and laid to  rest with all the proper
ceremony--which he would  have hated anyway.  I've been cleared of 
all suspicion of any misconduct.

Sheila tried calling me several times after the case ended.  I don't know
if she  wanted to  apologize, or what her thing was, but I didn't care.  I
know I'm  wasting my time thinking  about Blair in any other terms
than friendship, but it  still makes it hard to go out and start  something
up with a woman.  Not that I  suddenly don't get turned on by women. 
Sometimes  I think what I need is a  good roll in the sack to get my
perspective back.  At the risk of  sounding  stodgy, I don't see sex as
such a casual option anymore.  Picking the wrong  partner  doesn't just
give you an itchy crotch--it can kill you.  I know about safe  sex.  I
practice it--that  is when there's anyone to practice on.  I guess I'm 
old-fashioned.  I want to meet someone  special, make a commitment,
toss the  condoms and be monogamous until I die.

I already met someone special, but sometimes the whole sex thing just
refuses  to come into  focus in my mind.  I've had some lusty thoughts
about Blair.   He's not feminine in any way--don't get me wrong.  He's
hairier than I am, has  a substantial body even if he is short, a very 
masculine voice and a very  noticeable beard when he doesn't shave. 
So when I say that he's  attractive in a  non-gender-specific sort of way,
I'm not implying he's effeminate or   androgynous.  He's just beautiful. 
And a lot of that beauty emanates from his  soul.  Blair is  one of the
gentlest, kindest, sweetest people I know.  He has the  longest fuse of
anyone I've  ever known.  He's the only person who's ever given  me
100% of his attention every time I talk  to him.  He *hangs* on every
word.   I watch him with others, and he makes them feel like  they're
the most  important people in the world to him when he's listening. 
God, that impresses   me.

Blair treated me to dinner after the funeral.  Guess he thought I needed 
cheering up.  I don't  think I'll ever forget the circumstances of Jack's
death, or  totally forgive myself for it, but I  didn't mean for it to
happen, and I guess the  fact I'm not technically gifted and fucked up
the  answering machine doesn't  make me deficient as a human being. 
It's one of those tragic,  unfair things we  just have to live with.

Entry #14

When I decided not to attend my class reunion, it was because I spent
my  senior year in  military school and didn't feel like I belonged at a
reunion.  I  sort of regretted that and thought  about going to the next
one, but that wasn't a  happy time in my life, and I don't care about 
revisiting it.  That's another story.   I don't feel like regressing back into
my childhood tonight.

What made me think of class reunions?  Well, seeing what a disaster
Simon's  was, I guess they  aren't always all they're cracked up to be. 
Fortunately, most  of them aren't centered around  psychotic sheriffs
and corrupt manufacturers  who destroy the environment.  I have to
admit,  there were a few moments  when I really didn't think we'd all
get out of it alive.  The fact we  did was a  real team effort.  Simon
wasn't just lying there waiting to be rescued--he  fought like   the tough
SOB he really is.  I did everything I could, having the  advantage of
being the only  uninjured cop who wasn't working for the psycho,  and
Blair, as usual, did his part--listening  in on some crucial conversation 
between the sheriff and the crook I mentioned before.

I'm sorry we got cheated out of our camping trip.  Not that the
importance of  that doesn't pale  in comparison to the importance of
saving Simon's life.  It's  just that I was really looking  forward to
spending a little time with Blair, just  sitting out by the campfire,
talking or just  being there together.  We went on  one camping trip
since he's lived with me, and it was a  disaster from all  logical
perspectives.  It rained, and then the rain turned to a major storm, and  
we ended up taking cover in the truck because two wet guys in tents
with  metal poles sleeping under the trees during an electrical storm
just doesn't  seem like a smart thing to do.

We drove home the next morning, though I didn't really mind spending
a night  locked up in close quarters with Blair, who hates the cold, and
hence, seeks  body heat in his sleep.  He seemed  a little embarassed
that he was cuddled up  against me in the morning, but I didn't mind at
all.   Sleeping all night sitting in  my truck was another story.  I minded
that a great deal.

Anyway, I think maybe we better shelve camping for a while.  If we
make it to  our destination, it seems to be a disaster.  If we don't, it's
because a catastrophe  gets in the way.

I had to get on Sandburg's back for messing up the directions.  It isn't
too often  I can find  something he isn't good at, so when I do, I can
resist teasing him  about it.  I made a point of  mentioning his
map-reading skills in the bullpen  yesterday, joking about where we
were  headed and where we ended up.  Blair  took it all in good spirits,
but he was a little too quiet  on the way home.  So I  asked.  I knew
something was eating him.

"Spill it, Chief."

"What?"  He looked at me, pulling his focus from whatever mundane
scenery had his attention through the passenger window.

"You haven't said two words since we left the station.  What's wrong?"

"I'm just tired."

"Tired?"

"Yeah, tired--you know, slightly sleep deficient?  I was up until three
last night  trying to get  a paper done.  I'm tired.  Is that a crime?"
//Whoa, he's really  pissed about something// I  thought.

I didn't say anything for a while, and then I thought about all the teasing
he'd  taken about  getting us 40 miles off-course on the trip.  It had
gotten a little out  of hand, as anything does  with that group.  

"Look, I'm sorry I brought up the map thing earlier.  I was just kidding."

"I'm not mad about that."

"Yes, you are."  I was getting irked myself now, because I knew that's
why he was mad, and he just wouldn't admit it.

"I guess I just wondered why it was necessary for the whole Major
Crimes division to know  that map-reading isn't my speciality.  I said I
was sorry the other day when we got stuck."

"We all screw up sometimes, Chief.  I was just teasing you a little."

"Those guys don't take me very seriously anyway, Jim.  You just set me
back about six months.  Thanks a lot."

"Set you back how?"  I was really interested in how having one normal
human  flaw could do  all this damage.  Then I figured out I was getting
a rare look at  something: Blair's insecurity.   He's a pretty confident
person, and rightfully so.   He doesn't let his insecurities show too
easily,  least of all in front of the guys  at the station. *I* see them
sometimes, because *I'm* supposed  to be his  friend--on his side.  But
I'm not supposed to hold him up for ridicule in front of  the  very
people he's the most insecure with.  I'm not always lightning fast with 
all this  psychobabble, but I get there eventually.

"You made me look stupid, Jim.  The only thing I can use to gain their
respect  is my ability,  my brains.  When you take that away from me
and make me  look dumb, on top of being--" //he  was starting to
enumerate on his fingers.  I  was in deep shit.  He was pissed off. 
When he  counts off on his fingers and  backs himself up with several
reason he's pissed, like he's formed  a mental  *dissertation* on the
subject, I know he's about ready to kill me.// "--on top of  being  too
young, having too much hair, not being a cop, and being shorter  than
everyone else in the  department with the possible exception of the
bagel  girl, you basically take away what little  usefulness they see me
having.  They  don't know about all this sentinel stuff, Jim.  They know 
I 'ride along' with  you.  Like some stupid kid who wants to be a cop
when he grows up.  I'm   trying real hard here to establish some kind of
identity.  I've had to do it in  every situation in  my life--whether it was
with a tribe in Zimbabwe or some  flaky new school Naomi enrolled 
me in because we had just moved for the  umpteenth time and changed
districts."  Blair sunk  back in his seat, seemingly  winded.  I was duly
chastised.  And I really did feel sorry for having  made him  the
standing joke for most of the afternoon.  "I really thought I was making 
some  headway there.  And they thought I had your respect, and that
was a big  part of it."

"I'm sorry.  I didn't know it was such a big deal."  I knew it wasn't much
to say  in response to that little speech, but an apology was all I could
offer.

"I thought we were friends."  I thought I detected a little tremor in his
voice,  but I dismissed that as impossible.  He couldn't be *that* hurt
because I teased  him.  

"We are.  Now you *are* overreacting, Sandburg."  I didn't like the fact
he was  still looking  out the window, facing away from me again, and
it sounded like  his throat was working  overtime to keep his voice
from breaking.

"Just drop it, okay?"  he asked a little too quietly.

"Look, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Chief.  I was just teasing
you--hell,  in case you  haven't noticed, teasing each other is kind of an
unofficial sport in  the bullpen."

"Yeah?  Well, Jim, I'm not a member of the team, remember?  I'm your
stupid  ride-along  flunkie.  It's no big deal to get teased by a bunch of
people who  respect you--where you've  proven yourself to them. 
What's the use?  If you  don't know what I mean, let's just let it go.   It's
no big deal."

"If you feel this badly about it, it's a big deal."  I pulled the truck off the
street,  up to the curb.   We were still a ways from the loft.  "Blair, I'm
sorry."  My  tone was a hell of a lot softer than  it had been when I
granted him that  half-assed apology before.  He still didn't look at me. 
And  I had never heard  him make a reference to his size before, or
indicate that he gave the  difference  in our sizes any real thought.  Did
I make him feel smaller by what I had done?    God, I really didn't
mean to do anything besides tease him.  But it made sense  that he
would  feel ganged up on if I was the ringleader making fun of him in a 
room full of guys who were  *my* friends.  I got a sick feeling in my
stomach,  thinking that I really hadn't learned anything  from Toby.

Toby was a kid I knew in grade school.  Hell, I'm still denying him--Toby 
was my  *friend*.  His  family moved in one summer, and I spent
most of it playing with  Toby.  We were eleven years  old, into
everything...  Toby was a real  bookworm when he wasn't with me.  He
knew a little  bit about everything  (kind of like another friend of
mine), but he was about as uncoordinated  as it  was humanly possible
to be.  He wore coke bottle glasses and generally tripped  over feet  that
were too big for the rest of him when he tried to play sports or  just get
going on a good  run.  He was a nerdy little klutz, in other words.

Toby counted on me when we started sixth grade in the Fall.  I endured
sitting  next to him on  the bus--I always ran with the popular kids in
school.  I was  just one of the lucky ones that "fit  in".  I say "endured"
because it didn't take  my school friends long to start picking on Toby. 
I  could see it would be him  or them, and that if I chose friendship
over being one of the gang,  I would be  an outcast too.

I was eleven, and I didn't have the backbone to choose friendship.  So
by the  next day, Toby  rode the bus in a seat by himself and I was back
with my  regular friends, and they were  snatching his stuff and playing
keepaway with  it and I just let it happen.  I remember the pain  in his
eyes when he looked to  me for help, and I just let them keep it up.  But
I felt a certain  relief in  "belonging".  I had handed Toby over as the
sacrifice so I could be part of the  gang.   And the look in his eyes
wasn't unlike the look I had gotten from Blair  once or twice at work. 
And as much as I hate to admit it, I had that same little  feeling of relief
when, as they usually  do, the guys got going really good on  Sandburg,
that I was one of them and not the one getting  teased.

Toby transferred to St. Mary's in October.  It was a small, Catholic
school that  had an  outstanding reputation for academics.  I never saw
Toby again--well, I  *saw* him, but we  never talked again, even
though we lived a block away  from each other.  

And now that I'm a man, I turn around and do the same thing to 
Sandburg--when it's "summer  vacation" and it's just us, he's my best 
friend--hell, I've even had thoughts about him I've never  had about
another  man--but as soon as I "got on the bus" so to speak, I made fun
of him along   with everybody else.  Shit, I *started* it.  I made a fool
out of him in an arena  where his  confidence is shaky to begin with.  I
withdrew the thing he held  onto the tightest--my  friendship.  I didn't
see it that way at the time, but it  suddenly became crystal clear why
Blair  was sitting there, trying not to cry  because I'd hurt him, betrayed
his friendship, used one  weakness that had  popped up in a private
moment to make him look stupid.  Hell, he might  have  missed the
turn on the map because he wears glasses and it's all tiny print.  

I realized very poignantly why Toby wouldn't be friends after school
and in the  summer and  then let me run with the pack who made fun of
him at achool.  I  lost that friendship, and I was  going to be damned if I
lost this one.

There was a little sniffle from the passenger seat.  I wondered how
many times  Blair had been  down this road before, and how many
times he had been  "Toby" on a bus full of "Jims".

"It was a crummy thing for me to do and it won't happen again, buddy." 
I  reached over and  squeezed the back of his neck gently.  "Hey, come
on, Chief,  at least look at me."

"I feel dumb."  His voice was shaky and he wouldn't turn around.

"No, I do."  I withdrew my hand and sighed loudly.  "I should know
better.  I  acted like a jerk.  I don't know what got into me.  I really am
sorry, Blair.  I  mean that."

"I'm overreacting.  I don't know why.  I'm sorry."  I could see he was
brushing  at his eyes, but  he still wouldn't look at me.  I tossed a
handkerchief over his  shoulder, and he laughed out  loud.  "Guess
turning your back on a sentinel is  kind of pointless."

"Yeah, pretty pointless."  I was laughing a little now too.

"I really overreacted, Jim.  I'm sorry.  I just...it was like being the
school nerd all over again."

That comment hit home.

"Let's get some take-outs and go home, huh?"

"Okay."  Blair finally turned around and smiled.

We picked up Chinese food and took it back to the loft.  As soon as we
were  inside, Blair got  right down to business opening up the
containers and setting  the table.  It stabbed me in the  heart how much
I really loved him.  So I  walked up to him, turned him around and
hugged the  hell out of him.  He was  startled at first, but then he
responded, hugging back.

"Still friends?"  I asked, releasing him.  He gave me one of those
blinding miles.

"Always."

Wherever you are, Toby--thanks.  And I'm sorry it took me 25 years to
learn anything from you.


Entry #15

I know that after all these years as a cop, it shouldn't surprise me the
lengths  that people will go to just to make a point.  Three killed in one
gang, then four  killed in retaliation, then another one poisoned,
another one buried on the  beach...I've seen a lot of ugly things in my
life.  That doesn't mean I have to  like it.

Angela Kumoro is a tough lady.  To say she's giving her all for her job
is an  understatement.  I still wonder when I'm going to hear that
somebody made  her, and she's dead.  I really like strong women.  I
think that's what got me into  the relationship with Carolyn.  Angie
Ferris was another one--although I've  been a little preoccupied with
Blair lately to pay much attention to what the  women in my life were
doing.  I don't know why it always comes back to him.   Why *I*
always come back to him.  Shit, it's not like he's waiting home at the 
loft for me to come in and ravish him.  I'd just rather listen to him
pecking  away on his computer or mumbling to himself while he
studies or expounding   on all the horrible things football says about
society--right before he upturns  the popcorn bowl cheering with me at
a good play...  In short, I guess I'd rather  be with Blair than with
anyone else.

So what would I do if Angela suddenly resurfaced, was out of the
undercover  operation, and wanted me to follow up on that kiss we
had?  Probably go out  with her, maybe I'd sleep with her.  I don't know. 
There's one part of me that  really admires how she's willing to give
herself so fully for her cover, and  another part that would make me
feel like there wasn't much...meaningful in  making love when you
could do it as part of your job.  If I had to save my life  or Blair's, I
could probably have sex with Barney the dinosaur--once.  But to  keep
up a cover, and a fake relationship to go with it...man, I admit I don't 
think I could do that.  Don't think I'd want to.

I've been avoiding the issue of Mike Hurley.  I don't know what to say
about  him.  It was a damn stinking tragedy that a good man like Mike
had to get so  fucked up that he started doing business with the same
type of slime that  destroyed his niece.  I know he thought he was
avenging her somehow, but he  was only feeding the
problem--nurturing it and making it grow.  A gang by any  other name
is still a gang, and just because you get one set of low-lifes to work  for
you today doesn't mean they won't slit your throat tomorrow.

I'm glad we're sending the money to his sister.  That woman has
suffered a  great deal, and the loss of her brother will no doubt be just
one more in a string of tragedies.

Blair really saved the day grabbing that detonator.  I was proud of him. 
He  surprises me all the time.  I have *no* doubt that Blair would give
his life to  save someone else--I saw a movie once where this woman
ran out in front of  an eighteen-wheeler and pushed this toddler out of
the way, and ended up  getting killed in his place.  The thought makes
me shudder, but that would be  Blair.  I know what he did for me with
that garbage truck.  I mean, it was kind of touch and go  if he'd end up
dead or seriously injured trying to save me--a guy who had  slammed
him against a wall and told him off a few minutes earlier--but he  didn't
think about that.  He just ran out there and saved my life.  Wow.

Blair attended Mike's funeral with me and the rest of the cops.  A few
didn't  come, feeling Mike sold out and didn't deserve a cop's burial. 
May they never  face a tragedy in their lives that fucks up their
perspective.   Those were Blair's  words, actually, when I made a
comment about low turnout.  And when I was  having trouble holding
up during the funeral--I did, but it was touch and go for  a
while--anyway, I felt this warm hand slip into mine and just hold on.  I 
squeezed back.  What would I do without him, I wonder?


Entry #16

I had the most amazing experience last night.  I'm still trying to sort it
all out.  

It all started with Blair announcing he had tickets to "Cats", and would
I go see  it with him.  I figured he was just stuck with pricey tickets and
no date, but he  says he bought them for us.  I didn't really buy that at
first--I figured he was  just trying to make me feel like I wasn't a
stand-in for his missing date.  As the  evening progressed, I really
believed he'd planned it that way.

We had a great dinner at DaVinci's.  I've only eaten there a couple of
times, but  it's fabulous.  The lasagna is enough to bring tears to your
eyes.  I'd say it was  the kind of cooking mother used to do, but then,
my brief memories of my  mother have nothing to do with cooking. 
She was beautiful, flamboyant, and  figured that's why the household
staff was there--to do the mundane things like  cooking.  

How did I get off on that topic again?  Maybe it's because there are
times when  I wish she were still here.  I know I'd be able to talk to her
about all the stuff I  have to sit here and laboriously type into a
computer.  How immature is it to  be 36 and still miss your mother?

Anyway, the food was great, the wine was great--and we had a great
time.  We  talked about a lot of things--Blair's a pretty interesting date,
actually.  Most of  the women I've been out with are either weighing
each thing they say to make  the right impression, or they're asking me
a bunch of questions about my work  and then eventually their eyes sort
of glaze over if I take them up on it and  answer them.  Those snappy
blue eyes of Blair's are always animated, and  always riveted on me
when I talk.  He makes me feel like everything I say is  vitally
important--as if he's hanging on every word.    He's been all over the
world.  It's hard to imagine my little partner, the  shaggy-haired,
backpack-toting grad student, has been to more places on the  map than 
I have, and has studied the indigenous peoples in every one of them. 
He's  out-run headhunters, studied headhunters (now there's one
research project I  *definitely* would pass up), lived in mud-floor huts
(I did too, in the jungle,  but it sure as hell wasn't by choice.  A Holiday
Inn would have been fine.),  lived off whatever natural foods were
there, mingled with the natives, picked  up fragments of God knows
how many languages.  The guy's just fascinating.

I'm digressing.  We had dinner and then headed over to the theatre. 
The play  was okay.  Not really my cup of tea, but some of the music
was good, and  Blair's company was great.  It was nice to share a nice
evening out together, no  matter what we were doing.

We ran into Councilman Hilliard at intermission, and I introduced him
to  Blair, who, of course, was almost instantly able to strike up a
conversation  with the guy on his stand on an adult cinema going into a
business district near  the university.  Having initially looked Blair up
and down like he was a  science experiment on feet, the old geezer
actually got interested in talking to  him (most people are once he gets
them loosened up) and was disappointed  when we cut things short to
go back for the rest of the play.

After the play, I decided it was time to introduce Blair to one of my
favorite  after dinner drinks.  We went back to DaVinci's, and I ordered
us a bottle of  Bailey's Irish Creme.  Add that to the wine we'd had
ealier, and by the time we  got most of the way through it, they threw
us out.  I think they wanted to close,  but I also think the rather
stiff-looking maitre'd didn't want to have to throw us  out if we got any
drunker.  Or is it "more drunk"?  Is "drunker" a real word?

So we started walking--it was a beautiful night--clear, cool, stars in the
sky.  I  had been fighting hearing the song "Memory" from the play
over and over in  my head.  I always liked that song when I heard it on
the radio, so I knew the  words pretty well.  I'd have traded my pension
for a camera to catch the look  on Sandburg's face when I started
singing it.  I actually did it more to freak him  out than anything else. 
He thinks because I don't embrace his thundering tribal  chants or the
latest alternative band that I don't like music.  I do.  I always  have.  

So here I am, staggering half shit-faced down the street, singing
"Memory" at  the top of my lungs, and before long, Sanburg's right in it
with me, singing  along and throwing us both into laughter when he
swung around on a street  light post still singing.  Gene Kelly was a bit
more graceful than a drunken  Blair, but nobody could have been
funnier doing it.

I don't know how we ended up back at DaVinci's.  I think when Blair
spun  around the lamp post, he started walking in the wrong direction,
and useless  sot that I was at the moment, I followed him.   Looking
back, I'm surprised we  weren't mugged.      Anyhow, we admitted
defeat and hailed a cab with the same campy flourish  we'd been using
to sing moments earlier.

I think it was probably the best evening of my life.  I wish it weren't so
damned  complicated to just make a move on someone you care about. 
The whole hang  up about heteros and homos irritates me.  All that
having been said, I don't  know as I'm willing to be an outsider at
work--hell, in society.

So I thanked Blair for a great evening and went upstairs to bed.  I
resisted the  urge to take a hold of his face and plant a big one right on
his mouth and see if  one thing would lead to another, just like it would
with a female date.

And then I'd always wonder if he'd come across because he felt
obligated because he lived with me, or because he was drunk or
because he was liberal enough to experiment.  

For a hundred reasons, it wasn't the right time.  I wonder if it ever will
be?

Wendy Hawthorne is relocating to Cascade for a job here.  I'm going to
"show  her around" sometime.  Why doesn't that excite me?  She's
pretty,  enthused--hell, probably willing if the circumstances were
right.  But all I keep  thinking when I go out on dates these days is that
if I get home early enough, I  can have a late snack with Blair and visit
a while.  I miss him if we don't see  much of each other during the day
and then I have to go out at night...  I look  forward to talking about my
day with Blair.  He usually shares at least part of  it.  But when he
doesn't, he listens to me and genuinely cares what kind of day  I had.

Going back to Wendy herself, Blair notwithstanding, I don't know how
I really  feel about her as a person.  I mean, she's pretty, she's sharp,
talented--all those  good things.  And I also realize that just because
someone makes a mistake  when they're young and anxious doesn't
make them a bad person for the rest of  their lives.  God knows I've
made some whoppers.  It's funny though, in the  times I've dropped one
on Blair, waited for him to react with disgust, he never  does.  When I
got loosened up on the booze and we were talking...I know I let  some
things slip out.  He'd just get that real intense, thoughtful look, listen to 
every detail...I could almost see him processing it.  I expected to hear
that ugly  little grinding noise the computer makes when it's processing
something.  Then  he'd ask a few questions, and somehow, he
completely understood why I did  what I did, where I was at the time,
and didn't think any less of me for it.  And  he never brings it up again. 
I know Blair would take my confidences to his  grave.

Did it again.  Talking about Wendy turned into a Blair dissertation. 
What I  initially wanted to say was that, even though she helped with
the case, and  even though I don't hold against her the sins of the past,
so to speak, I still saw  her willingness to jeopardize a police operation
more than once to get a story.   I don't know if we'll ever click.  I think
I'll spend all my time wondering what I  dare say to her, and she'll
spend all her time sifting what I'm involved with to  see if there's a
story in it.  She's a career reporter like I'm a career cop--it's in  the
blood, and you can't help it.  You think and act like a cop--or like a 
reporter.

Wonder if Blair would want to go out Friday night?  Probably not.  He
usually meets friends from the U on the weekend nights.

Entry #17

Sometimes I wonder if I'm nuts.  

When I heard the shots, and made it up to that hotel room, and saw
Blair lying on the floor...my heart just about stopped.  

In that moment, all logic about vests and police procedure and the bad
guy getting away...it all vanished.  All I saw was Blair lying there on
the floor.

Armor-piercing bullets...hollowpoints--God, what if that nut had used
those?   There are bullets that can rip through a vest like it's wet toilet
paper.  And I put  the most precious thing in my life in the middle of an
operation where he'd  essentially be like a duck in a shooting gallery.

Again, I wonder if I'm nuts.

The vest stopped the bullets.  He was bruised up and winded and
shaken up,  but the vest protected him.  His ribs didn't even seem
cracked, certainly not  broken.  

I wanted to hold him so badly, apologize for risking his life, tell him
how  much I loved him and that my heart damn near stopped when I
saw him lying  there...and that my life would have stopped if I had
pulled open that shirt and  found the vest hadn't worked...

Sometimes I wish I'd quit writing in this fucking diary months ago.  I
needed to  vent some of the stuff going on in my head with the whole
sentinel thing at  first, and then, I found it was kind of cathartic to blurt
everything out  somewhere where it didn't matter.  Some days I hate
this thing for dragging out  of me feelings and thoughts I don't want to
acknowledge, let alone write about.   Tonight, sitting here by myself in
the bullpen, at 12:28 a.m., it feels real good  to have a sounding board,
even if it is a mute computer.  Well, not mute if you  turn up the
speakers and pop in a Santana CD...but that's another subject 
altogether.

Thinking back over this case, and the whole mess with Amber, I
couldn't have  been more obviously territorial with Blair.  What in the
hell's the matter with  me anyway?  I know one big thing that's the
matter--I've already acknowledged  that I'm hung up on the guy.  But I
should know better than to make such an  idiot out of myself trying to
keep him away from women.  He's 28 years old,  single, perfectly
heterosexual--what do I expect him to do when I take him into  a strip
club?  Check out the wine list?

As much as I hate having his lust for women tossed in my face when
I'm  wandering around like a pathetic schoolgirl carrying a torch, I had
to laugh at  his innocence.  Yeah, I said "innocence".  I don't mean that
in the sense that  he's an unspoiled virgin or anything.  I just mean, for
all his bragging and  overconfident attitude, the guy just about dropped
his jaw to the floor at the  sight of gyrating naked women.  Quite
frankly, his reaction was cute.  I got a  kick out of it.  Until I thought
about what it meant.  When he practically drools  like a dog in heat at
the sight of all this female action, why in hell would he  see *anything*
in me?  I'm not female, that's for damn sure.  And I don't bump  and
grind for anybody.  Not even Sandburg.
  
What am I saying?!  Like he'd want to see something like that.  Hell,
*I* don't  want to see that.  Me traipsing around in a police hat, a gun
belt and an  attitude.  Ugh.  I need a beer.  Maybe a sixpack.  And the
Santana CD.  A  woman would be good, too, but unless I want to take a
cruise by the  waterfront, I doubt I could find much decent action at
this hour.


Entry #18

I wish I had the guts to cut Blair loose and make him hit the road.  I
keep getting this sinking feeling that something terrible is going to
happen to him one of these days.

And of course, the fact that I've never seen one human being generate
so  much...stuff is a little annoying at times.  The loft looked like a
landfill before  I started piling up his stuff.  I mean, I've left his crap
sitting there in piles for  weeks--hell, months, in some cases--not
wanting to mess up anything he's  working on.  That day when I was
trying to tidy up a little (which despite  Blair's insistence that I'm a
compulsive, anal-retentive neat-freak, I hate  housework and I always
will), I snapped.  I hate living in a mess.  I want things in their places. 
Maybe it's my upbringing or the military or...I don't know.   But I've
always lived with *order*.  Blair doesn't grasp that concept.

And what never ceases to blow my mind is that he always finds what
he's  looking for.  He may risk great bodily injury digging for it, but he
finds it.   Nonetheless, I can't handle the Sandburg filing system in my
living room.  So I  started tossing his stuff in boxes.  When he came in,
I think he thought I was  getting ready to throw him out.  I had handfuls
of his stuff that I was tossing  into boxes.  I guess I didn't have to pile it
all helter-skelter like that.  I know  he's been rooting through the mess
trying to sort it out ever since.  But it isn't  like he'd do anything with
the stuff if I told him to.

Was I mad at his stuff or pissed off because he'd stayed out all night the
night  before?  Of course later I found out he was sitting in another
grad student's  apartment with a study group helping a friend organize
his research sources--or  something like that.  Not that I have a right to
be mad if he was attending a  group orgy.  But I still was.

So I had his food organized and his stuff in cartons--yeah, I really told
him off.   Blair took it the way he usually does--in his stride, with a few
grumblings and  comments on what all of it said about my personality. 
But he never got really  shitty about it.

All things being equal, I guess I figure if he's going to live with me,
which I  hope he will, at least for a while yet, we have to be able to
stand each other.   It's not much different than marriage.  After you've
been together a while, the  little things start to gnaw at your vitals. 
Blair's messiness gnaws at mine.

I've gotta say though, when I knew he was on that oil rig and the bomb
was   due to go off, and I knew he was determined to save the others on
board by  defusing it instead of getting the hell out of there, whether or
not he had a  stack of notes on the TV seemed a bit unimportant.  I was
never so relieved in  my life as I was to see him bouncing along down
the ramp and off that rig in  one piece.

But this is just one more example of why it's selfish as hell of me to
keep him  with me.  I know he can't really publish this dissertation, or
my life is over.  As  much as I care about and respect Blair, I can't do
that.  I won't do that.  I won't  be a circus freak, and I won't spend my
life dodging the CIA, FBI, and any  other organization that might find
out what I can do.


Add to that the number of times he's been hurt or nearly killed hanging
around  with me, and you can see why I feel guilty.  I couldn't stand it if
something  happened to him because of me.  But I've come to depend
on him more and  more as a partner.  Aside from anything I feel for
Blair emotionally, he's the  best partner I've ever worked with.  He's
sharp, he's inventive, and best of all,  his number one concern is
backing me up in any way he can.  You can't ask for  more than that. 
Jack Pendergrass was a good man, and a fine partner.  I have  my
doubts that Jack would have died for me.  It frightens me to realize that
I  don't question that Blair would in a heartbeat if the situation called
for it.  I  know he has that level of loyalty and devotion to me.  So why
don't I think he'd  love me in any other way?  

I did all but throw him on the floor and let him have it coming out of
the  shower.  At first, I didn't think much of it--I'm not really all that shy
about  sharing showering and dressing facilities.  I've done that for
years in the  military, then in the academy--even now at the gym.  I
certainly don't feel  inhibited or odd about sharing facilities like those
with Blair.  He lives with  me, for God's sake--why would I worry about
propriety with him?  But when I  heard his heart speed up, felt the rise
in his body heat when I came out of the  shower, I almost pounced. 
Right then, right there.  It was a purely animal  thing--I could sense his
physical signals.  

But then I remembered how he'd reacted at the strip club to seeing
naked  women (which I'm sure he's seen before, only under different
circumstances).   Maybe he has a nudity hang-up.  I don't think I've ever
seen Blair naked.  In a  towel, a robe, or maybe shirtless, but he's never
streaked around the loft at all.   I mean, hell, if it was more convenient
for some reason, I wouldn't worry about  it.  So while I was analyzing
whether or not Blair was lusting after me or just  uneasy because he has
a nudity-phobia (nudaphobia, maybe?), Maggie shows  up with her
gun.  Fortunately, I'd had time to consider other reasons for Blair's 
current state of heightened pulse and body heat, so I wasn't
embarrassed with a  raging hard-on.

Blair also helped me overcome my fear of large bodies of open water 
(oceanaphobia?  I know there's a term out there somewhere.  Blair'll
know  what it is).  I've never been fond of expanses of ocean with no
visible land.  I  still don't like it, but I can cope with it now.  But then
Blair's the master of  coping with phobias.  Poor guy's afraid of heights,
and to follow me, he's ended  up skydiving out of an airplane in the
jungle, landing in a tree and getting a  lizard in his pants.  Maybe it *is*
love after all.

So now Blair keeps his things in his room, stacked almost to the
ceiling, rarely  sticks his nose out anymore when he's working.  How
can he when I've  essentially banished him and his stuff from the living
room?  I miss having  him sitting there on the other couch under a set
of headphones furiously taking  notes while I watch TV, or poring over
essay exams, or examining some new  trinket...but it's too hard for him
to pack things up and move them all back out  of the living room every
time.

So it's neater, but a hell of a lot lonelier.  Maybe Carolyn was right. 
Maybe I  am a cold bastard.  I've got a tidy living room and I sit alone
in it.   Now how do I go back on the house rules without looking like
an idiot?


Entry #19

Meeting Blair's mother was a mixed experience.  Naomi is attractive,
colorful,  thoroughly unique, intelligent--she couldn't have been a loser
and produced a  kid like Blair.  She also managed to switch gears from
flowerchild to  undercover cop pretty easily.  I admired her flexibility,
and her courage.  She  also showed me a lot of childhood photos of
Blair, which I got a major kick  out of seeing.  He was a cute kid, then
a scrawny little nerd with big glasses,  and then a cute grown up nerd
with little glasses.  He's always had his own  special style...  But this is
about Naomi, not Blair.

When he first told me that he didn't know who his father was, my first 
response was that that was "too bad".  I could see the fleeting
embarrassment  pass over his features right before he rattled off a very
well-rehearsed lie about  how wonderful it was to have a different
stepfather every few days.

I have seen some of the horrible things that kids can go through at the
hands of  unscrupulous adults.  I have no vendetta against single
mothers.  I think they're  remarkable.  I couldn't do what they
do--working and supporting themselves  and their kids, still finding
some time to spend with those kids--they're  superhumans, in my book. 
But being a single mother who dates, or has the  occasional serious
relationship, and being a single mother with a revolving  door on your
bedroom is another story.   I couldn't help but look at Blair,  standing
there, trying to make it sound wonderful, knowing he was lying... and 
wonder how many of those men hit him, abused him some way, or God
forbid,  molested him.  Did Naomi know for sure?  Did she watch him
for the signs of  that kind of thing?  What kind of example did that set
for him when it comes  to relationships?  You have a little fun and then
cut and run?  Or you watch out  not to get too attached, because if you
do, you'll just get hurt when they leave?

Children are so damned helpless.  And when you're a parent, it's up to
you to  screen the people who get close to them.  But how do you do
that when you  barely know those people yourself?  If you can have a
child without any idea  of who his father is, you can't know the men
you're sleeping with very  well--because there are obviously too
damned many drifting in and out of your  life to know any of them
well.

So why in hell did she have to dress the kid down in Simon's office,
telling  him he didn't have what it took to be a cop?  Why get on his
case now?  Why  start protecting him when he's pushing 30 and is
trying to make a life of his  own?  

I wanted to force Simon's hand.  It was a rare opportunity to get him to
talk  about how he really felt about Blair.  I could have jumped in, but
Blair would  have figured it was just me trying to back up a friend--or
keep my guide--and  while he'd probably have appreciated it, he
wouldn't have taken it as seriously  as he did when Simon backed him
up.

I was glad Blair and Naomi resolved things.  I knew the kid would be
miserable until they did.  

This case was a real bastard.  I never felt such cold, wretched fear as I
did  when that man fell on the ground clutching at his chest.  Damn it, I
pulled him  out of that car--if he had died, it would have been my fault. 
Yeah, *my* fault.   We were undercover, sure--but fat lot of
consolation that would be to his  family.  I still imagine he'll sue the
department.  He had a heart attack, has  been laid up for weeks--the
guy's a CEO of one of the biggest banks in  Cascade.  This could be
trouble.  Honestly, I can't say I'd blame him.

And my truck's dead.  Blair and I have been traipsing around car lots,
and we're  going out tonight to test drive a Ford Expedition.  I'll
probably go with it if it  handles well.  It'll work out well when we go
camping or kayaking, and it's a  good vehicle to have for the kind of
winters we get here.

It kept nagging at the back of my mind that Blair really wasn't happy
with how  things had gone in his childhood.  I didn't ever want him to
think I was looking  down on him or Naomi, because nothing could
have been further from the  truth.  Well, I admit that while I like Naomi
as a person, I have a real problem  with her carelessness during Blair's
childhood.  Maybe that means I'm getting  neurotic about him
now--trying to go back and avenge anything bad that  happened to him
before I even knew him.

But after we test drove a couple of four-wheel drives that I *didn't*
like, we stopped for a  burger, and I tried to bring up the subject of
Blair's paternity.  He was  munching away, and I brought up some
inane chatter about Naomi and got him  to talk about her last
environmental cause, which was a nice segue into brining  up the father
thing, or so I thought.

"She actually knew Timothy Leary, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess they were pretty serious for a while."

"You really think maybe he's the one?"  I asked, trying to act casual.

"It would be sort of cool."

"Are you ever curious about it?"

"Who my father is?  Well, yeah, man, who wouldn't be?"

"Does it bother you--not knowing?"

"Does it bother you?"

"I know who my old man is."

"No, I mean that I don't."

"Why should it?"  Another bite of the burger, slurp on the pop.  I don't
do
casual well when I'm faking it.

"You're the one asking all the questions."  Blair returned to eating, but
he seemed upset.  That wasn't my goal.  I watched the rain pound on
the windshield of the ugly unmarked police sedan I was using.  This
wasn't going well.

"I thought maybe you'd like to talk about it."  Honesty.  When in doubt,
try it.   In situations like this one, it usually blows up in your face and
pisses someone  off, but it's worth a shot.

"There isn't much to talk about.  I mean, sure, sometimes I'm curious. 
Who  wouldn't be?  Look, I know it sounds funny to say she doesn't
know, and I don't  want you to think that she's some kind of--well, that
she's not a good person or  something--"

"I never thought that."  I hesitated, then went for it.  He was either
going to  explode or open up.  "I just think that if I had a child, they'd
be too precious a  commodity to me to risk exposing them to a
succession of people I didn't  know.  I think Naomi loves you a lot, and
maybe it's just the cynical cop in me.   I guess I've seen the downside so
many times--when the wrong stepfather  enters the picture."  I waited
without breathing.  Blair didn't look up from his  hamburger, but he
wasn't exactly eating either.  Just sort of staring at it,  picking at a
pickle.

"Yeah, well, not everything goes down that way."

"I'm sure it doesn't," I hastened to respond.  At least he wasn't
screaming and cursing me out yet. 

"Not all of them were great, but hey, you can't win 'em all.  Everybody
makes  mistakes.  If they didn't, I wouldn't be here," he tried to make
the last comment  with a laugh, but it hit me like a ton of bricks right in
the chest and I closed my  eyes at the impact.

"You're not anybody's damn mistake, Chief."

"I was my mom's and...whoever's.  I sure as hell wasn't planned."  He
took a  long draw on his soft drink and slumped back in the seat.  

"Winning the lottery isn't planned either--that doesn't mean it isn't
something  wonderful."  He smiled at me a little for that, but then
snorted a little laugh.

"Well, I think the lottery would have been a little easier for her to
manage."

"Yeah, but then she wouldn't have shared the payoff with me."

"Thanks, Jim.  That's a really nice thing to say, man."  He didn't look up
at me, but his voice was very quiet, and he was smiling a little.

"So, you're still sold on the Geo Tracker?"  I prodded, and he laughed.


Entry #20

I am very happy they are deporting Maya Carasco.  And this one isn't
driven by  jealousy, either, although I'll admit I'd rather have Blair
looking at me in that  sappy manner he uses around her.  But she's a
user, and she has this knack of  putting Blair through a meat grinder
every time they run into each other.  I get  the impression she's a
spoiled little princess that would have had him dancing  to her whims
for the rest of his life if he'd had the ill fortune to get a ring on  her
finger.  She left him shattered, and then came back long enough to use
him  again.

Before she popped up again, I really thought maybe something was
clicking  between Blair and me.  I took him to a cop's retirement party
that night.  I was  trying to show him that if we were together, he
wouldn't be my dirty secret.   That we could go out together right in a
bunch of my friends and coworkers.   He had a good time, and he
mingled with the natives as skillfully as he always  does.

I had the DJ play a song for him, but he doesn't know I requested it.  I
think he  knew it had some meaning to me where he was concerned,
though, because we  had this one moment of eye contact across the
room, and it was like this  unspoken...thing between us.  For just a
fleeting moment.  I've heard the song  occasionally over the last several
years, done by a whole bunch of different  people.  The biggest hit, I
think, was Bette Midler's.  That's what the DJ had,  anyway, so he
played "Wind Beneath My Wings", because I asked for it.  

I was sitting at a table full of cops when it came on, and Blair was
talking to  Ryf and his date and a couple other people.  It was just this
momentary thing  where he glanced my way and I caught his eyes...and
it was right in the part of  the song that goes, "I want you to know I
know the truth, I would be nothing  without you..."   He smiled this shy
little smile and looked away again, but I  had this uncanny feeling he
knew what was going on.

And then Maya shows up.

What hurts most of all is that I think Blair seriously believes I was
going to  stand there and let Gustavo Alconte's men burn him.  First, I
couldn't start  screaming hysterically and pleading with them.  If I
tipped my hand how vital  Blair was to me, they could use him to make
me do anything they wanted.   Further, I had to call the old bastard's
bluff long enough to make sure he'd  really do it.  I would have yelled
at the last minute.  I don't know what in hell I  would have said, but I
would have said something.  After all, what the hell's  Maya ever done
for me?  Compared to Blair's life and safety, her safety meant  little
more than nothing to me.  I'd have sold her in a heartbeat to stop them 
from burning Blair.  The only catch is that if you give the enemy all
you've got,  they have no reason not to kill you.  

So Blair would have been saved the burn and probably killed, right
along with  me.  It was a no-win situation.  Everything I've ever learned
told me that the  right move was to stay silent, let them torture
Blair--and keep a trump card that  would ultimately get us out of there
with our lives, even if we were disfigured  or injured.  As long as they
needed something we could tell them, we would  stay alive.  That's the
reason--aside from issues of loyalty--that keeps a lot of  men from
talking under torture.  Once you talk, you're history.  You're useless.

But I know that no training I could receive would have made me able
to stand  there and listen to Blair's screams and watch his flesh turn
black under the  flames.  I would have come up with something.  But I
can see that somewhere  inside, Blair thinks I would have stood there
and let him get burned.  I'd sooner  burn myself.

Gustavo had his likable qualities.  He was desperate to get to his niece,
and I  suppose if I were looking for Blair, I'd maim, torture,
kill--whatever--if I felt  desperate enough.  I think Simon is still
dodging calls from the feds on how he  managed to get away.


Entry #21

I've never understood racial hate.  It always seemed so pointless.  I
mean, if a  white person stays out in the sun too long during the
summer, their skin gets  darker.  So does that mean the change in
pigmentation makes them inferior?  I  don't know.  I've stopped trying
to figure people out.  I sometimes just feel like  my role is to clean up
after them, not understand them.  Identifying their  motives is vital, but
empathizing with some of them is definitely impossible.

Blair really helped Joel overcome his fears.  I know it's probably not
the best  plan to put a shell-shocked bomb expert in the field with a
sink or swim  mentality, but Joel is the best we've got.  And there's no
other way to overcome  a fear like that than to face it head on and spit
in its eye.

I don't kid myself that there won't be more hate crimes.  We just had a
gay  bashing incident last night.  Man, that was chilling.  You know, all
this stuff  that runs through my mind about Blair, and then this guy
comes staggering into  the precinct, and nearly passes out telling the
desk sergeant that three guys just  got done beating the shit out of him
outside a gay bar.

Blair spotted him out in the hall and motioned to me.  After he'd made
the  initial complaint to the desk sergeant, the jerk had told him we
were having a  backed up night and that he should take a seat on a
bench there in the hall.  I  had a few words with that moron at the desk. 
You don't leave an injured crime  victim sitting in the hall.  Even if we
were having a busy night--and even if he  *is* gay.   It's chilling how
many places irrational prejudice pops up.

I think Blair missed his calling.  He should have been a victim's
advocate.  He  sat with him, calmed him down, ordered a couple of
other cops around to go  get a glass of water, some wet towels from the
bathroom and some ice bags.   So I could get the guy's statement while
Blair's doing this great job of  on-the-spot patch-up and counseling.  By
the time the ambulance got there, he  was relatively relaxed, pretty
much cleaned up, and we had a coherent  description of his attackers.

Blair bristled that I was yanking him into the men's room and scrubbing
his  hand off with bleach when I spotted the guy's blood on it.  I calmly
informed  him I wasn't doing it because it was a gay man's blood, but
because it was a  stranger's blood, and if you've got any brains, you take
every precaution.   While he was indignantly wiping his hands, I asked
him if he would have  casual unprotected sex with someone he never
met before.  That seemed to  drive the point home.

But like everything else he does, Blair didn't think of himself first.  He
thought  of the man sitting there suffering who had already suffered
enough coldness  and disrespect for one night.

We had a really terrific evening out the other night.  Blair came up with
more tickets, this time to a performance of the Cascade Symphony.  

It was actually enjoyable getting dressed up and going out for a nice
evening.  I  spend so much time at night cruising around the underbelly
of Cascade or  typing reports that I forget we have a decent nightlife
here.  And since I  discovered my enhanced senses, music has become
an amazing experience.  I  guess that's why I've been so crabby and
stodgy about it around Sandburg.  It's  like it's this one really wonderful
part of this whole situation that I don't want  analyzed to death.  He
wants to experiment on me about it now, but I don't  think he'll push it. 
If I can dial down the volume, but tune in the specific  instruments, it
can be...breath-taking.

We had a great Chinese dinner after the concert, then walked home. 
We just  talked.  About anything and everything.  About cases, about
his life, my life,  what kind of danish Simon brought to work that
morning--life in general.  By  the time we got home, we were both
winded, and fell asleep on the couch.

When I woke up, he was sleeping in my lap.  I know I dozed off
somewhere  along the line, and I think he did just before I did, but his
head wasn't pillowed  on my leg when he did.  I sat there and watched
him for a while, realizing how  peaceful and perfect he looked there. 
Like a sleeping angel.  Blair isn't  feminine, or especially
childish-looking.  But he has a non-gender-specific  kind of beauty
about him that leaves me a little breathless.  Okay, a lot  breathless.

I got called in.  I was glad I caught the phone before it woke him.  He 
grumbled a little when I moved him to get up, but he soon adopted a
sofa  pillow to replace my leg, and I covered him with the throw.  He
feels the cold  more than I do.  I squatted by the couch, only inches
from his face, and just  watched.  Before I realized what I was doing, I
leaned over and kissed his hair.

Thank God he was sleeping soundly.  He stirred a little, and I thought
he  smiled a bit in his sleep, but that had to be my imagination.  But he
was  moving more now, so I stroked his back lightly and just
whispered, "Sleep,  Chief.  Not time to wake up yet," and it worked.  I
probably could have said  "the aliens have landed," and if it had been in
the right tone, he would have  settled down again.

It was very hard to change and leave for work.  To leave him.  I stood
in the  doorway a minute and looked back at him.  So beautiful and
peaceful.  God, I  love him so much.  And I'm so blessed that he's here,
at least for now.

Entry #22

I don't even know where to launch this.  Or how to talk about it
coherently.  So  much has happened in the last several days, and it was
all so...major.

It all started with a jumper.  A teenage girl spaced out on a designer
drug.  I  did everything I could, but ultimately, it wasn't enough.  The
sad thing is, if a  jumper picks a deadly enough locale, very little can
stop them if they want to  jump.  It's still hard not to feel responsible. 
If I had just...I don't know...  pounced on her sooner--but then maybe
we'd both be dead.

Golden is probably one of the deadliest drugs I've ever encountered. 
And I  don't just mean because I had a taste of it first had.  It's a wild
hallucinogenic  and what it did to my eyes--why would anyone want to
take this crap?  I mean,  some drugs, I can actually understand the
attraction, even if I don't approve of  any of them.  

I've never felt such...complete terror as I did when I lost my sight. 
Technically,  I had it, since I was seeing *something*.  But that
something might as well  have been nothing.  Might have been less
surreal and unnerving if it had just  been darkness.  If it hadn't been for
Blair, I would have gone insane.

His presence calmed me.  I knew perfectly well that he was no more an
expert  on Golden than I was--he knew what it was, but he's not a user
nor does he  hang around with users.  And when I asked him what was
going to happen if I  didn't get my sight back, I knew he was just as
uncertain and clueless as I was.   But I focused on his voice, tried to
learn what he *could* teach me to help me  through this, and used him
as my eyes.  

The funny thing is, I never felt alone.  It's easy to feel alone when you
can't see  anything.  Blair stayed close to me physically, led me where I
needed to go...  hell, he even slept in my bed that first night when I was
so damned scared I  was never going to see anything but that
nauseating gold light.  It was like  holding on to him was an anchor.  I
didn't feel like I was losing touch with  reality, because I still had
Blair's scent, his heartbeat, the warmth of him next  to me...he was my
reality.

He wields a pretty wicked laser pointer in a crisis.  Only Blair could
turn that into a useful police weapon.

When I realized Blair had gotten a load of that Golden-laced pizza, my
heart  just about stopped.  I could barely find my way around, and he
was in trouble.   Not only was I panicky because my anchor was now
gone, but because he  needed me and I didn't know if I'd have what it
took to be there for him.  When  I challenged him out there in the
police garage, I knew it would be the end for  both of us if it went
wrong.  He'd shoot me and he'd be shot from about four  directions
afterwards.

Somehow, through the fog we were both in--me with no worthwhile
eyesight  and him with very little worthwhile brainpower *or*
eyesight--we  communicated.  I don't know if it was just the sound of
my voice, or something  more...spiritual that he could feel, but he
finally trusted me, and I trusted him  enough to challenge his threats to
shoot.  He didn't really want to shoot me,  and I knew if he did it would
be because he couldn't tell the difference  between me and whatever
hallucinations he was having.  

When I got a hold of the gun and he slid off the car into my arms, I
treasured  the moment, as horrible as it was.  I was so afraid he was
going to die right  there, that I had to memorize the living smell, sound
and feeling of him.  His  heartbeat was racing, he was sweating...and I
vowed if it killed me I'd nail the  bastard who did this to him, blind or
not.  Blind isn't dead--Blair gave me the  strength and the courage and
the reassurance to realize that--and whoever had  hurt him this way was
going to find that out.

One of the hardest things in the world was leaving his bedside to
pursue the  case.  I was so afraid that when I got back, he'd be gone.  He
drifted in and out  a little, said my name a couple of times, and then
even that stopped and he was  silent.  The doctor didn't say he was in a
coma, but he wasn't conscious.  There  was brain activity the whole
time, but until he regained consciousness, no one  knew how coherent
or normal he would be.  And to deaden a brain like his  would be one
of the worst crimes I can imagine.

I know taking off in Simon's car was a hell of a dumb risk, but I knew
that  bastard had come close to killing Blair.  As it was, he might have
caused him  to be a vegetable for the rest of his life.  Killing him
wouldn't have hurt me  even slightly.  But I brought him in--I'm no
murderer, and Blair needed me  more with him than he did in prison.  I
had already decided that if he was  incapacitated or brain damaged
from this fiasco, he would still be with me,  and I'd still be taking care
of him.  He wasn't going to be one of those drooling  drug cases that sit
slumped in a chair in some sanitarium's day room.  I couldn't  very well
look out for him if I was doing time.

When I got back to the hospital that evening, he was still out of it.  I sat
there  and watched him sleep for a while, and finally I sat on the bed
and leaned  close to him.  I finally said what I had to say, because I was
getting scared that  he was never going to come around.  I told him I
loved him, and kissed his  forehead.  And I asked him to come back. 
Then I went back to my chair and  slept there a few feet away.

When he came to the next morning, it was as if God answered every
prayer all  at once.  Not only was he awake, but those incomparable
eyes of his were as  alert and mentally "present" as always, even if a
little sleepy.  I went over to  him and said something inane about him
scaring the hell out of me.  Then he  looked at me real seriously, and
touched my face, and said "I came back like  you asked.  I love you
too."  I almost passed out, and all the stress and the fear  just blurted
out.  I pulled him carefully into my arms and held on while I cried,  and
maybe he did a little too.  

I knew he didn't mean he loved me the *way* I loved him, but he did
love me, and he  was safe and healthy again and alive--and all that was
all that mattered.    I guess that's probably why things didn't take off
with Margaret.  I like her a  lot, and I enjoyed talking to her on the
phone.  I would have liked her as a  friend, but like most women, that
wouldn't be enough for long.  I know that  sounds sexist but in my
experience, it's been true.  Not many single women I've  met want to
stay buddies with single men.  Some do, I know, but I haven't had  a lot
of female *friends*.   They might be out there, but I haven't run into 
many.

She seemed interested in dating, getting romantic and touchy-feely.  I
know I  should just go ahead and do that.  But yet at the same time,
Blair seemed  genuinely discombobulated because I had anything to do
with her.  I wonder  why?  It was like he didn't want us to meet, and
was disappointed when we did,  and then further defeated because she
was coming back to see me.  Could he  have meant something more at
the hospital than brotherly type love?

That's a stretch.  He probably has some other reason, but I'm damned if
I can figure it out.