"No," Blair said firmly, helping Vincent hold Jim down on the old-fashioned hospital bed, "No narcotics or sedatives; he's allergic." Trying not to aggravate his delirious partner's wound, he put more weight on the shoulder under his hands, countering Jim's fight to get up.
Peering over the top of his glasses, the man Vincent had simply called, 'Father,' said acerbically, "If he continues to struggle he will re-open those wounds, and he cannot afford the blood loss. Neither of you mentioned this problem earlier." He held the hypodermic needle up to the light, watching a tiny bead of liquid appear on the tip.
"Why do you think he wouldn't take them to begin with? Please," Blair said, changing tactics and focusing on the woman standing at the foot of the bed. "He had to have had the same sensitivities as a child; tell him!"
Grace Ellison looked uncertainly at her thrashing son, but said, "Even baby aspirin made him sick, Father. And Blair has been living with him for several years now; he'd know if Jim still had problems.'
"Very well." Father laid aside the needle, frustration showing, and studied his patient. "Then we will have to use restraints, though I hesitate to do that. But the risk of more bleeding is too great to allow him to continue like this."
"That," Blair said with grim finality, "will only make him worse." Though he could barely hear his partner's mumbled words, Jim was speaking in Quechua, compulsively trying to warn of danger. Guessing that being tied down would only convince the sentinel that he had to break free of the same enemy who was threatening his people, Blair added, "Let me try to calm him, first, okay?"
Father looked dubious, but Vincent nodded at him and cautiously shifted position so that Blair could get up on the bed with Jim. "Why does he fear for us?" Vincent asked softly, his deep voice easily carrying through Jim's restless murmurs.
Giving him a startled glance, Blair asked, "You speak Quechua?"
"James taught me when he first came back from Peru. I...." Vincent hesitated fractionally, and then admitted with an endearing almost-shyness, "I questioned him about the jungle and its people almost endlessly, for I can never travel to one myself."
That plain statement raised a thousand questions in Blair's mind, not only about this extraordinary person, but also about his partner's relationship with him. Since that was not an unusual state of affairs, he pushed his curiosity away and answered the original question. Catching and holding Jim's head as it tossed, he said, "He's not worried about us or the Chopec, though he's speaking their language, but about his 'tribe.' The Major Crimes department of Cascade P.D, I think. Captain Banks, our best friend, and the rest of them *are* in danger, and because of us. Since we know too much, they're going to be under intense scrutiny by the people we're hiding from, and we don't know how far they'll go to find us."
Jim's eyes were closed, but at Blair's touch, he stopped struggling, though his lips kept moving with silent warnings. His skin was hot, almost burning Blair's palms, and Jim groped weakly until he found the front of Blair's shirt to lock his fists into. Muttering a little louder, he tried to shake Blair, obviously needing to emphasize his urgency.
**Shh, Enqueri, shhh,** Blair murmured in the Chopec tongue, grateful for the practice sessions they'd had in the past. **You've done your duty. Rest now.**
"Why not use English?" Grace asked worriedly, absently smoothing the bedding as if to tuck her son in. "Does he think he's back in the jungle?"
"Actually, I think it's because he sees himself as having the same role in Major Crimes that he did with the Chopec," Blair answered distractedly, fingers gently massaging the skull they held steady in an effort to calm. "He was sort of a watchman or guardian for them, and for the past few months, that's what he's been doing in Cascade - watching over the department, trying to protect it. He's hurting, his instincts are set on high, and he's reverting back to the mindset that allowed him to survive in Peru, including the language."
"So we have to convince him that his fellow officers are safe," Vincent said understandingly.
"He'll hear if we lie," Blair said without thinking.
Carefully he leaned down so that only Jim could understand him when he spoke. **Enqueri, your people need their sentinel to heal, to be able to fight beside them when it is time. Be calm; rest!**
Eyes suddenly flying open, Jim said clearly in English, "Chief, I have to warn Simon!"
"I'll take care of it," Blair promised.
With an unexpected surge of power, Jim nearly got up, forcing Blair to all but sit on him as Vincent used his greater size and weight to pin his shoulders. "No! No, you have to stay here. You said you'd stay here!"
"He will not leave this place," Vincent said flatly, brilliant blue eyes staring intently into fevered ones. "You must trust us to find a way to warn your Captain."
"Vincent," Father began sharply.
Not breaking his focused gaze, Vincent interrupted, "Catherine is the Senior Assistant District Attorney; it is not unusual for her to call police departments in other cities for a wide variety of reasons. Do you understand me, James? We can send word through her to Simon Banks without further endangering either him or Blair."
For a split second Jim froze in their combined grasp, then he shook his head violently despite Blair's hold, and reverted to the Chopec's language to mutter, **Enemies, enemies all around!** His damaged body began to collapse under the combination of its injuries and his battle, but he still struggled to leave the bed.
Deciding that another tactic was needed, Blair stretched out beside Jim, no longer trying to restrain him. **Enqueri, stay with me, please? We have done what we must, and I'm so tired! Keep guard while I sleep?**
The fight in Jim slowly subsided, and he repeated, sounding confused, **Stay beside you?**
**Yes. This place is strange to me, and I don't know who to trust." There was more honest fear in the words that Blair expected from himself, but he didn't try to call it back.
Jim studied him thoroughly, allowing Vincent to push him down to the mattress and his mother to pull a sheet up over his bandaged body. "I'll stay, then," he said, sounding surprisingly rational. Raising a hand to cover one of Blair's where it rested on his cheek, he leaned into the touch for a moment, and added reluctantly, "I could use some rest, too."
"Been a frantic twenty-four hours," Blair said, trying to smile. "Running from crooked cops, becoming cargo in the world's oldest prop plane, surviving kamikaze New York cabbies, doing a little amateur spelunking.... Not to mention getting shot."
"Kind of typical for us," Jim mumbled, eyelids finally drifting down.
"Well, at least I wasn't taken hostage or kidnapped this time." As carefully as he could, Blair made himself comfortable beside him, leaning his head on one hand and reaching to stroke Jim's cheek with the other.
"No," Grace said quietly. "Like this - his hair, barely touching." She began to sing an old lullaby, feathering her fingertips over her son's brush cut, hardly disturbing the strands and startling Blair with the beauty of her voice.
He imitated her caress, and Jim grumbled something unintelligible, gradually relaxing, his weight solid and heated along Blair's side. When he was sure his sentinel was under, Grace's song becoming only a soothing hum, he started to leave, only to have Jim immediately tense and begin to try to wake.
"Hoisted by your own petard," Vincent murmured with a hint of a smile, reaching for the blanket Grace held out to him.
"Damn! I *have* to contact Simon." Not trying to move again, Blair pushed his hair away from his face, thinking furiously on how to get up without disturbing his partner. "Jim's right; he does have to be told what happened so he can protect himself and the rest of the department."
"Will his phone calls be monitored?" Vincent asked, draping the covering over him, and nodding to Grace as she settled back to watch over her child.
"Well, yeah, probably, but..."
"Then your voice could be recognized."
"I'll have someone else speak for me then. Maybe whoever leads me up to a phone?" He didn't want to argue, but Jim's urgency had been contagious. Almost he could feel the minutes ticking away, despite his own body's urgings to cuddle close to his partner and sleep.
"Then why not do as we said we would?" Kneeling beside the bed on the other side of Jim, Vincent looked earnestly into Blair's face. "If you tell me what Catherine should say so that your captain will know the message is from you, I will ask her to find a plausible reason to call."
He sounded reasonable, more reasonable than Blair felt up to dealing with, and he looked around the room vaguely hunting for an escape from the conversation before he succumbed to the temptation to nap, just for a few minutes. All he saw was a chamber half-carved, half-born from the earth, filled with old, if not obsolete medical equipment. Grace sat silently in the corner at the head of the bed, and Father was in a chair at one side of the room, his expression forbidding and stern.
At Blair's glance, Father said, "You should be concerned. It's not safe Above for Vincent."
"Safer for me than him, today," Vincent argued mildly, patiently waiting for Blair's decision. "Catherine was up very early to bring us those supplies this morning before she went to work. She told me before I helped bring James here that she would go straight home to sleep when she was done for the day, so I will not have to wait. It's not as though I haven't visited her balcony many times before, Father."
For some reason, that seemed to disturb the doctor even more, and Blair sensed thick under-currents between father and son, wondering at their cause. "And I gain another gray hair each time you do!" Father snapped. "But I know perfectly well there's no reasoning with you on the matter."
"Hey," Blair butted in, not wanting a dispute started because of him. "All I need is a guide and Vincent to keep Jim in bed until I can get back."
As if reading his mind, Vincent said, "This is an old, old debate between us; one which will never be resolved, I fear. And your choice is between trusting Catherine or risking more injury for James; I warned you earlier that he would not rest if not certain you were safe."
Covering the hand Blair had left for the moment on Jim's chest, Vincent added, "I know how hard it is to know who to trust and with how much. Our entire existence here is balanced on that sword's edge. But I am asking for you to do so anyway, for James' sake."
Worn, worried, and torn between two equally important needs, Blair studied Vincent carefully, trying not to see his unusual surface, but the person living within it. *That* man reminded him of Incacha, and of an old Shao-lin priest his mother had known. And, in some indefinable way, of Blair himself, and he found himself nodding slowly. "Use the words 'Peru,' 'inquiry,' and 'twenty-four hours' as close together as she can without being noticeably awkward. It means we're safe, and we'll contact him online at 7PM the day after the call. He should ask her if she's ever been fishing if he got the message."
With a gentle squeeze of understanding, Vincent started to get to his feet, but before he could, Blair used their still-linked hands to touch his new friend on the cheek. "Thank you," he said, words for once failing him.
Apparently startled, Vincent blinked at him for a second, then smiled that shy near-smile of his as he stood. "You're welcome. Now, rest; you'll need it. James is *not* a good patient."
"I know, I know," Blair said ruefully, at last giving into his own fatigue. Snuggling beside the too hot body, he made a place for his head on the pillow next to Jim's. "Man gives a whole new meaning to the word 'cranky.' And I am *not* going to nursemaid him; I've got enough trouble without needing to find a place to hide his body."
"Leaving that task to me is no way to show gratitude," Vincent quipped. With a quick pat to Grace's shoulder, he crossed to stand beside his father, obviously waiting from some sign from the older man.
"Say hello to her for me," Father said grudgingly. "And be careful."
"As always."
Sleepily Blair watched him leave, distantly admiring his quick grace. "For once," he muttered, "I can understand why Jim kept a secret."
***
This time of the year, the city Above was cloaked in darkness early, but even if it had been full noon, Vincent was not sure he could have stopped his feet from hurrying toward Catherine's home. It was not the urgency of his task that drove him, however, but something else. Something he couldn't quite name and which he associated in an odd way with the emotions that burned so brightly in James and Blair.
His footsteps echoed not only through the tunnels he traveled, but in his own mind, as if he had made this headlong rush before, fueled by the same passions. His heart leaped in his chest, the regular lubs and dubs of it disrupted, not by his pace, but by wild anticipation, the need to see Catherine a living thing that spurred him into running faster and faster. And some mad part of him believed wholly that she was as eager to see him as he was for her.
The more rational part of him scoffed at the very notion. She was the dearest of friends, and she cherished him deeply, but there was no place in their relationship for this ungovernable intensity. He had been told often enough that before he had been ill so long ago that they had been closer than friends, closer even than lovers. If that was so, then their bond had been burned away by his fever, along with so many of the memories from those first years they knew each other.
And surely, if that had been the case, it would have resurfaced by now. Surely if Catherine felt such overwhelming passion for him, he would sense it. Return it. Know it for what it was rather than ponder why the sight of Jim holding his companion's hand to his cheek would make him acche with an unnamed longing.
With all his will he pushed that line of thought away, hardly noticing that the action was a familiar one, and not noticing at all that he had never questioned that it *did* have to be pushed away. Nearly to Catherine's building, it was time to concentrate on reaching her apartment without being seen. Once on her balcony, he would be safe enough for a while. In recent years she had taken up gardening as a hobby and had a trellis installed over nearly half of it, grown over now with a profusion of climbing vines and hardy rose plants, creating a shelter that blocked curious eyes even in the light of day.
For the first time it occurred to him to wonder if that were deliberate on her part; a way of making a safe-haven for him to visit with her.
That thought, too, he tried to push away. Perhaps because of it, though, he tried to see Catherine, not as a friend that he was paying a practical call on, but as a woman he had only recently met, much as a man might make a concerted effort to pay attention to a well-trodden path, instead of taking it for granted. He watched her closely as he tapped at her French door, and was rewarded with a expression of pure joy that found its mate in the unnamed something that had driven him to rush to her side.
As quickly as it had come, it was gone, shut behind an impenetrable door within her and denied by a quick transition to one of mere happiness. "Vincent!" she called out, swiftly crossing the room to fling open the balcony doors. "Is something wrong Below? How can I help?"
Inwardly Vincent winced, taking a step back into the small arbor, his own joy leaving as abruptly. Had she really come to believe that the only reason he would darken her doorstep was because her aid was required? And, in truth, when was the last time he had visited for the sheer pleasure of her company?
Resolving that was going to stop immediately, he admitted reluctantly, "I have a favor to ask you on behalf of James and Blair."
Leaning on the doorframe, Catherine said cautiously, "If they're in trouble with the law...."
"Not in the way you think," he interrupted quietly. "They haven't shared the details as yet. James was in serious condition by the time we reached the hospital chamber, and we've spent the day trying to lower his fever from the infection. I know enough to believe that they are in the right; in fact, their greatest concern is the danger to their fellow officers in Cascade."
"He mentioned dirty cops." Her tone held a world of disgust and resignation. It vaguely troubled Vincent, as it had in the past, that he could not *feel* those emotions from her as he often could with most others.
Yet again putting aside a train of thought for later consideration, he said sympathetically, "I know that you have been having your own difficulties with that problem; surely you can understand James' concern?"
"Practically an epidemic of them," she said, then smiled tiredly. "What do you want me to do?"
Relieved, he outlined Blair's instructions, giving her the captain's name, and ending by warning that there could very likely be listeners to the conversation. To his surprise, she said slowly, "They must think the corruption extends pretty high, even outside the police department. Tapping a captain's phone isn't easy."
Considering, he agreed with a nod. "They left not only their home, but their city itself, as if they believed not even their friends and fellow officers there could keep them safe. And they fear for those self-same friends."
Obviously deep in thought, Catherine asked, "Do you think they would mind if I came Below tomorrow and asked them some questions? I could give them any news Banks might be able to share, too."
"I can't see why not, though James may be too unwell to be of much assistance." Seeing an opportunity, he added, "And you are always welcome, Catherine, even if only for a hug and a few moments peace." He could tell that pleased her, but, again he couldn't *feel* it, and his irritation at the lack dug at him as never before.
More troubling was her air of expectation, as if, now that his mission had been accomplished, all that was left was his departure. Seating himself on the sturdy bench tucked into the corner of her balcony, he confessed a part of his thoughts. "It seems lately that one of us is always rushing away to tend to one important task or another. I've missed you."
Catherine drifted closer, almost as if against her will, and said wryly, "One of the pitfalls of modern life. The small things needed for daily existence all add up into this huge time-consuming thing that takes us away from what really matters."
"To the point where it is difficult to remember sometimes what really *does* matter," Vincent said, spreading his cloak invitingly over the bench. "In this case, pleasant company and a few quiet hours of conversation. Or do you need to go to bed early? I know it's been a long day for you."
"I bought that Tom Robbins book Victoria recommended," Catherine said thoughtfully, her face beginning to glow. "And was planning on reading myself to sleep. Maybe you could read it to me instead?"
"With pleasure." He waited while she hurried inside to get it, her growing eagerness both pricking at his conscience and giving him a startling sense of male satisfaction. She came back, book in hand, and dressed warmly for the cool air, book in hand. "I love the way Robbins' view of the world is skewed," she confessed. "Profound and ludicrous at the same time."
"Victoria complains about him because she can't decide how he should be classified for the library. Satire? Science fiction? Contemporary?" Vincent said, taking the novel from her as she tucked herself next to his side as if she'd fit there forever.
"All of the above?" She grinned widely, drawing a corner of his cloak over her shoulders. "Much as it was inevitable that someone would take the profusion of books Below in hand and organize them, I do wish she weren't so... organized?"
He chuckled, pleased that he'd lightened her mood, and turned to the first chapter. As engrossing as the story was, though, she soon grew heavy and still against him, head drooping onto his upper arm. Reading a few pages more, just to be certain, he stopped when she didn't react to a long pause, peering down into her face as best he could.
The tenderness he felt at her complete trust was expected; the sharp slice of physical need was not. Startled, even alarmed by it, he gingerly shifted Catherine until he could pick her up, and carried her to her bedroom. He half-expected the innocent act of tucking her in would kill his increasingly powerful awareness with tenderness, but her beauty, framed by the pale satin of her pillow and tumble of her short blonde hair, only increased it. More than anything he wanted to comb those soft strands into a corona of subdued gold, waking her gently with the action, then bury his face in them until they were completely disarrayed and his own locks were tangled hopelessly with them.
And that was only the start of how completely he wanted them to be intertwined. A breath that was nearly a growl caught in his throat, and he made himself step away from the bed. Unable to convince himself to leave just yet, he looked frantically around the room for a diversion from his burgeoning need, trying to summon his mindset from earlier, to see the room for the first time.
On some level, he had always believed this to be part of her world, and, as such, he had entered seldom and reluctantly. Putting that belief aside, he had to admit, that, like Catherine, it was more a melding of both worlds. Her bed was covered with a handmade quilt in a Dresden plate pattern, the dark colors touched by fragments of satin that matched the pillowcase. He remembered very clearly trying not to laugh as he 'distracted' Catherine while Mouse took the case to be used when the children below sewed the quilt. The robe across the back of her vanity chair was of the same patchwork-and-love quality, this time in plush terry and flannel. Books of all ages were everywhere, many with bookmarks at favored passages. Scattered among the expensive glass paperweights and eggs she collected were framed works of art by many, many children - some of which had grown beyond childhood by now.
Truth be told, it had been a long, long time since Catherine had solely been of Above or Below, but instead had managed gracefully to balance with a foot in both. All he could think of was *why* would she do so, when it had to be difficult and frustrating to always hide one part of her life from the other. Why had she not become like other Helpers, contacting he or Father only when necessary? Or taken the final step and moved below? He knew that she was in danger daily from her job, and that, more frustrating to her, it was an impossible and endless endeavor.
As if to find the answers, he was drawn back to the bed, fingers timidly tracing the arc of her eyebrow, where a nearly invisible scar reminded him of how she came into his life.
"Vincent," she murmured, sleepily, happily, and caught his hand under hers to press her face into it. With a contented sigh, she dropped deeper into sleep, a tiny smile lingering on her lips.
He never knew how long he knelt beside her, captured as completely as a unicorn by a maiden. It was the faint changes of a city rousing itself for the day that finally broke his stasis, sending him running *from* Catherine more quickly that he had *to* her.
***
Waking a good hour before the alarm went off, Catherine stretched luxuriously, too awake to fall back to sleep but too cozy to want to get up. The night's dreams still lingered, leaving her very sensually aware of her body in a cat-contented way, and she reached for the drawer in the night stand to take advantage of both her unexpected free time and her mood. While the toy took care of the physical part, she shut her eyes and went back to the last dream.
Like all of them, it took place in the most prosaic of situations - a picnic in the park, though it could have been a walk by the lake or watching old, sad movies on the television in her apartment. They all ended in basically the same way; with Vincent making love to her. Sometimes he was tender, sometimes he was fierce, but in the last one he had been so focused, so intent on her it was if he were seeking more than physical union with her.
The simple thought of that was enough to bring her to a very satisfying finish, and she idly caressed herself in afterglow, comparing the dreams to the reality. Though she had only had the joy of knowing Vincent once, the memory of the solid, strong mass of him was as clear as ever, enabling her to call up nearly every flex of muscle and the immensity of him within her.
But he had been in the throes of bestial necessity, hardly there as 'Vincent' at all, and she had often wondered if he had come to her of his own accord, instead of being forced by instinct, how different it could have been. How much more wonderful it could have been. How wonderful it could be if he had remembered that brief encounter.
Abruptly she tossed off the covers and got out of bed. She felt too good, inside and out, to depress herself with might-have-beens when the choice she had made had been the only one possible. *Was* the only one possible, and she would not regret it for any reason, especially not after last night. The visit had felt like so many of his earliest ones, when he had been so eager to see her that any excuse would do, making her feel alive and energized despite the long day.
The excuse he had had for coming to her was a valid one, though, and she turned it over in her mind to find a way to accomplish Jim's request as she readied and left for work, not noticing that she glowed like a well-loved woman. She sat through the morning briefing with the District Attorney, ignoring Joe as he kept glancing at her with a sly smile, and barely resisted the temptation to make a childish face at him. A casual comment during the meeting gave her an idea on how to contact the captain in Cascade without calling attention to herself, and, though she knew Joe was going to rag on her, she let him catch up with her as they left the conference room.
"You look like a cat that found the cream sitting out," he grinned. "No comment as usual, Radcliff?"
They walked down the hallway past the other ADA's, each beginning the day's business, and all of them covertly watching her and the District Attorney. Joe and Catherine had never stopped fighting with each other, occasionally with spectacular displays of temper that were very entertaining to the rest of the staff. Because she knew they would be overheard, she said casually, "Have you made your share of calls yet inviting out-of-state D.A.'s and police department heads for the seminars the Mayor wants to hold next year? We can't even begin to start planning it unless we've got some serious numbers for commitments."
"As 'no comment' goes, I'd give that one a 'B.' It was really just avoiding the question." Joe looked delighted: Big Brother getting ready to pounce on the reason for Little Sister's good mood.
"It beats being told the painful way you could potentially spend the rest of the morning," she shot back cheerily. "I guess that translates as, 'no, I've got better things to do than work on one of His Honor's political showcases."
"Damn straight, and so do you." He grinned. "If I promise that when I'm Mayor I'll *always* leave that kind of bull to my campaign staff like I should, will you let me in on what's - or should I say who's - got you lit up like the holidays?"
"Ever notice that politicians never keep their promises, Joe?"
"Okay, that 'no comment' is going to have to be an 'A' - a deft and sure change of subject. Come on, think of it this way; if I can go home and tell Nanc you've got someone new in your life, she'll quit inviting all those single men to dinner when you come over."
They were at the door to her office, which he opened for her mock-gallantly, and she swept through it, swinging it shut as she called out, "You've been married seven years, now. What makes you think she invites them over for me?"
His roar of laughter could be heard clearly through the wood, and Catherine leaned back on the door for a moment, smiling to herself. It faded when she heard clearly, "It's good to see you so happy again, Cathy. Seems like a long time."
Had it been that long? She wandered over to her desk and sat, not really seeing the usual pile of paperwork cluttering the top of it. Had it?
Absolutely refusing to answer that question, she forcefully pulled her attention back to the job at hand, and picked up the phone to begin the first of the day's calls. In the middle of them, where it wouldn't look particularly suspicious to anyone checking her phone log, she put in a call to Cascade, not surprised by the polite but abrupt, "Banks." when it was picked up.
"This is Catherine Chandler, Senior Assistant District Attorney in New York City," she started, automatically pitching her voice to 'persuading the witness' tones.
"How can I help you, Counselor?" he said, with a shade more interest and courtesy.
"In all fairness," Catherine started, unwillingly impressed by the subtle change and richness of his voice. "I have to warn you that this one of those annoying phone calls disguised as professional courtesy which is really an attempt at blatant begging to make my superiors happy.'
Banks chuckled with genuine humor, raising him another notch in her estimation. "Done more of those than I care to think about myself. What's the spiel?"
"A no-expense paid but plenty of prestige associated trip to The Big Apple for a series of seminars on Comparative Law Enforcement Techniques of North American Cities. They're trying to tie them together by common problems or crimes. For instance, you might be interested in comparing notes with other captains or DA's who have coastal waters: smuggling, docks workers and their union problems, illegal immigration."
"Long way to go to hear the same complaints with no solutions." He still sounded friendly, but was obviously becoming distracted.
Seeing her chance, she said, "Could be worse; could be in the back of no where. Someplace like Peru. Oh, well, I only promised to make inquiries to keep my boss off my back. This should keep him happy for at least twenty-four hours." Instantly she sensed a change, impossible as that should have been over a phone, and since she was *listening* for it, she heard the emotion in his voice.
"Peru's not so bad," Banks countered airily, belying what seemed to be powerful relief underneath. "At least I could get some decent fishing done there. And don't let me get side-tracked into boring you with my fish stories."
"I'll bet you have some interesting ones." In fact, she thought, I'd count on it. "Sure I can't persuade you to come to the Big City and tell me a few in person?"
"You're making it sound more attractive, Ms. Chandler. But I'd still have to say no. The budget is pretty tight for that sort of thing and mine is spoken for until, oh, about the time I'll be old enough to retire."
"Maybe I could keep on you my potential list, just in case the unexpected happens?" And so we'll have a reason to talk again, if necessary, she added to herself.
As if he'd read her mind, Banks readily agreed. "It can't hurt. If nothing else, I'll have a chance to hear your voice again."
Catherine laughed, surprised by the subtle compliment. "Flattery isn't supposed to get you anywhere, but you've definitely made my day."
"In that case, you've made mine," he shot back lightly. Then his tone changed to one that seemed to carry genuine regret. "In the meantime, I've got a dozen things on my desk all screaming my name and insisting that I get back to them. Thank you for the call, Ms. Chandler."
"And thank you." She hung up and stared at the phone for a moment, a small smile of satisfaction in place. That had felt like a good deed done for a good man, and, mood improved again, she reached into her briefcase to take out her personal cell and laptop. Hooking them together, she went online without going through the city admin's network since that wasn't secure enough for what she wanted. Since the account for both cell and server were through one of her late father's trusts, it was unlikely that anyone could access the records without digging so deep and hard they'd attract attention. Then all traces of the calls would disappear.
Almost the instant she was on, a request from Edie to chat popped up, and she opened the screen, confident that this was *one* conversation that absolutely no one would be able to listen to.
**Hey, Uptown - you gonna be dropping more cash my way today?**
**As if you'd complain. I know about that Mercedes you've got your eye on.**
**That's old news, girlfriend. I'm looking at SUV's these days; men are really into them. Perfect conversation opener when a major hunk catches my eye. Though I have to tell you, for the life of me I can't understand why. They're just souped up station wagons.
Anyway, what do you need?**
Catherine thought for a second, nearly reconsidering. Jim was a not only a friend of Vincent's, but he had been a sort of unofficial Helper for many years. Prying into his background was breaking one of the rules of the people who lived Below who were often trying to start over after mistakes made Above. But he was a cop, carrying big, big trouble on his back. If it was possible for it to reach into New York for him, she wanted advanced warning. And she didn't know Blair at all.
Feeling guilty, she typed, **As much as you can find on James Ellison and Blair Sandburg, both of Cascade PD, Washington, without alerting anybody that they're being checked out. It's important.**
**Same as usual - download into this account, then do a wipe?**
**Yes, and be extra careful. Edie....** She thought again, the added, **This one falls under the heading of people you never heard of, okay?**
There was a long pause from her old friend, and Catherine tried to convince herself that it was because she was answering another client, possibly over the phone, but more likely through a chat. Isearch4u.com had been one of the first Internet companies to offer to do online searches for clients too busy or too computer illiterate to do it themselves, looking mostly for lost people or hard to find objects. Edie was easily the best and busiest of the lot, mostly because she was the sneakiest, just shy of being a true illegal hacker.
But, unsurprisingly, when letters began to march over the screen, they read, **How long you going to keep up this super-spy stuff? You've been collected files on people and crimes for *years* now. Sooner or later, somebody's going to catch on to the fact that you know that your office is dirty, along with half the cops in the state, it seems like.**
Instantly she answered, **As long as it takes. Eventually I'm going to get something substantial, something that isn't circumstantial or supposition that I can ram through the system no matter how corrupt it is, and the whole decaying mess is going to fall apart, People deserve better than to have dirty cops and crooked lawyers running the courts. Damnit, *you* could be the one that gets falsely accused to hide the real perp, or who gets hurt by some monster that should be behind bars but isn't because a dirty cop let him off for their own reasons.**
**Better me than you being shot down in cold blood because somebody finally decides the Senior ADA is asking too many questions about the wrong things.**
**I'm being careful; almost too careful.** She paused to rub at her forehead, the familiar frustration hitting her yet again. **Why else do you think it's taking so long?**
**Well be even more careful. The last thing I want is to have to attend your funeral.**
**Don't. Just drop that e-mail I had you hide for me to every major news investigator in this filthy city and pretend you didn't know me that well.**
**Jesus, do you think we can change the topic? I'm getting depressed. So what's new in my old digs?**
Catherine indulged in a few minutes of gossip, then reluctantly signed off. She had a great deal of work waiting for her, and wanted to get as much as possible done as soon a possible so she could go Below. To question Jim and Blair, she told herself firmly; though it was Vincent's brilliantly happy eyes she was seeing in her mind.
An hour before quitting, she checked to see what Edie had sent her, not surprised by anything that she found in Jim Ellison's files. Some of it she knew from casual conversation with Vincent, or from Grace's happy sharing when they bumped into each other. Ex-Army Ranger Captain, lost in Peru for 18 months, Honorable discharge, then distinguished career in the police force, Cop of the Year several years running - but it was really Vincent's good opinion of him that she counted on.
Blair Sandburg, on the other hand, had her frowning half way through the meager information that could be found on him. Started college young with an High School Equivalency degree from home schooling, did excellent *when* he was in school. There were gaps where he'd dropped out for whatever reason until he began work on his master's in Anthropology. His field of study worried her since Below could be considered an anthropologist's dream, but when she began reading clips from newspapers about a fraudulent dissertation for his PhD, she sat up straighter in her chair, wondering why the hell Ellison still worked with him. And, more importantly, why he would risk bringing Below someone who would turn a friend into a sideshow attraction for a degree. What Sandburg could do with the community below, let alone Vincent, gave her cold shudders.
Hastily she finished up work, and rushed out, deliberately giving the impression she had official business that she had to take care of immediately. Since that was the truth on most occasions, no one questioned her, and she ducked into the closest entrance to the tunnels after taking extra care to make sure she hadn't been followed.
The pipes announced her almost immediately, but she didn't stop to answer them herself, going straight to the hospital chamber. Half-expecting to find Vincent, or at least Father there, she was surprised to find the small cave empty except for Jim and Blair asleep on the bed. The sight of them lying curled close together, more like lovers than friends, stopped her headlong rush, drawing her up short at the door, heart leaping oddly in her chest.
Slowly she crept into the room, not wanting to disturb them, though she couldn't say why. Jim was on his back, face pale and sweaty, and he was bare from the waist up, showing his bandaged middle. The arm on his good side was flopped over Blair's shoulder's, loosely hugging him, and his head was turned so that his features were half hidden in the auburn curls pillowed on his shoulder. The younger man was on his side, snoring softly, one hand limply curled just above the bandages, one leg thrown over both of Jim's. He looked as tired as his partner looked ill, as if it he were hurting, too.
One strand of Blair's hair was stuck to the corner of Jim's mouth, and occasionally his lips twitched as if to get rid of it, but he didn't move to do so. On impulse Catherine reached out to brush it away for him, and froze when glacier-cold blue eyes popped open before she could touch him. Realizing he might still be fevered, she whispered, "I didn't want to wake you, but I have a message from Captain Banks. Or at least, I think he gave me one for you."
The blue softened considerably. "Catherine," Jim said, clearly identifying her to himself. "I... remember Vincent... What did Simon have to say?" He spoke very quietly, clearly trying not to rouse his companion.
As best she could, Catherine repeated the conversation between her and the captain, trying to give it word for word. At 'fish stories' Jim half-smiled, and at the joke about budget and retiring, the wary tenseness in his expression relaxed considerably. "Greg Church bought our cover," he murmured. "Or at least isn't actively hunting for us on some trumped up charge or another and is leaving Major Crimes alone for the time being."
"That's what the dirty cops have been doing with the ones who got in their way?" Catherine asked.
"Sometimes," Jim answered flatly. Plainly changing the subject, he added, "One of the tunnels under 42nd street unexpectedly flooded. Nobody was hurt, but Vincent, Father and most of the others are down there helping with evacuations and seeing what caused it."
"Guess I wasn't paying attention to the pipe messages when I came down," she confessed.
Jim's eyelids were flickering, and he mumbled to himself, "Have to find a way to give Simon the details. Probably guessed that we know something about Judge Toma's death."
Giving in to impulse again, Catherine finally swept the curls closest to Jim's face down into the rest of the mass under his chin. "Go back to sleep. I'll go talk to Vincent and between us, we'll work something out."
Long fingers weakly caught her hand before she could pull it free, and pressed the back of it to Jim's lips in a barely-there kiss before letting go. With the same half-smile from earlier, he said, "Thank you. You might have literally saved Simon's life."
"By letting him know you were alive?"
"By keeping him from trying to find out what went wrong. Church and his people have only gotten a toehold into Major Crimes, if that, and Banks is a big part of the reason. They'd love to have a way to get to him."
"In that case... Look, I'll make a deal with you," Catherine said earnestly. "Tell me about what's going on in Cascade, and I'll do everything I can to help you and Blair while you're here. Money, contacts, whatever."
Eyes shut, breath evening out, Jim didn't say anything, and after a moment, she decided that even if he were awake he wouldn't talk to her again until he'd had a chance to think. Knowing that if she were in the same position, she'd do things the same way, she whispered, "Sleep well," and left.
But not without wistfully looking over her shoulder at the pair of them.
***
Jim listened to Catherine make her way toward the flooded tunnels, not really thinking about tracking her, but finding it effortless with the many tongues of the pipes gossiping her along her way. The info was immersed in the same metallic tonks! and ticks! that were the 'all's well' calls from the sentries, minor alerts about the whereabouts of children, and an occasional question. All the messages wove a blanket of security around the small community, letting him feel as though it were well-guarded and allowing him to forgo his own sentry duty.
Bit by bit he drew his senses inward, first to the small chamber where he lay, then to their bed, until he was completely within himself for the first time since leaving the Chopec village and Incacha. Not even when he and Blair worked on focusing techniques was he able stop guarding, at least on some level, even when he was too distracted to understand the warnings he received. Now, layer-by-layer, breath-by-breath, he relaxed utterly, giving way to the pain and the exhaustion plaguing him.
The very act of surrendering their safety to others allowed some of the pain to fade, created as it was from his fight against it. The rest poked and nagged at him, until by accident, while trying to think about anything else, he noticed how well Blair fit beside him. The weight of his partner's head was situated perfectly so as to not cut off circulation to his arm, yet it seemed completely comfortable for Blair for it to be where it was. His weight was molded along Jim's side and hip like a form-fitting pillow, and the movements of his chest harmonized with Jim's own breathing in a subtle dance of give and take. Even the hushed whoosh of blood through arteries and veins and the soft throb of Blair's heart worked in chorus with Jim's, lulling him as if he lay on his surf board in the middle of the ocean, miles from harm or trouble.
He floated in the sensory pool, remotely hearing all that went on around him, but not needing to think or respond. There was a ripple when Blair woke and tended to personal needs, then to his, but he rode over it effortlessly, not rousing. Food came and his guide ate, which Jim absently approved of, and his body automatically took in the broth offered to him. At some point, summoned by minor changes in the sturdy form so near to him, he blindly pressed soft kisses to a broad forehead, comforting Blair through a nightmare from which he never completely woke.
Other than that, there was only the hum of peace from around and within, leaving him content and adrift from reality.
An indefinite time later, voices at his bedside stirred his interest enough to listen with half an ear at a distance, too cocooned in the gentle rhythms of his guide's life to do more than that.
"...never seen anything like it. You can almost see the flesh knit," Father said in amazement. A distant series of tugs told Jim that his bandages were being changed for his wound to be seen to, but he hardly felt it.
"He's so still! But he's not in a coma or something?" Blair sounded concerned, but accepting, willing to trust Father's medical skill now that they weren't butting heads over treatment.
Vincent's furred hand brushed gently over Jim's head, and he would have smiled if he hadn't been so far from his face. "He is at peace," the deep voice rumbled. "As if he were a child in the bosom of his family with nothing to fear or concern himself with." There was a symphony of fabric over fabric; Vincent must have stood. "A meditative state?"
Almost feeling the sharp look Blair gave Vincent at the comment, Jim wasn't surprised when he admitted, "When we discovered he didn't respond normally to medicines, I taught him some techniques to help him control pain."
"Humph! At least it wasn't testosterone behind him refusing the Novocain when the first time I examined him," Father mumbled, mostly to himself.
As if he hadn't been interrupted, Blair went on. "But this goes way, way beyond that. The most we've ever been able to do before this is keep it tolerable."
"A difference in environment," Vincent suggested. "A hospital is not the most conducive of locations for deep relaxation."
"I wonder," Blair mused aloud, his voice rich with curiosity that Jim could nearly taste. "He's not reacting to having the bandages changed, but maybe we should skip the bed-bath, just in case. As deep he is, letting him come out of on his own is probably the way to go." Jim heard a whisper of fingers through hair. "On the other hand, I'm totally gross. How do I go about cleaning up? Or maybe you have a Helper who could loan me their bathroom long enough for a hot shower? I do *not* want to think about how long it's been since I washed my hair."
"There's a very practical reason this is the hospital chamber," Father said distractedly, and a waft of air said that he gestured. "There is an abundant supply of hot water down the corridor, and we've improvised a shower facility.
"Come, I'll show you where to find the towels and soap," Vincent coaxed. "We will be no more than a call away if we're needed."
"Go child," Father encouraged. "I would prefer not to have an audience for a few of the things I need to do for this wound."
"I'd just as soon not watch," Blair admitted. "Hot water sounds a lot more appealing."
Too wrapped in Blair's presence to back off, Jim helplessly followed him with his hearing, though it was his habit to give his partner privacy under normal circumstances. It only took a moment for them to arrive at the shower, the smell of it rich with the scents of the earth despite the care he knew it was given to be kept clean.
"While you wash, I'll see about finding a change for you," Vincent offered, his voice echoing slightly in the small room.
"You'll probably have to burn these," The joke came out muffled as fabric went over Blair's head. "Oh." The syllable was said in a completely different tone. "Damn. I have to find someplace safe to put this, where the kids can't find it."
"Your weapon?" Vincent asked, confusion apparent at the loathing in Blair's voice.
"I hate it," Blair answered the unspoken question. "I hate carrying it, hate taking care of it, hate having to worry about where it is, hate what it *does,* but, but...." His voice was quivering by last word, and Jim could smell/hear changes that spoke of suppressed tears.
"Blair?" Vincent sounds surrounded Blair, and Jim began frantically grabbing after true consciousness as he realized his guide was shaking violently, trying not to have a panic attack. It shouldn't be Vincent holding Blair during it, but him. It *had* to be him.
"S... sorry... g... oh, god." A few tears were trickling despite Blair's best efforts, and he muttered weakly, "too much, too much."
"It's okay," Vincent murmured, as if to a child. "You're safe here, *he's* safe here."
"N... Not that," Blair stammered. "Too many extremes, too fast." It took him a few minutes, then he said in a nearly normal voice, "You know, less than a year ago I was a grad student, a teacher thinking about tenure and research. Then I screwed up big time, and lost it all, nearly lost *everything,* but Jim, Jim, he doesn't let go. So I became his official partner, and then his fellow conspirator, and then a fugitive with him and, and, and...." He gasped quietly. "What am I going to do now? What place do I have down here, what use am I going to be? Much as I hate this thing, it gave me a role, a direction."
The pain in his words was too much for Jim, and he jerked himself back to his body, eyes flying open in time to see Father limp from the room. "I've fucked up again," he muttered to himself. He stared blackly at the ceiling, refusing to let himself go to Blair. He didn't have the right to try to comfort him, to remind him of the promise they'd traded on the balcony at the loft not that long ago. If it hadn't been for him, Blair wouldn't have been in the department, wouldn't have seen that judge die, and wouldn't be in danger now.
Unwanted, other broken promises, other broken people he'd left in his wake paraded across his mind - Lila, Incacha, Carolyn, his men in Peru - a line that stretched all the way back to Bud. "Every thing I touch turns to shit," he thought tiredly, throat aching from emotions too powerful to be released. "I can't love them enough, can't protect them well enough, can't do anything except drag them into the sewer with me."
Footsteps came down the hall toward him, and he ponderously rolled to his side away from the door to hide that he was awake. His wounds ached and threatened to tear open, forcing a grunt of pain from him. Bad as it was, it didn't compare to the agony of knowing that he'd destroyed Blair's life yet again. That in his blind quest for what he thought was right, he'd done what he'd silently swore with everything he had that he would never, ever do again - hurt his partner.
Grace came into the room and re-arranged the sheet over his shoulders, murmuring something he didn't bother to understand. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, she began to sing, and her voice touched the few innocent places left in his memories and heart, sending him unwillingly into sleep.
***
Less than ten feet away, thinking his partner was safely unconscious, Blair scrubbed at the rough velvet and suede of Vincent's vest with his face, keeping his head turned down in embarrassment. "Sorry," he muttered inadequately. The immense arms looped loosely around him squeezed fractionally, then Vincent stepped back and sat on the edge of a huge, old-fashioned claw foot tub.
"I see no need for apologies. It has been a very trying few days and they had to catch up with you eventually." It was amazing that a voice so rich could be so gentle, and some of the knots in Blair's neck undid themselves when he looked up at the empathy in the vivid blue eyes.
"Yeah," he sighed and tried for a smile. "Works better than the technique I've used lately. If I were home I'd be sitting in front of a dozen candles, thinking for the millionth time how stupid my mantra is. As a way of dealing with the stress of being a cop, it's a great way to be bored." He reached for the buckles on the shoulder harness, intending to give his gun to Vincent to put where ever Jim's had gone.
Tilting his head to one side, Vincent asked, "Blair, if your profession troubles you so much, why are you a police officer?"
"I'm not," Blair answered without thinking, distracted by the stiff leather. "I'm Jim's partner. There's a big difference." Hearing himself too late, he snapped his mouth close, wondering how to back-pedal without sounding like an idiot and raising more pointed questions.
At the waiting silence that somehow asked politely for an explanation, he paced the length of the small chamber, shower forgotten, eyes on his feet but mind racing as for the first time he slammed into that glass wall Jim had spoken of with such pain. Every instinct he had said he could trust Vincent with Jim's secret, but it wasn't *his* secret to tell. Before Zoeller, even when writing the dissertation, he had believed that what he was doing - keeping a confidence, helping Jim protect himself, being discrete, whatever he lied to himself and called it - was not the same as keeping a secret. Now he knew up close and personal how deadly it could be to not to keep some things hidden, and he refused to deny that truth any longer.
How ironic that to do so he felt he had to lie to a friend. He turned to do just that, a line of excellent bullshit already on his lips and met the tranquil trust in Vincent's expression, then simply couldn't give voice to the deceit. Taking a deep breath, he borrowed a page from Jim's book and gave what he could.
"All my life, " Blair said slowly, belying the speed of his hands as they tried to express his agitation, "All I've really needed to be happy is a good book and a place to read it in peace. Half the time when I was a kid it didn't really matter what it was about, I soaked it all up. I spent most of my undergrad years bouncing from subject to subject with no idea what my degree would eventually be, but then I discovered that, for me, Anthropology needed the most variation of disciplines. You have to be part psychologist, part scientist, part explorer and mostly just curious as hell about everything.
"Then I started riding with Jim as an observer, it was like, bang! pow! all this information I'd been storing had a use, a *real* use, not just for a paper or presentation that only other information junkies would ever know about. I was plugged into the system, doing the right thing, taking care of issues that I believed in like, like - did you know Jim and I brought down some big-time poachers? And prevented a *whole* rainforest in Peru from being ravaged?"
Not realizing he'd stopped in the middle of the room and was wearing a broad smile, Blair confessed, "It was this major rush at first, and I would have done anything to stay on the roller coaster."
"And James was your ticket."
There was no censure in Vincent's voice, but Blair felt shame anyway, and began pacing again. "It's not like that anymore, not that it ever really was, and I don't know why we both pretended it was. It's more a give-and-take thing between us. Jim's the best cop there is, but he's rigid sometimes, can't see anything but the cop's view, or his own strict standards. I give him flexibility, a new perspective, a new tactic to use. He rams through obstacles, I flow around them. He uses power; I use persuasion. If the assurance of the strong arm of the law is needed, there's Jim. If The Man isn't welcome, I'm able to step into the gap. We're so ying and yang it's scary."
"So because of the good you can do as James' partner, you carry a gun that you despise." Vincent seemed unconvinced, and a moment later he confirmed that by reaching out to clasp a hand on Blair's shoulder. "Of all the truths you've just given me, the one that matters most is the one you didn't mean to share. Blair, you have not lost your place at his side because of the change in your circumstances. You are still his partner."
Paralyzed by the depth of Vincent's understanding, Blair stared at him blankly for a moment, then gulped, his earlier tears returning full force. "I...." He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of it.
The fingers on him tightened fractionally in reassurance. "No one will refuse your right to be with him. No one."
"I've fought so hard for it," Blair whispered. "Even had to fight him." His eyelids flew up and he said with a determination few people recognized existed in him, "And I'm not ever giving it up again."
Vincent nodded thoughtfully, then gave him a tiny push toward the shower. "Nor should you. Now, go clean up. We have a few hours before we must meet Catherine, and I have a few things to show you that might be...helpful."
Resisting the suggestion for a moment, Blair studied his new friend, then took his weapon out of its holster and handed it over. "Take care of this for me?"
"Of course." It vanished beneath a fold of Vincent's cloak, and he stood to open a small cupboard filled with towels and other bath necessities. "I'll return with fresh clothes shortly."
Hot water made all the difference in Blair's mood, and by the time he stepped into the corridor, hair still damp but the rest of him luxuriously dry and warm, he'd regained his perspective. They had known for a while that because of their investigations they'd eventually be starting over somewhere else. Below, at least, looked like a fascinating place to make their new home.
Vincent led him down the corridor, stopping when Blair paused by the opening to the hospital chamber to check in on Jim. Grace was sitting on the bed beside him, singing too softly for Blair to understand the words, and petting Jim's hair the way she had taught Blair.
"He's deeply asleep, feeling no pain," Vincent said, quietly, persuasively. "And she has had little enough chance to mother her son in the past."
Reluctantly Blair started moving again, following him down the tunnel. "How did Jim find her down here, anyway?"
"Grace was not a member of our community when he first came Below; we sought her out at his request many years ago. And he discovered us by following me, like Alice chasing White Rabbit down the rabbit hole." Vincent's voice was matter-of-fact, with only a trace of amusement at his description of Jim's first trip into the tunnels.
Stopping in his tracks, Blair asked, "*You* found Grace and brought her Below? I thought...."
Encouraging him to walk simply by continuing to do so himself, Vincent cautioned, "I cannot tell you the particulars on how and why she came to be with us. It is not my story to tell, but hers. Those of us who live in the tunnels never ask why another came to be here because all have made their share of mistakes that they are trying to redeem or forget. To volunteer the information is an act of friendship."
"So it's a fresh start. Okay, I won't ask, then." At the silent prompting Blair continued to trail after him. "But how you and Jim met is your story; so how did he wind up in Wonderland?"
The low rumble of a chuckle tickled Blair's hearing, making him smile, then Vincent said, "There are many, many hidden paths to the city overhead, and the children explore them endlessly, constantly finding new places to visit secretly. Theaters and concert halls are favorites, and I confess to spending my fair share of time secretly watching and listening to rehearsals, or even full performances of symphonies, musicals, plays."
"Like sneaking in under the tent at a circus performance," Blair said in delight.
With an halfway apologetic shrug, Vincent admitted, "Thievery of a sort, but so many of those who grew up taking the risk to listen or watch have become performers or work in the arts. In the long run, the debt is repaid." Picking up the thread of his tale again, he said, "We are always very, very careful never to be seen or heard when we visit, myself especially."
"I can see why; they'd nail down the canvas, so to speak." An odd look was slanted Blair's way, one that was a combination of delight and admiration. Not sure what to make of it, he gave his best cheeky grin and said, "Let me guess: Jim saw you."
"About two thirds of the way through a matinee performance of the Nutcracker, I realized that a young soldier sitting close to the front was staring at me, not the stage," Vincent said reminiscently. "At first I told myself that it wasn't possible. I was above the audience, in a dark corner near the lighting catwalk, but he kept glancing my way, almost as if he were trying to catch my eye. Then he rose to leave, and I nearly did so as well, but the performance was excellent, and I felt very secure in my hiding place.
"When it was done, I lingered for a moment to savor the echoes of the people praising the dancers, then looked up to see the soldier I'd noticed before carefully making his way over the scaffolding toward me. I ran, and since I'm generally very fast, I thought I'd lost him."
"How long did it take you to realize that he was tracking you?" Blair asked, knowing that even when Jim hadn't been aware of his abilities, they had a way of surfacing if he needed them.
"The pipes warned me just about the time I'd decided it was safe to circle back home." This time it was Vincent who stopped, and he studied Blair as if he wanted to see into his head. After a moment, however, he went on, picking up where he left off. "I led my unknown pursuer away, thinking I would either lose him in the maze of pathways under the city, or wear him down. Somehow, James managed to corner me in a dead end, and, truly thinking I had no choice, I turned to attack."
With an eloquent swoop of his hands he both apologized for his violence and defended it. "To my amazement, the soldier immediately backed off a safe distance, sat in the dirt with his knees up, hands dangling over them, and waited for me to stop snarling. He was wary, but not frightened, though at the time I was certainly trying to convince him I was dangerous. It was so perplexing that I had no idea what to do, and before I could formulate a course of action, he said, 'I only wanted to know how the dancing looked from up there.'"
Sharing a chuckle with his unusual companion, Blair admitted, "Sounds like the sort bone-headed comment Jim makes when he's just realized his put his foot in it, so to speak."
"It worked. We started talking about the performance, then about the theater in general. It took several more cautious meetings during his leave before I trusted him enough to tell him about the community I lived in, though I think he'd guessed much of it. After that, he became a regular visitor whenever his duties allowed him to be in the area."
Vincent stood aside and gestured Blair through a low entrance that led to a very large cavern, filled with wonderful smells. "This is William's domain," he said by way of introduction.
Combination kitchen, dining hall and pantry, the cave had several small fires, all vented to a large overhead air hole, and was populated with a smattering of people, all cooking or eating. Vincent headed straight for a well-padded man presiding over a restaurant-style stove that was older than Blair was and covered with a variety of pots. Despite his size and a beard liberally streaked with gray, he was no one's idea of a Santa Claus, though he brusquely handed out a generous portion stew as if it were a gift.
Blair saw through the big man's blustery facade to his generous heart easily enough, but their stop with him was only the first of many Vincent had in mind. After they'd eaten, Vincent ran a number of errands that took them through many layers of the underground community, introducing Blair to the largest variety of people he'd ever seen in one small 'town.' It seemed that every race and ethnic group was represented, along with all ages, all professions, and all living side by side seamlessly.
Among others, he saw a blacksmith methodically pumping his bellows beside a table where an astonishingly large woman with equally astonishing long, slender fingers soldered a motherboard for a computer, the two of them carrying on a desultory conversation about the presidential race. Shortly after, he spotted a man who could have been Bradbury's Illustrated Man, dressed in nothing but Speedos to show off his tattoos, reading to a old, old woman who was blind with cataracts.
Then Vincent delivered the kitchen scraps for compost to a Little Person named Eric who was the caretaker for an ingenious underground garden. The three of them had an involved conversation about the medicinal quality of herbs, and were in the middle of saying their good-byes when Blair realized that Alexander's torso wasn't as misshapen as he'd thought. An infant was nestled in the shawl draped over his chest. After cooing at the baby girl for a moment, Vincent drew Blair away to their next stop.
By the time Vincent led him to a small cavern on the edges of the patrolled community that looked as if it were the storeroom for sets from science fiction movies, Blair was torn between desperately wanting his journal to make notes, and laughing at how well his companion had made his point. Throwing himself into the huge pile of pillows in one corner of the lab, he said in good humor, "I get it, I get it, already. Nobody down here is going to care if I stick to Jim like glue." He couldn't help but chuckle. "In fact, no one's going to notice."
Making himself comfortable at the edge of the improvised bed, Vincent disagreed. "It will be noticed; it will not be commented upon. At least not publicly. Don't make the mistake of thinking that we have a perfect society with no crimes and no disagreements among ourselves."
Intensely curious, Blair was about to ask how they handled such things when Vincent suddenly closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly. "Catherine," he breathed, adoration in every syllable of the name. A moment later she ducked past the fabric covering the entrance of the chamber and went straight to his side, scarcely sparing a smile of greeting for Blair. The two lovers stared into each other's eyes as if that was all that was needed to say hello, and a pained mix of envy and recognition hit him. He turned away to give them privacy, leaving the mound of cushions to explore and wanting very much to be lying beside Jim again.
A few minutes later, Vincent touched him on the upper arm to get his attention from where he was staring sightlessly at an old lava lamp. "Would you like me to teach you how to understand messages on the pipes? Catherine has to make some adjustments to use the pirated phone line Mouse has; he is constantly, ah, improving it, so we have a little time."
"Now?"
"I thought it might help your peace of mind if you could hear for yourself that James is still sleeping, though he's becoming a little restless. Grace just reported to Father, who's delivering a baby on an upper level, and other people have queried her on his condition." Perching on the edge of a stool, Vincent added, "The codes are very simple, and recognizing them is more a matter of feeling the rhythm than anything else."
Admitting to himself that any kind of contact with Jim would go a long way at the moment, Blair said, "Thank you." Impulsively he put his hands on Vincent's shoulders and stretched up to brush a gentle kiss over the odd brow, the pelt there luxurious and sweet-scented. "For everything."
The delight in Vincent's eyes told him that, unplanned or not, he had done the right thing. "You're very welcome, Blair. Very welcome."
***
Vincent looked up from where Blair was laughingly attempting to tap the code for a general alarm on the worktable, puzzled at the unexpected wave of feeling from Catherine. She was staring at them, a small frown in place, and her emotions literally seething under surface composure. "Catherine?" he asked in confusion.
With a visible start, she banished everything but a mild smile. "Done here, if you're ready."
"Really? Thanks!" Blair slid off his stool and nearly ran to the low bench where the laptop was balanced. "Are you in a hurry? We set this up so that I would start chatting with Daryl, Simon's son, until his dad got home from work, then Daryl will turn it over without saying anything on screen/ For it not to look suspicious, Simon has to leave whenever it would be normal for him to, and I don't have to tell you for a police captain that can be an estimate on any given day."
"Actually, I cleaned my files out of this one so I could leave it here, with the understanding that Mouse is *not* to 'improve' it." She aimed the last at Vincent, sharing genuine amusement. "And Jamie - not Mouse - says that the line is tapped off of a main trunk for the local phone company. As long as you don't over use it, it won't be noticed, and my account is private, through a server I trust not to keep logs or be hacked. It's the closest you can get to untraceable."
The relief on Blair's face was plain. "You sure you don't mind? We set up half a dozen different ways to communicate with Simon if we had to, but this is the best."
"Not at all; I've been meaning to get a newer model with more memory." She hooked an arm through Vincent's, tilting back her head to look up at him. "While he waits for Simon, do you think I can talk with Jim? Last time I was here, he said something to me I want to ask him about."
"Maybe you should talk with me," Blair said before he could answer. "Let Jim rest."
Warned by the intensity in her hold on him and by the way her eyes never left his, Vincent said thoughtfully, "We will not disturb him, but Grace has rehearsals shortly. Father may well be with the new mother for hours yet, and I don't think James would appreciate waking to a nurse he does not know."
"I see," Blair said mildly, but his tone of voice was far too bland, and Vincent forced his gaze away from Catherine's to see that he was barely hiding a knowing grin.
Feeling a rush of heat to his cheeks, as if he were a young teen caught stealing a kiss in the back of the classroom, Vincent would have taken a step away if Catherine had chuckled in delight.
"You don't mind, then, if I spirit him away?" she asked lightly.
"Maybe I should ask for a quarter for a movie instead?" Blair looked significantly at the pile of pillows, then dodged away from the punch she aimed at his upper arm.
Confused at their by-play, Vincent let himself be towed away from Mouse's chamber, intending to question Catherine as soon as they were out of earshot. Before he could, she sighed, "I'm sorry I let him assume we wanted privacy, but I wanted to talk to Jim when Blair wasn't there."
Pulling her into a crevasse to one side of the tunnel, Vincent asked, "Why? They are partners, Catherine, and you of all people must have some idea of what that means for them. To speak to one is to speak to both."
"Well, I wanted to hear the Jim version first," she said firmly.
For the first time, dissatisfied with having only her words to understand her, Vincent nudged at the door that she kept closed between them. Not trying to invade her privacy, but needing to *feel* her in a way he was beginning to realize he craved, he gave no more than that polite knock on the barrier. As if sensing his need, she gave an equally small amount, enough for him to discern her mistrust of Blair. "Catherine," he said earnestly, "James has contacts everywhere, yet he chose to come here. He would not have brought his partner Below if he did not believe that Blair would keep our existence secret."
"James," she shot back, "Is totally in love with him and knew there was no place safer."
"And Blair loves him back just as completely," Vincent argued gently.
"That's the problem." Catherine put both hands palm down on his chest, and leaned closer, as if to trying to pin him in place while she convinced him. "I know the kind of man, the kind of cop, Jim is. While he'd happily die in Blair's place if that was what it took to protect him, he wouldn't do it at the cost of innocent lives, much as that would destroy him in the long run. I don't *know* what Blair would do to protect his partner."
"And you fear that for the sake of love, Blair would betray us." She didn't say anything to that, and Vincent brought up his hands to lay them over hers. "Betrayal is a possibility every time we bring someone new Below. Among the street people and those who listen to the city, it is already an open secret, and all that has saved us from the curiosity seekers and investigative journalists is that we are several levels below the desperate, the dangerous, the damaged ones who live at the edge between the city and the underground. They are seen, then feared or despised, and the belief that anything more could exist dies."
Without conscious thought, he leaned down so that she could see into his eyes easily. "But every day the community exists only adds to the probability that it will be discovered or revealed by accident, by one turned away from us, by an enemy we were unaware of. To my mind, if I am to lose my home, my family, my safety, I would rather it be in the name of Love!"
"And what would happen to you!" Her true fear burst out, both in her words and from her heart, stabbing at him with her pain.
Sighing at the love that was its source, he touched his forehead to hers, closing his eyes to savor the reawakening of that knowledge. "Then I would go deep into the earth; you know well how extensive the natural subterranean caverns are. I would never be found unless I wished, and after a time, would be able to make my way to the surface again. Or perhaps I would take to the sky and live in the open. There are pathways among the roofs, hidden shelters and forgotten places, there as well. It would not matter to me as long as Father and my friends were safe, as long as I could come to you, see you again."
"I'll keep you safe," she said fiercely, leaning into his touch. "You, your home, your family - I don't know how, but I will keep you safe!"
"Catherine," he whispered. Her vow was futile, they both knew, but he took the comfort from it nevertheless. They stood that way a long time, until, with a tender kiss to her forehead, Vincent pulled away and wordlessly drew her down the tunnel toward the hospital chamber. He kept her tucked close to his side as they walked, deliberately shortening his steps to fit hers.
***
For the most part, Catherine didn't know exactly how to approach Jim about the problems at his police department, or even if she should. But it was too much of a coincidence that he seemed to be fighting the same kind of corruption that she had in her own city. The kind so pervasive and subtle that even a captain of a police department couldn't protect one of his own men. Or himself.
When they came in, Jim was sitting up in bed trying to feed himself from a bowl his mother was holding. To judge by his grimace each time the spoon made a trip, he should have been letting Grace do it for him. Just as plainly he had no intention of doing so. Hiding her smile at his testosterone stubbornness, she sat on the side opposite his exasperated nurse, Vincent hovering at her shoulder.
"I'd ask you how you're doing but since you're going to say 'fine' no matter how lousy you feel, I think I'll save my breath," she said.
The wide, honest grin that Jim gave her told Catherine immediately that she had taken the right tact, and she went on. "So I'll get to business. Blair's online chatting with your friend Banks, briefing him on why you left Cascade. I want the same thing from you. I've kept my part of the bargain so far, and done everything I can to help."
Though his expression didn't change, something in him visibly hardened. He looked at his mother, and she sighed melodramatically before setting the bowl aside on a warmer. Brushing a kiss over his cheek, she ordered, "Eat!" then left, already humming the day's music lesson under her breath.
He watched her go, a half-frown already in place, then turned back to Catherine. "It's nothing we can't handle."
Not in the least intimidated by his flat tone, Catherine said as bluntly, "Everything is 'fine,' huh?" He shut down even more but before he spoke, she said, "Let me tell you what you're facing then. You *know* you have dirty cops on the force, but can't catch them doing any thing illegal. Cases always seem to go their way, and good cops, *better* cops get shitty results. You find circumstantial evidence linking the suspected officers to mishandled evidence, lost witnesses, bad record keeping, but it's never for their cases, and the only connection to the people who benefit is third-hand at best.
"The bad ones always seem to have more than enough money, but when you trace it, it's always from some legitimate windfall. They always seem to have the best connections to the best 'consulting' or 'security' firms for a little moonlighting, or a sudden 'deal' on a house, a boat, a scholarship for their kids. You *know* you have something fouling your city, but can't locate the nerve center."
As she spoke, Jim had focused on her intently, as if he were trying to read the truth of her words, her trustworthiness, by how she breathed or blinked. For a moment, while she waited for him to decide how to respond, she could understand very clearly how he had made Cop of the Year and why a sheltered academic might fall prey to thinking him more than human. Finally, he said, "In Cascade, we've traced it to both the District Attorney's office and the Public Defender's. Here, too?"
Torn between sighing in relief and shouting in victory, she made herself say calmly, "I've been dealing with it for over three years now. Always enough to suspect, never enough to press charges. The rare times one of them has gone too far and I've been able to legitimately go after them, they either gracefully left the force, stepping right into some cream position in another city or they die by misadventure or a bust gone bad. The first is why I started very, very carefully checking with cops and D.A's that I trust who work in other towns."
Eyes beyond bleak, Jim said stonily, "How many?"
"Four so far."
"Damn." He tried to get out of bed, moving in the studiedly smooth way a man uses when he expects to hurt. "Banks needs to be up-dated on this."
Vincent reached around Catherine, carefully forestalling him. "If you stand up, you will fall back down again, undoing all of Father's good work."
"I can make it; won't take long to...."
"Blair is many levels away, in Mouse's chambers," Vincent interrupted firmly. "You will not even make it across this one." He relented, voice noticeably gentling. "I understand the need. If you wish, I will take the message."
With Vincent behind her and unable to see her expression, Catherine let her face tell Jim to let him go, putting all her will into making him pick up on her silent plea. "And Vincent can get there faster than either of us," she said aloud.
Ellison was good; very good. With only the briefest of glances at her, he reluctantly subsided, leaving the impression he was only giving in to avoid an argument with a friend. "Is there anything else about this that Banks might need to know?"
"If he wants details, I've got a file I can send a copy of if he has a secure way to receive it." To her surprise, a niggle of relief hit her at making the offer. Though she had talked to others about in a general, off hand way about corruption in their departments, she hadn't actually taken anyone into her confidence about a possible conspiracy. Doing so with Jim and company, who were facing similar if worse circumstances, made her feel much less isolated and out-gunned.
She also caught a flash of emotion from Vincent, too brief for her to be sure of what it was. For an instant, and one instant only, she regretted the barely perceptible renewal of their bond. She had deliberately not told him how dangerous her position at the D.A.'s office had become, not wanting to draw him, however inadvertently, into sharing that danger. The last thing she wanted was for that to happen ever, *ever* again.
Jim, as if reading her worry, diverted Vincent by restlessly adjusting his pillow, his face contorted in an honest grimace of pain. Automatically Vincent moved to help, and once he was resettled, Jim said wryly, "Much as I hate to admit it, maybe I should stay put, this once. Sure you don't mind?"
There was a glimmer of suspicion from Vincent, but he said readily enough, "If it will encourage you to stay in bed, no. If you wish, I will stay with Blair until he has finished his discussion with Captain Banks to act as interpreter for messages on the pipes. Then, if either you and Catherine, or he and Simon have other news that needs to be shared, it can be done quickly."
Rubbing tiredly at his face, Jim said, "I don't want to break into your time together, but it makes sense to do it that way."
Turning so that he could see her clearly, Vincent said more to her than his friend, "We do what we must." Then he added so softly that only she could hear him, "And we are never more than a thought apart." With that, and a final touch to each of them, he left, already running at full speed.
She watched the door after he left it, his last words ringing in her heart. Reluctantly turning back to business, she caught a glimpse of an expression of such total longing on Jim's face that she ached in sympathy for him, despite her confusion at seeing it.
Before she could ask, he asked harshly, "He doesn't know, does he? That every time you step into your office, you're entering enemy territory with no way of knowing who is friend and who is foe. Whether or not you're safe, or if a hidden knife is waiting to take you."
"No," she admitted, her voice hard and unrelenting. "And he is *not* going to."
"Then you understand why I want Sandburg out of the loop," Jim said equally resolved. "You want to deal? Here's one for you. You help me clean up the mess in Cascade enough that Blair can go back or go on or whatever he wants without it hanging over his head, and I'll come back here and be your personal spy. Get a job in NYPD, go in looking dirty if you think it'll get me in touch with the right people, and help *you* bring down as many as possible until they get us."
"And your partner?" she asked, horror biting at hearing a truth she had barely faced in her own mind spoken so bluntly laid out.
"Doesn't figure into this, any more than Vincent does."
Suddenly the longing she'd seen so briefly made sense. Jim might love Blair beyond all reason, but he had never acted on it, perhaps had never spoken of it. And she knew why just as surely as she knew why she had never told Vincent of the one night they had shared, or allowed the seal that he had created over their bond to be broken. Nodding her acceptance, she said simply, "Done."
They studied each other awkwardly, unsure how to proceed. Sensing that it was up to her to bridge the gap, Catherine stood and pressed a kiss to his forehead, sealing their bargain. "I *do* understand," she whispered.
"What first, then, Counselor?" he asked, and as simply as that, she had an ally.
Putting aside her emotions, she said thoughtfully, "I want to know if there is a connection in the corruption of the different towns. We can start with one between Cascade and New York. They're on opposite sides of the country. If your bad cops and mine are linked, then it's fair to guess that anything in between could be."
"Any ideas how to do that?" Jim closed his eyes, and sank a little more into the pillow, as if, now that he had her co-operation he could afford a little weakness.
"Not yet, but this didn't grow over night. We won't kill it overnight, either." She made herself comfortable in the chair, turning over possibilities in her mind.
"We could start by you telling me how you first found out," Jim suggested.
"When my snitches told me before the last D.A. was killed that it was going to happen. Then when Marino died, they insisted that the person in jail for it wasn't responsible. My sources are good, between the people Below and my own so-called 'peer group.' You'd be surprised how many rich people think that my job hasn't got anything to do with them socially. I hear the damnedest things on the assumption that I wouldn't ever use it against *them.*"
Jim laughed shortly. "Yeah, I've encountered that mentality a time or two myself. So you started looking to see who benefited?"
"Not right away." For the first time Catherine told someone everything; every hint, every suggestion, every clue, relieved beyond belief that it added up for Jim the same way it had for her. In exchange, he told her about Blair being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A habit his partner had from the sound of it.
By the time Jim looked expectantly at the entrance to the hospital chamber, they had both covered what they knew of the conspiracies in their cities, and what they had done to fight them so far. Even as she wondered why he thought someone was coming, Blair burst into the hospital chamber, chattering over his shoulder to Vincent.
"Not that Simon isn't proud to death that Daryl wants to be cop," Blair said, "But he naturally wants better than he has for his son, and he knows up close and personal how thankless the job is."
"So how did he convince him to go to college?" Vincent asked, sounding curious in spite of himself.
"One of the best uses of reverse psychology I've ever seen," Jim volunteered tiredly, but smiling nevertheless.
"Hey, I just pointed out what Daryl already knew for himself," Blair defended quickly. Spotting the soup on the warmer, he picked up the bowl and sat on the edge of the bed. "That it was his decision and he should do what he thought was best, but that being a cop was a *good* thing if that was what he wanted. But what he *really* wanted was affirmation that his dad was the greatest, which he is."
As he spoke, Blair spooned up a mouthful of soup, ate it, then scooped up another which he offered to Jim. To Catherine's amusement, and apparently to Vincent's as well, the big cop meekly ate it, not even making a token protest. After he swallowed Jim said, "And once you convinced Simon of that, he quit making a fuss, and now Daryl's at Rainier University."
Grinning widely, Blair added, "Which doesn't mean that he won't become a cop when he graduates. He *is* studying criminal justice."
"He's a freshman. He'll change his major eight times before he's a junior," Jim argued mildly. Another spoon of soup was popped into his mouth before he could say more, and he glared around it, though he obediently swallowed.
Hiding a grin and seeing that Vincent was fighting down laughter, Catherine stood, reaching for his hand without thinking. Together they slipped away from the partners, and when they were far enough away not to be heard, they leaned on the wall and laughed, holding each other up.
***
With a goal in mind, Jim was able to set aside everything but what it took to reach it, ignoring the piercing hurt in his side to do what was needed. If it had made him a bastard in the past, it had also allowed him to survive when life threatened to crumple him like tin foil. In this case it also allowed him to settle back and let Blair take care of him so he could regain his strength.
Besides, there was no reason not to accept the comfort that Blair so plainly wanted to give, and which Jim admitted, in his own head anyway, that he wanted to receive. And, for the first time since they had met, there was nothing standing between them, forcing them to keep their distance: no dissertation, no secrets Jim couldn't share, no rules and regs and common sense prohibitions on partners being lovers. For the smallest of whiles, he could at least taste what he had craved almost from the first, but what circumstances and his own stupidity had kept him from reaching to take.
So he calmly ate the soup that Blair fed him, letting his voice wash through him with idle talk about what and who he'd seen that day, how unique and fascinating Below was, what he would have liked to have studied about it if he'd still been doing that. When the bowl was nearly finished, Jim was tired, but content, as though he'd put in a good, hard workout at the gym, and the pain was a distant thing that he didn't have to notice. Wanting to hang onto that, but not certain how to keep Blair beside him, Jim rubbed a vaguely trembling hand over his face in thought and noticed how rough his beard was.
"Think we could get me to the shower to clean up some?" he asked as casually as he could when Blair set the bowl aside.
"That would *not* be a good idea," Blair said firmly, obviously not fooled by Jim's attempt at nonchalance.
"I was trying to do you a favor, Sandburg," he shot back, going for the more reliable method of irritation. "And even if you don't mind the way I smell, the stink coming off me is not going to help my appetite any."
Thoughtfully Blair eyed him, then nodded. "I can see where it'd be a problem, especially down here with a minimum of other, better odors to mask it." Half afraid of what his inventive partner would come up with in lieu of a shower and shaving, Jim waited a minute, scowling, until Blair slowly volunteered, "I could do it for you. A bed-bath I mean. If you don't mind."
About to reject the idea out of hand, Jim stopped himself before he could say a word and really thought about it. A bed bath was inevitable, and unless he wanted Mary or one of Father's other part-time nurses doing it for him, Blair was the best person for the job. It wouldn't be that much more intimate than what they had already done for each other because of various injuries during their time as roommates and partners. At least with two holes burning tightly in his side, he wouldn't have to worry about the wrong part of him liking Blair's nearness too much.
"I don't know if there are any safety razors on hand," Jim said slowly, agreeing in an oblique fashion.
To his surprise, Blair grinned cheekily. "You must really be hurting if you're not going to spend the traditional five minutes insisting you don't need a babysitter."
"Maybe I didn't want to listen to the traditional five minutes of being told what a thick-headed, stubborn ass I am," Jim said, smiling slightly. "Just tell me you know how to use a straight-edge."
"I think I can manage. But maybe we should make sure Father isn't too far away, just in case you need, like stitches or something."
"The idea, Sandburg, is to get rid of the old blood, not add fresh. I don't think I have any to spare right now." He nearly bit his tongue at Blair's reaction. He visibly winced, then hustled out of the chamber before Jim could make light of his careless reminder of how bad a shape he'd been in by the time they'd made it Below.
Making it back from the shower in record time, Blair came in carrying a basin of hot water and the rest of what he needed, determinedly acting as if he gave bed baths all the time. Considering his checkered work experience while he was a student, Jim thought in admiration, it wasn't out of the question that his partner *had* at some point or another had a job that required him to do it. A few minutes later as lather was smoothed efficiently onto his cheeks, never once splattering it where he didn't want it to go, Jim had to say, "Okay, let me guess. A girlfriend who was a cosmetologist? An uncle who had a barbershop and recruited you as summer help? I *know* there's no minor in shaving at Rainier."
"Hold still if you don't want this in your mouth or eyes," Blair warned. Then he added mischievously, "Maybe I was a barber in another life."
"Just don't go pulling out the leeches, okay, Figaro?" Jim muttered, then waited expectantly. As he'd hoped, Blair gave a snort of laughter, then launched into the entire historical background of barbers, explaining how they had had served not only as the closest thing to physicians in the middle ages, but as dentists.
Jim didn't really listen to the history lesson, but floated, as he had so recently learned to do, in the sensory tides of his guide's voice, touch, and scent. This time he distantly enjoyed the hot lather slowly cooling on his face, the smooth swipe of cold, sharp metal, Blair's fingertips on his skin as he nudged and tapped to maneuver Jim into position. Not once was there a nick or sharp sting from the blade, nor did Blair ever jostle him and aggravate his wounds. Deep inside Jim shriveled hopes and locked-down needs stirred, not painfully, but as if sleepily awakening, adding to his comfort.
"Hey," Blair said quietly, as if not to wake him, "Still with me here?"
"Always, no matter where you are," Jim murmured, hearing in memory Vincent promise Catherine the same thing. The hands on him froze, and eyelids he didn't remember dropping shot back up to meet Blair's wide-eyed regard. Hope mixed with fear was in it, and Jim returned both steadily, unsure how they could get through either.
In the end, Blair simply went back to his task, hands becoming incredibly sensuous and loving, and Jim accepted them for the gift that they were. The shave proceeded seamlessly into the bath, and they both overlooked the half-a-hard-on he got from it, despite being so weak he couldn't sit up by himself. Ignoring Blair's arousal was more difficult, and when Jim half-reached once to offer relief, his partner deftly dodged away with a minute shake of his head. Jim didn't ask why. If their circumstances had been reversed, he would have wanted to wait until Blair could enjoy whatever happened between them as well.
Once the bath was done, he gently circled one of Blair's wrists with his fingers, and tugged him toward the bed. Obeying the silent request to lay with him, Blair climbed onto the mattress on Jim's good side, propping himself up on one elbow, head in hand so they could see into each other's face. For the longest time they merely looked, then Jim reached up to trail a knuckle along the right side of his Blair's cheek, capturing a stray lock of hair to curl around his forefinger. Using it to slowly draw Blair down to him, feeling the expectation between them build to the point of breathlessness, he waited for his would-be lover to choose to close the last few inches between their lips.
Blair drifted across the tiny space, not hesitantly, but as if to stretch the anticipation out even further. His eyes stayed open until the last second - weighing, measuring, worrying, and, finally, longing - before he finally touched his mouth to Jim's. Somehow the tender kiss said both 'welcome' and 'missed you,' and he tried to say it back as eloquently, with his own 'oh, dear god' added. He did stop breathing, then, Blair as well, but neither missed it in the sweet taste of the promise lips gave.
As slowly as he'd bestowed it, Blair broke their kiss, fingers on his free hand going up to lightly brush over where his mouth had been, all the while staring, staring. Jim stared back, afraid to say anything for fear of breaking the spell between them. Apparently thinking the same thing, Blair half-smiled to himself, put his head on Jim's shoulder, and whispered, "Night, Jim."
Turning so that his cheek was resting on top of his partner's crown of curls, Jim answered, "Night."
***
Gasping, fighting for breath as if he'd been beaten, Vincent came back to himself as James and Blair dropped away into sleep, freed only by his friends' loss of awareness. If they had chosen to consummate their love, he feared he would have been drawn into it with them, helpless to pull away from the compelling beauty of what they shared. As it was, he could hardly blank their resting minds from his own to give them the privacy they deserved.
Above him, he dimly heard Catherine repeating his name over and over, in varying degrees of fear and command, and he realized that he was on his knees in front of her as she stood, his head on her breast. Her hands were tightly clenched on his shoulders, and his were knotted into her coat at the hips, his claws shredding the fabric. "I'm here," he panted, ordering himself to loosen his grip on her, to stand and unburden her slight form with his weight.
But his body didn't obey, and she pulled him closer to her, as if she found him no great burden at all. "What's wrong?" she asked urgently. "I sent for Father, but he's still with that new mother. What can I do to help?"
He made another attempt to put some distance between them, his nerve endings too alive and shockingly sexually aware for him to safely remain so near. Refusing to let him go, she repeated, "Vincent! What's wrong!"
"Nothing," he whispered. "Everything. James and Blair... I've didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I've been so worried about his injuries, and Blair has been beside me nearly all day. A part of me has been monitoring them... feeling them, making sure they are well."
"Eavesdrop?" Catherine asked. "On what?"
Beginning to shake from the mere memory of it, he answered hoarsely, "True love's first kiss."
In contrast, she became very still. "You felt that with them?" There was a near-awe in her voice.
"Yes!" His shaking grew worse, and he had no choice but to let the tears begin to fall. "Yes," he added more softly. "You have no idea how, how...." Wanting her to share his wonder, he tilted back his head to find her eyes and tried to give to her the smallest portion of what he had perceived, only to learn that she already knew. She knew!
And the images that poured from her were of two of them; of a blossoming that was both delicate and indestructible, beautiful and heart-rending.
As if that were a key that his own mind had been waiting for all these long, long years, Vincent's own memories rushed to the surface, jumbled and fragmented, but there. All there! His rescue of her in Central Park, the first time he rushed to her aid in the brownstone where she was hiding a witness, his capture by the scientist, her near-drowning... and the onset of the fever that had taken it all away.
An illness, which he had instinctively understood and had refused to speak of, that had been born of the battle within himself. Body and soul had been in a bitter struggle with mind and heart over intimacy with Catherine, with the first demanding that they could not continue without it, and the later insisting that it was physically dangerous for her beyond all reckoning. He would be irresistibly drawn to her, only to balk completely at doing more than touching her hand, speaking her name.
Yet, when the two warring factions of himself had gone beyond his resources, leaving him at the edge of death, Catherine had called him back with all her will. "Not without me!" And she had kissed him, *their* true love's first kiss, summoning him with its purity and power, swearing herself to him without ever speaking a word.
Nor had they stopped with a kiss, though all Vincent recalled of that precious union were disjointed sensory moments: her hand looking small and fragile as she guided his swollen maleness, her yielding heat, her perfume mixing with the scent of their love, their tiny, joyous cries of pleasure, the taste of her hunger on his tongue. And he remembered the potency of their release hurling them deeply into the brilliance of one another's souls, leaving no shadows between them, no secret untold.
To his everlasting shame, he had not been able to endure having her see in all its horror his base, bestial nature. Anticipating her disgust, fear and rejection, he had torn himself away, throwing a barrier of humiliated pride between them, made impenetrable by the intensity of the very pleasure they shared. Catherine had cried out in agony, and too late he realized it was not from what she had seen within him, but from what she saw as his rejection of *her.* Unable to face her pain, his failure, their loss, he buried their love under the weight of his illness, letting it draw a curtain of ignorance over their entire relationship.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, still reeling from the impact of his returning memories, the rawness of his tone tearing at both of them. "Why didn't you tell me we loved?"
Guilt flooded through their newly-opened bond and Catherine said in a small voice, "I thought it would be less... difficult... for you if you thought we had only been friends, if we *were* only friends."
The knowledge that she had willingly carried such a secret to protect him was more than Vincent could bear. With a wild roar of agony, he leapt to his feet and raced away from her, voicing his rage and pain as she forced the barrier back over their bond.
***
For the third time in as many days, Blair woke to find Father bending over him, fingers gently at his throat to check his pulse. "You know," he said sleepily, "I'm not the one with a gun shot wound."
"No," Father said with a smile, "You are the one wearing himself to a bone with worry and fear. It won't do James any good if you become my patient as well, so be still and let me look you over."
Obligingly Blair did the usual patient things - stick out his tongue, breathe, shake his head no at 'does that hurt' - waking up enough to see that Father should be practicing what he preached. The older man had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and fatigue, and he moved carefully, as if his bones hurt. With a nod, he let Blair up, but before he could perform the same exam on Jim, Blair pointed out, "He's doing that meditative thing again, and probably will for a while. I'm not sure how valid checking his vitals is if he's controlling them. Why not rest until he comes out of it?"
Apparently without meaning to Father glanced at the other bed in the chamber, but he straightened himself as if by will alone. "There're still his bandages to change."
"Well, shouldn't we wait until Vincent gets here to help us move him? Jim is one big cop," Blair asked reasonably.
To his surprise, the doctor's expression turned forbidding, and he said shortly, "Vincent will not be assisting us today." Moderating his tone, he added, nearly apologetically, "I'm sure that between the both of us, we can manage."
Putting aside his concern about why Vincent wouldn't be joining them and why Father was frightened about it, Blair said, "Either way, there's no reason the bandages have to be changed now, is there? I mean, can't that wait, too?"
Sighing, Father looked down at the floor and admitted, "No, I suppose it doesn't matter when. And a nap would do me good." In sudden decision he limped toward the other bed. "Go get yourself some breakfast, then ask one of the children to help you find a chamber for you and James. If he has continued to heal as well as he has been, there's no reason you can't move him to more private quarters in the next day or so." He said the last dryly, as if he knew that Blair was eager to be alone with his partner.
Not caring if what had happened last night was tattooed on his forehead, Blair gave a "Yes!" and dashed out of the room, already wondering what sort of accommodations Jim would prefer. Finding his way to the common kitchen by a combination of re-tracing his footsteps from yesterday and letting his nose lead the way with good smells, he wolfed down some oatmeal, politely asked William if there would be soup later for Jim to eat, and asked every body who looked at him if they knew a good chamber to make a home.
He got advice from half a dozen different people, all of whom seemed to find his enthusiasm for house-hunting amusing, quickly pinpointing those caverns that would be on the fringe of the community. It was likely that Jim would want to be part of the sentry system, and that being too near the center would have too many sensory distractions from the numbers of people coming and going. Armed with directions to the three most likely spots, he set out to find his own way, certain that the pipes would ask everyone to keep him from getting lost.
Halfway to the first one, the sound of children's voices raised in beautiful harmony distracted him, and he slipped into a small room that had the look and feel of classroom. At the head of it, Grace Ellison sat on a stool surrounded by a nearly a dozen children of varying ages, leading them through the music of an old spiritual. She sang as well, pointing with a finger to the group whose notes she was matching at the moment to help them stay in tune, segueing effortlessly and seamlessly into each part.
Blair had rarely heard close harmony done so well or so beautifully, and when the song ended, he applauded loudly and enthusiastically, much to the children's delight. At a gesture from Grace, they all bowed, then burst into laughter, boiling out of the room, save for one small, small dark-haired girl who clung to her long skirts, frightened. Putting a comforting arm around the child, she said warmly, "Thank you! It's good for them to know that they're succeeding, even in rehearsal."
Looking around the classroom curiously, feeling the pull of chalk dust and lesson plans despite how long since it had been since he stood in front of students, Blair said, "Is this all for fun? Or do you get paid somehow by the parents?"
"Some of both," Grace said. "I have students who audition for shows on and off Broadway, for commercials, anything where they can make a dollar or two. A few are buskers on the street. They or their parents give me what they can when they can. If they don't - we take care of each other down here, Blair. I have what I need.
"Any one who wants to learn can come to the classes. The Council especially encourages the orphans and foundlings to at least take basic music theory; they're strong believers in a classical education designed to create a well-rounded individual." She hugged the little girl closer to her. "And of course, *some* of us just love music, don't we, Bethie, and hang out here whenever we can."
Bethie didn't answer her, but burrowed into her teacher's shawls, as if hiding. That got her a concerned look from Grace, but she only said, "James told me in his letters that you used to be a teacher. Missing being in front of the classroom?"
Grabbing another stool and pulling it under him to perch on, Blair admitted, "Some. It's a lot of drudgery most of the time, dragging all those bored, disinterested, in it only for the grade students along behind you while trying to teach the few who really want to learn." He gestured with both hands to the room at large as if to imaginary students. "But when those few do take off, and they're drinking in what you say, really thinking about it, asking questions that make *you* think, make you remember all over again why you're in front of that class to start with...."
Grace laughed and interrupted, "Then you forget all the drudgery, all the paperwork, all the administrative baloney. Blair, you sound seriously hooked on teaching."
Squirming, not wanting to think about why he left academia, he said, "Yes... no... I don't know." Grinning suddenly, he went on. "Is that certain enough for you?"
"Have you thought about teaching down here?" she asked, unexpectedly serious. "I heard that you're pretty good with computers. We could use a trained teacher for some of us older ones who've missed the computer age so far. These days, being able to at least turn one on is a necessary work skill."
"Has Vincent been talking to you about me?" Blair asked suspiciously, thinking that his new friend might still be trying to reassure him after yesterday's near break down in the shower.
"Vincent's not talkin' to nobody," Bethie volunteered unhappily, out of the blue. Both adults looked at her, and she wrapped the edge of Grace's shawl over her, leaving only a tiny peephole. Nevertheless she went on in a nearly inaudible whisper. "He 'n Catherine had a fight last night, in the tunnel under her apartment. He ranned away to the deep caves, but Mouse said he camed back this mornin' and is in the Whispering Gallery."
With a sigh, Grace said, "No wonder she's been clingy all morning. Most of the orphans rely on Vincent to be their rock of safety and stability. If he's upset, every one feels like the earth is uneasy under foot."
"That explains Father's shortness this morning, too," Blair said more to himself than her. To Bethie he said, smiling widely, "Grownups fight all the time, and make up all the time, too. And Vincent's really good at forgiving isn't he?" There was something that might have been a nod underneath the wool. "So he'll forgive Catherine real fast, and be all better."
A gray eye peeked out. "You think so?"
"Well, I happen to agree with him," Grace said.
"Maybe you should go 'mind him he's a good fergiver." Sounding a bit breathless, Bethie came the rest of the way out of hiding. "He likes you, and you made him laugh yest'day, and you're James' special friend, so you gotta be a special person. Vincent'll listen to you."
"I don't know," Blair started.
Grace butted in with, "Bethie that's a wonderful idea! Why don't you go help Mary with the nursery, and I'll show Blair where the Whispering Gallery is."
The little girl put a finger in her mouth and chewed on it for a moment, before nodding solemnly. "Mary'll miss me if I don't go like I 'ways do. Okay, Ms. Grace. That sounds good." She stretched up to place a kiss on her teacher's cheek, then surprised Blair by doing the same to him. Then she darted away with a good-bye whispering after her.
Grace stood, straightening her skirts. "I meant it; I do think it's a good idea for you to talk to Vincent."
"Why me?" Automatically Blair trailed after her as she left her classroom.
"Because nobody else will try right now, thinking he needs privacy. Which he doesn't; he needs a listening ear. And because you're an outsider who can see both sides of the issue without the complications of knowing Catherine and Vincent's history together. You have an objective point of view. Besides, you haven't seen him at his worst and won't be scared of his temper. Trust me, it's bad when he loses it, but you've been living with Jim and survived him losing his. Vincent should be a breeze to handle."
Blair thought about the reasons Grace gave, then said, "And Jim said or told you something about me that makes you think that I really can help."
She didn't answer right away, but took him farther and farther from what he thought of as the center of the community, obviously deep in thought as she did. Finally, she said, "Blair, I'm all too aware of exactly how much damage was done by leaving James to his father to raise. I spent a great many years regretting it and almost as many trying to atone for it. And through letters and the occasional phone call, I realize how much of that damage you've healed for my son. From what he's said about how you get along with the other officers in his department, I think that's a gift of yours - healing wounded souls. Look at how easily you connected to Bethie who's rarely spoken above a whisper since we found her living by herself in a dumpster like a feral cat."
Not knowing what to say to that, Blair shrugged. "It was the way I was raised. My mom, Naomi, was always taking in strays, and just as often, we were the strays. I know what it's like from both sides." He dared a side-long glance at her, remembering Vincent's injunction about asking people about their past, but with a hundred thousand questions about *why* she would have abandoned her own children when she so obviously loved them.
As if reading his mind, she said very calmly, "I married William Ellison when I was fifteen years old - and before you drop your jaw, please remember in that time and place, it wasn't that unusual for a girl to marry so young. I wasn't even the first among my friends. And, again, not as unusual for that time as society would have you think, we *had* to get married. James was born just a few weeks shy of my sixteenth birthday, a little over eight months after the wedding."
He couldn't help gaping at that; *Jim* had almost been illegitimate like him? At that look, Grace gave a half smile very much like her son's. "I was what was politely called 'coltish' and very much a tomboy. When William first starting paying attention to me, it turned my head that some one older, more sophisticated and so obviously in my father's favor would be interested. Later I realized when Dad took the news of my 'hurried' marriage so well that he'd probably anticipated something of the sort happening. He was just the sort of man who would approve of ruthlessness like that in a son-in-law who would be his unofficial heir."
For a while she looked into her own thoughts, her own past, and Blair let her be, guessing that she would take up where she left off when she finished. "Talk about naive... Even when I found out about the baby I didn't think it would change my plans. From the time I could talk, I could sing, and sing *good.* I was going to go to New York and star in Broadway musicals and be famous and loved by everybody. When I got pregnant, I thought I'd just pack the baby up with me and off we'd go. After all, how long could it take to become a star?"
"But when James was born, I fell so in love with him. He was such a sweet baby! A bit fussy sometimes, but if I picked him up and rocked him or sang to him, he'd quiet right down. The convention at the time was to bottle feed, and to isolate the baby for the first few months to avoid germs. But I wanted to breast feed, and he wouldn't even try to take milk from a bottle, so after fighting with the pediatrician about that, I didn't make any fuss about staying home alone with James at first." Grace sighed very deeply. "Days just slid away into months, full and busy with taking care of my own house, my husband, my child."
"What changed?" Blair asked softly, truly curious and sure now she wanted him to understand.
"Steven," she said sadly. "He was a difficult pregnancy, and I nearly died in childbirth with him. Then he turned out to be a colicky child, a nightmare to live with. William had his heir and spare and left me on my own with both of them almost constantly." At Blair unintentional noise of disgust, she added firmly, "That's the way it was done then. Hubby worked hard to bring in the bacon and keep up with the Jones, and wifey stayed home to raise the children properly and make life as easy as possible for the breadwinner."
Making a circle with her hand as if to encompass the changes that brought her to the present, she ducked through a low-over hang into a narrow tunnel that forced them to walk one behind the other. At the other end, she said, "To be truthful, I didn't mind. It was easier to cope on my own than deal with him as well, and it never occurred to me that life could be any other way after a while."
"Let me guess," Blair said dryly. "You met someone. Someone who persuaded you to take up your old dreams."
"In the church choir, of all places." Grace made a face at the irony of it. "The one place that neither William nor my father objected to me being on my own, as long as the boys were in Sally's care at Dad's house."
"He wanted a pipeline into your family's money?" An old, old story, Blair thought to himself, that never has a happy ending.
"When he agreed to bringing Steven and James along, I thought it was just true love," she agreed with a weariness that told him that she'd hated herself a long time for being such a fool. "Between what I had saved from William's salary and the quarterly money from my mother's trust, we had enough to make it to New York City and get set up, but you can't imagine the squalor we lived in at first. For the first time, James was difficult to deal with. He cried constantly over things that didn't exist, or made up lies about the people around us. Steven just, well, stopped being a healthy if cranky baby. Stopped eating, stopped crying, stopped doing much of anything." Grace halted their journey and leaned on the wall for a moment, head down. "And I grew afraid of leaving them with Roddy. There were bruises that I couldn't believe the explanations for.
"By the time William tracked me down and demanded that I come back, I was ready to just for the boy's sake." Resolutely she started walking again, a bit faster as if it would finish her story that much more quickly. "But Roddy convinced me to trade custody of them for alimony. Daddy had disowned me and blocked my access to the trust, so I guess Roddy thought he'd get what he could while he could. I was beginning to get some bit parts in various productions, was taking voice lessons from a teacher who truly thought I was excellent, and really, really thought that I'd be able to see them any time I wanted and would be able to tell William in a few years to take the alimony and shove it."
"Did you ever get a chance to see them again?" Blair asked, more to give her the momentum to reach the end than because he needed to.
"Once, for a few days." Her expression was tight with pain. "William got his petty revenge for the scandal of being deserted by his wife. When I was scheduled to visit, something would always come up and the he and the boys would be 'unavailable.' Or he'd call me up and ask me to take care of them for a few days, knowing full well that I either didn't have the money to fly out or that I was working and couldn't get away without losing the job. I wouldn't even be surprised if he did it in front of the boys to let them think I didn't want them."
She suddenly came to a full stop and swung around to face him directly. "Do I really have to tell you about the whole sordid trip from a wannabe actress to a part-time whore and cocktail waitress? Falls from ambition to disaster on the Great White Way are part of American tradition by now."
"Just because a tragedy has become commonplace," Blair said quietly, "Doesn't mean it's any less agonizing when you're going through it. Don't belittle what happened to you. Whatever mistakes you've made, obviously you've done your time and are trying to make restitution." For long moments Grace studied him, then just as abruptly as she stopped, she turned on her heel and went on.
"For what it's worth," Blair said, following suit. "As a kid, Jim probably understood a lot better than you thought he did about what you did and why. I've seen him cut people out of his life, cold, no discussion, for far less than you could be blamed for, yet he asked the community to look for you. And when William's way of life got to be too much for him, he had the courage to do emulate you and chase after his dreams, such as they were."
A longish silence met his last comment, then, casting her eyes heavenward, as if saying a prayer, Grace muttered, "And he wonders why I think he has a gift for healing..."
Blair didn't know what to say to that, and before he could think of a good way to change the subject, they came to a another narrow passage, one that opened into a large cave that looked as if it had had something wooden built in it at one point. Whatever it had been, it was long gone except for bits and pieces that gave no clue as to what they had been attached to. The only structure that remained that made sense was a rickety bridge over a crevasse, and Vincent sat in the middle of it, head and body hunched over as if he were in great pain.
"This is as far as I go," Grace whispered. "If I leave you here, he won't have any choice but to lead you back up. And that should give you more than enough time to find out what's wrong between him and Catherine and lend a hand with it." Not giving him a chance to protest, she left.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Blair said in a mix of resignation and exasperation to the shadow of her retreating back.
For a moment he considered turning tail himself, pretty sure that he could retrace their steps. But he wasn't *positive* and besides, it was pretty obvious his unique new friend was in a world of hurt. Blair didn't have it in him to walk away from someone whose body language said so clearly that he thought there was no way to fix whatever it was that was wrong.
Hesitantly Blair stepped forward, and was immediately given another reason for staying. A hundred thousand voices - male, female, young, old - murmured and sang and spoke to him in a thousand different languages of love, anger, fear, joy, and every other emotion known to man. "Whispering Gallery," he said to himself, studying the contours of the chamber even while marveling at its incredible acoustic properties. His very next thought was to wonder if this was what Jim heard all the time.
Smiling wryly at himself, Blair made his way to the end of the bridge where Vincent sat, then eyed it warily. It had to be sturdier than it looked or it would never hold the much heavier Vincent. The question was - was it strong enough for both of them? Swallowing against the familiar fear that had only grown worse since meeting Jim, he peeked over the edge of the crevasse, and blanched. No bottom that he could see, and as black as any nightmare.
Taking his own advice and nowhere near as successfully as Jim managed, Blair began to regulate his breathing, telling himself that he was calm, the bridge was safe, he could do it. Vincent's head shot up as Blair put his foot on the very edge of the wooden structure.
"There is no need to do this to yourself," he admonished gently. "And I would prefer to be left alone."
"I can get behind that, but can I sit where you are for a second? The voices have to be fantastic with the abyss to focus them." Blair had no illusions that Vincent believed that he was that eager for the full effect of the chamber, but it was a convenient excuse that would allow him to take that first step. He did so with false confidence, keeping his eyes locked on his friend.
Vincent didn't abide by the unspoken social convention of taking an excuse at face value. "Blair, you are terrified nearly out of your mind! You have no reason to face this particular fear right now."
"Yes, yes, I do," he denied instantly, trying to make his shaking body move steadily over the uneven surface of the bridge. Finally making it to Vincent's side, he hissed out a pent up chest-full of air, and gingerly sat. "You." Trying not to think about the emptiness beneath them, Blair swung his feet in space, grateful he couldn't feel the slightest vibration from his perch. "Call it returning the favor from yesterday."
"I would have done the same for anyone," Vincent pointed out gently.
"So, still works both ways, man." Blair tried looking up at the light coming in from the opening in the ceiling, and found that the slight change in position made the voices sound much clearer, as if he stood on the other side of an invisible wall between him and the speakers. "Whoa," he said in delight. "Worth it, too."
At that Vincent gave a small snort of amusement, then reached out to lock a hand into the back of Blair's pants at the waist, anchoring him. Feeling absurdly safer, Blair closed his eyes and enjoyed what he heard. "Like a symphony of people," he murmured after a moment.
"All living, loving, hating, hurting, and trying, just like ourselves," Vincent agreed. "It's why I come here to think. I find that they often speak of being troubled by problems not unlike my own; it's reassuring somehow."
"Like you're not so different after all," Blair said gently, opening his eyes to meet Vincent's gaze.
Vincent gave him a sharp look, but in the end, bowed his head again, not before Blair saw the track of tear begin. "Not so different after all," Vincent agreed, sadly. "I seem destined the make the same mistakes that all men make, yet in my case, the repercussions of those mistakes seem insurmountable."
Mentally back in front of the television camera, microphones eagerly slurping down every soul-destroying sound byte, Blair quietly disagreed, reaching over to thumb away the dampness. "But not impossible. You just have to be willing to give up as much as you damaged. It sucks, it's hard, it's never quite enough, but it's enough to live on, in the long run, anyway.
This time the look Vincent gave him was full of compassion. "And James forgave you for whatever it was that hurts both of you still?"
Wincing, belatedly realizing that the very perceptive man would have picked up on the very real truth behind his assurance, Blair shrugged. "You know, I'm not so sure that 'forgiving' is what happens, or maybe what's really needed. Find a way to live with it is closer to what you do. Or pour so much love and happiness on it that it gets outweighed by the sheer mass of all the good times that can come after."
Going back to studying the emptiness under his feet, Vincent said, "I am uncertain if Catherine will allow me to try to 'outweigh the wrong' I did her. I can never forgive myself; how can she find it in her heart to do what I cannot?"
"Doesn't she at least deserve the chance to make up her own mind about it?? Taking the chance that Bethie's report of what happened was close to accurate, Blair added, "You didn't give her much of one last night. And if she's like every other woman I've met in my life, what you think you did wrong and what *she* thinks you did wrong are probably two entirely different things. You might be sitting here beating yourself up for all the wrong reasons."
That idea plainly startled Vincent, and he said reluctantly, "I have heard others say the same. But Catherine and I...."
"Are still man and woman," Blair broke in. "Two completely different species for all intents and purposes, with all the accompanying difficulty in translating each other's languages."
To lighten his own mood and to let Vincent have a chance to think about what he'd said, Blair confided, "Tried to convince my advisor once that it would make a fascinating psychology study to attempt to determine which of us was really the parasitical gender. I mean, there's some evidence to indicate that spontaneous parthenogenesis can occur in fertile women - hence the whole virgin birth mythology. And a group of women on their own in stressful situations tend to do better physically, socially and psychologically than men."
"I take it that the same advisor suggested that you *not* become a psychologist," Vincent said dryly, going along with the change with apparent relief.
"Also thought that sociology wouldn't be a good idea," Blair admitted cheerfully. "Muttered something about having enough skewed perspectives out there."
"Speaking of which." Vincent stood effortlessly, offering him a hand. "I believe that you would be benefited by a change in your current, 'skewed' perspective."
Taking a last peek at the vastness below them, Blair shuddered, and let himself be hauled to his feet. The trip back to solid ground was much easier than the one away from it. He had the solid bulk of Vincent behind him and the just as solid warm approval Jim would have for helping their friend ahead of him.
***
Clutching the blood-red rose that had been delivered with the key, Catherine cautiously opened the door to the hotel room, surprised to see it was only dimly lit. For a second she resisted the urge to re-read the card that came as well, but didn't think the message 'Care to have lunch with your favorite music teacher's son?' would be any more enlightening the dozenth time around.
The only person she knew who was a music teacher's son was Jim Ellison, and why he would send her a rose and invitation for lunch was beyond her. Not to mention she couldn't see how he could have possibly gotten from the hospital chamber Below to this upscale, uptown hotel. Or how a fugitive could afford it without attracting all the wrong attention.
But once her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see his long form curled in the middle of t