One of the dangers a fanfic author runs into when writing for a show still filming episodes, is, that any given week, any story she's working on or those written to that point, can be blown out of the water by series canon. For that reason, I pretty much abandoned my Final Exam series at the start of third season, though I still had several plot bunnies bouncing around. But with no way to reconcile the Jim and Blair of my universe with the ones on the screen, and with so many other, younger, equally attractive fits-the-canon bunnies vying for my attention, I let older ones retire gracefully to the back of my head.
Then I recently met Maig in person for the first time, and she persuaded? nagged? coaxed? me into finding them where they were lost in the morass of my mind, telling me that there were just so many more lessons left to be taught. I have to thank her for that; working on this new chapter has been a satisfying return to a wonderful place where Alex Barnes never got anywhere close to the guppy because he was already well and truly taken. Hopefully, though this is part of a series, all you need to know to enjoy this story is that J/B share a low-level psychic bond, enough to let them be hyper aware of each other. It intensifies with proximity, to the point where if one is injured, the strength of both is used for healing, as long as they can touch. Oh, and it's Dr. Sandburg; Blair wrote a watered-down dissertation, hardly touching on Jim-as-a-sentinel at all, using him instead more as arch-type than as an example.
Addendum: For those of you who are interested in such things, Advanced Studies was inspired by the theme to an long defunct TV program called Twin Peaks, "Fire Walk With Me." It's an instrumental piece, but when I heard it again for the first time in some years, I could just *see* J/B making love with that music in the background. Don't ask me why; the muse didn't tell me!
There are parties and there are parties, and the one shaking down the house on a normally quiet suburban street was one that would go down in history as *the* party for that year's graduating high school seniors. In the lowest level of the split ranch where there was a rec room with a state-of-the-art sound system, teens gyrated and pulsed in time to music, taking an occasional detour to lighten the terrible burden of the snack tables at one side. Special strobe and black lighting had been provided for the occasion, giving the room a club feel that made walking up the stairs into the kitchen startling to anyone immersed in the jubilant mood of the party.
It was loud, happy, crowded, and the neighbors would have been calling the police to complain if it weren't for two simple things. First, the homeowner had foreseen something of the kind, and had invited everyone within potential earshot to the party. Second, most of the PD was already at the house in its upper level, celebrating the graduation of an honorary member of their own. The off-duty police officers put up with the racket below because they weren't being that quiet themselves. The main difference was the type of music, and the lighting. Cops, as a whole, prefer to be able to see well and made do with ordinary track lights. But they were making their own serious inroads to the huge amounts of food available and adding to the general noise level with conversation well mixed with laughter.
Jim watched Daryl Banks bounce back and forth between the two parts of the house dragging people from one to the other in gleeful disregard of whether the disparate groups wanted to mix. Snorting into his beer as Joel became his latest target, Jim drifted along the back wall of the living room, thinking that it was a tribute to how well-liked Simon's son was that he was getting away with it. And to Blair for how subtly he was making sure Daryl did.
Spotting his lover talking to a young officer who recently took the detective's test, Jim unabashedly eavesdropped, picking up, "...course Daryl wants to do the Academy now, but his dad wants him to do the college thing first. Which way is better do you think?"
Leaving Blair to his victim, Jim continued his circuit, his goal being the love chair tucked into the corner nearest the open patio doors. While the teens were being treated to frozen non-alcoholic daiquiris and margaritas, the adults were indulging in beer or wine, and he had had enough to be pleasantly buzzed. Not drunk, but not completely sober either, he wanted to slump someplace and enjoy not having tight shoulder and neck muscles. It was rare for him to be in that state and there was no reason not to enjoy it while he could.
Eventually, after stopping several times to exchange a word or two with various people, including a Simon who was positively glowing with pride for his offspring, he made it and plopped down sideways on one end as Blair plopped on the other. Grinning, Jim leaned his head on his hand, propping his arm on the back of the chair, and admired his mate.
Lit up by the party, Blair was dancing in his seat to some internal rhythm that just happened to match the beat of the music around him, making his curls fly around in a way that begged for Jim to catch and tame a few. Flushed a bit by the beer he'd been drinking and by the accumulated heat of the crowd, he looked wanton and willing, sapphire eyes bright with that very promise. The warmth of the room had coaxed him into taking off the majority of his layers, leaving only a blue T-shirt covering a well-made body, accenting the wide shoulders and sturdy chest.
Looking at him made Jim want to pull him close and kiss him until he was desperate to be loved.
But they had tacitly agreed on a 'don't tell unless asked nicely' policy at the department, so all Jim did was stare at his lover, knowing he was wearing a goofy-in-love expression and not giving a damn despite being more or less in the closet. Let them wonder. Daringly he did play with the gold bracelet on Blair's left arm where it stretched along the back of the couch, sensitive fingers finding the hidden catch that he had locked with a kiss the day he placed it. His matching chain was hidden by the cuff of his shirt, and his smile widened when Blair's eyes traced where it should be, smugness mixing delightfully with growing desire in his features.
His need rose to match it, and Jim had to lift a knee to the seat to give his growing erection room. Blair moved at the same time to do the same thing, and he licked his lips, his gaze finding Jim's by habit, or maybe by instinct, as he did. Everything about him - posture, scent, expression - proclaimed that he was eager for Jim, eager to be taken, used, loved. Time and place didn't matter; he would offer himself up here and now if that was what his lover wished.
For all that he wanted to take Blair and satisfy them both, Jim was in no hurry. The heat in him was languid, rolling loosely through his gut, not searing but melting. He wanted to touch first, take his time and savor the special textures that made up Blair. Throat to begin with, he decided. Fingers spread wide over the long column of neck, thumb traveling over jaw and cheek. Massage a little, make sure no tension lingered there. Up into the curls after that, to knead cautiously at the precious bone that sheltered that rare mind.
After that… He shifted restlessly in his seat, imagining no shirt to prevent his fingers from stroking bare skin, dimly aware of the party around them and trying to restrict himself to pure mental pleasures. It was a challenge; Blair's breath was coming faster, as was his heartbeat. Somehow he was following Jim's fantasy touch, responding to it as if it were real. Jim didn't know if it was being read from eyes caressing where hands longed to be, or if their connection put them so in tune that Blair could tell from experience alone.
Either way, Jim didn't hesitate to continue building his image of his mate standing in front of him naked and aroused, waiting for the next delicate sweep from his hands. Thinking of how wonderful it felt to have him close, Jim fitted them back to front, so that he could savor the slight tickle of hair on his bare chest while he slowly glided his palms over the swell of muscle and taut line of bone and tendon in arms, thighs, hips, wherever he could reach. That made Blair tremble, weakening his knees so that he put more of his weight on his lover, letting his head fall back onto the shoulder waiting for him. As a reward, Jim skimmed over the erection standing out so proudly from the pliant body, doing it barely enough to be felt. Such a fleeting touch made Blair chase after more, thrusting forward and sighing, and the movement brought Jim's hard-on snugly between the firm mounds of his mate's backside.
They cried out together softly at that, and Jim pressed into the welcoming flesh, suddenly longing to possess the opening hidden there. A nudge told his lover to bend over, and he adjusted his position, holding onto Blair's hips for leverage. Dropping a kiss on the back of the neck first, then nibbling at a shoulder blade, he probed with his erection, skating over the portal once, pulling a moan from them.
Focused intently on the body-heat holding him, hands tingling and humming from the life coursing under them, he shook off a persistent noise, literally moving his head to negate it. Then large palms captured both sides of his face, turning him forcibly, and Jim blinked into the worried face of Simon Banks.
"Dammit, Jim!" his friend and captain whispered frantically, "This is no place to zone. Come on, snap out of it!"
Jerking back, automatically checking to see if his state had been noticed, Jim was relieved to see that the party had gone on oblivious to the two men sitting in the corner. The angle of the love-seat had hidden them from the shoulders down, concealing their arousal, and the general shuffling and mingling of people had prevented anyone from becoming aware of how long he and Blair had sat staring into each other's eyes.
That done, he glanced back to his partner, intending to ask why he hadn't pulled him from the zone. But Blair was blank-faced, eyes fixed on some distant spot, unaware of either him or Simon standing next to them. Gently Jim cupped his lover's cheek and softly said, "Chief?"
"Since when does Sandburg zone with you?" Banks asked, the words a mixture of confusion and irritation.
"He's not zoning," Jim answered absently, and patted Blair's face, trying only to jar him a bit. Not wanting to explain that what they *had* been doing, he improvised, "Just too much to drink and not enough sleep, I think. Come on, time to go home, partner."
Blinking once languorously, Blair snapped back to the here and now, eyes and scent rich with desire. "Yes," he murmured. "It is."
"Call us a cab, Simon?" Jim asked, looking up at him.
"You can spend the night here," he offered so quickly Jim had to wonder if he thought his best team was drunk.
"No, we can't," Blair contradicted softly.
Looking ready to argue, Simon nodded reluctant agreement at their stubborn expressions and left to find the phone, looking back over his shoulder at them until he was out of sight. As soon as he was, Jim stood, grateful his shirt was long enough to cover his groin. Despite the abrupt return to reality, he was still rampant, aching for completion. Self-consciously he turned his back to the room to adjust himself in his pants, not surprised to see Blair do the same.
They quickly circulated through the party, making their good-byes, and trying not to be too obvious they were dying to get away. It seemed to take forever, and their urgency barely faded to tolerable levels during the task. But eventually they were in the back of the cab, on the way home, sitting close with Blair's head on Jim's shoulder, opinion of the cabbie be damned. Once they arrived, he threw some bills at the woman, pretending not to see her knowing smirk, and followed his lover into their home and up to their bed.
They had barely spoken to each other the entire time it had taken to get to the loft, not feeling the need to talk, but they had never been more than a molecule apart either. Once upstairs, they silently undressed, unable to watch for fear of being pushed over the edge before they had a chance to touch. As soon as he was naked, Blair turned and bent from the waist, bracing his hands on the bed.
It was precisely how Jim had envisioned it, and he was behind him in a heartbeat, entering the willing body with a single smooth thrust. Shouting at the instantaneous surge of pleasure, feeling Blair's rapidly approaching finish throbbing through where they were joined, he withdrew completely, then slammed back in as deeply as he could.
"Yes, yes, just like that, again, again, again," Blair groaned, his wide-legged stance preventing him from doing more than begging. "Again!"
There was no way Jim could refuse him, and he willingly did as demanded. As he hammered hard into Blair, he grunted, "Good, so good, gotta come, babe, gotta...."
With a keening wail, Blair shot, writhing as best he could into the serious pounding he was taking, pulling Jim along with him into ecstasy. Shoving in until he could feel bones digging into his groin, he surrendered his seed into his mate, wordlessly shouting and shaking from the release.
Somehow he managed to stay on his feet until the last drop had found its way home, then he slipped away to collapse on the mattress next to Blair. They tangled together, belly-to-belly and nose-to-nose, and fell asleep instantly with no thought but holding each other.
When they woke the next morning, all Jim really remembered about the night before was how needy and ready they had both been, and that he'd zoned on touch at Daryl's party. It wasn't until nearly a month later that Simon's comment about Blair zoning with him came back to haunt him.
On a quiet Saturday evening, he sat on the couch, watching a game on the tube while Blair worked on one of the many professional papers that seemed to flow endlessly from his fertile mind. To be truthful, Jim wasn't paying much attention to the game which was beginning its third quarter. Instead he was indulging in one of his favorite past times... admiring his lover.
It was very easy to do. Whether fully dressed or scurrying about in a towel, Blair was a feast for the eyes. Today he sat comfortably in his chair, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop, pausing occasionally to tug at the stray curls floating free of those pulled into a ponytail. Those same digits would tap at full lips thoughtfully, encouraging Jim to lick his own in fond remembrance of how tasty both were. Blair would pick up a pen and bite at the end, jotting comments on the notes he was using to write, then set it aside for another flurry of key strokes. At times, he would remove his glasses and nibble on them while re-reading what was on the screen or set them aside while he sipped on a cup of herbal tea, still staring at the laptop.
Blair, Jim had decided long ago, was very, very oral.
Stirring restlessly, his maleness giving him a pointed twinge to remind him of exactly *how* oral he was, Jim wondered if maybe it wasn't time to divert his lover into something a bit more... recreational. Erection growing to full length at the thought of what he wanted, he turned so that he was half laying on the couch, one foot on the floor and the other tucked up against his bottom. This not only gave the weight between his thighs room, but drew the fabric of his sweats tight over it, blatantly calling attention to his state.
It would take more than that to lure Blair out of his writing, but it was a good start, and he added to the bait by touching his hard-on lightly through his clothes. Sighing in pleasure, his eyelids drifted halfway down so that he could watch his lover's reaction from under lowered lashes. Blair heard that soft sound, at least on some level. He squirmed in his chair, and Jim caught a whiff of desire on the slight air current caused by it.
That inspired him to fondle himself more firmly, using both hands to heighten his response. It was good, very good, and he sighed again, louder this time. Blair definitely heard that; he gave a sidelong glance that turned into a take that would have been comical if Jim hadn't been so caught up in the sensuality of what he was doing. Gaze flicking back and forth between busy hands and his lover's expression, Blair unthinkingly covered his own erection with a hand, giving himself a little squeeze.
With a breathy 'oh', Jim pressed up hard into his grip, then frantically shoved his pants out of the way to be able to jack himself properly. Hips lifting involuntarily into the motion of his hand, he caught Blair's eyes with his own, head reeling under the sexual charge that burned from them into his. It sizzled over his nerves, like a tangible touch from his lover's knowledgeable hands, increasing his pleasure and turning his hold on himself nearly brutal. Blair liked that, liked it a lot, and Jim's hard-on jumped hungrily, as if it wanted to cross the space between the lovers and find its counterpart.
That too reverberated between them, sending them higher into their shared pleasure, taking them closer to the culmination their bodies demanded.
Then a burst of angry voices, shrill and promising violence, pricked Jim's dazed mind, and warrior instincts made him jerk his head toward the source, breaking his union with his mate. On the TV, a fight was breaking out between the players of both teams, despite the best efforts of the referees. He was about to dismiss it and go back to finish what he had started, but the time clock in the lower corner flashed, catching his attention.
The game was in overtime; he had lost nearly the entire half to the foreplay he had been sharing with Blair. It hadn't felt like it had been that long; in fact, his body was insisting that they had just started. Stomach sinking, he recognized the signs of a major zone, though for the life of him the only thing that he could think of that he could have been lost in was sexual arousal. Worse still, it seemed Blair it had been lost in it with him.
Carefully he peeked over at his lover. Blair had gone back to working on his paper, apparently not noticing that he'd been interrupted for more than a minute. Only the hand in his lap, absently massaging the diminishing bulge there, gave any sign of the arousal that had been burning moments earlier.
Apparently Jim had been the only one really turned on and he had dragged Blair along with him, using their connection to do so.
That made him uneasy for reasons he couldn't put his finger on. Usually he was the one who effortlessly dealt with the strange twists and turns that came from their unique bond, mostly because Jim associated it with his senses. To him, one was part of the other, and if he accepted either, he accepted both. It had had always been Blair who had balked, though not even he could explain precisely why. That had struck Jim as strange more than once, given that his partner was the one who believed such things as psychic abilities were possible.
Arousal totally gone, he put both feet on the floor and thought fast and furiously about what had just happened. Today wasn't the first time, he realized. Remembering the intense fantasy he had spun at Daryl's party, he recognized it for the shared zone it was, though at the time he had blamed it on drink and an exceptionally good mood. And he didn't think Blair had been aware of their mutual zone out then, either. A defense mechanism to allow him to cope with the mental invasion? Denial?
With another sickening lurch in his gut, Jim pushed that idea away. It sounded as if he had given his lover no choice but to participate. They had both simply been caught off guard by a new facet of their relationship. Now that he knew it could happen, he'd watch out for it. He didn't even need to bother Blair with it and give him a new reason to freak out. Blair had enough on his mind between the university and the department, not to mention the various other projects he was always volunteering for.
Matter resolved in his own head, Jim pushed the whole thing away, dismissing his uneasiness as leftover horniness.
Cruising slowly down the street of the Tarryton Family Complex, Jim peered through the sun-glazed glass of his truck, not sure what he was looking for but certain he would know it if he saw it. There wasn't much to see, yet. This early on a summer day there weren't that many people around, though he was sure that would change later. The Complex was a favored place for young people and families since its shops and businesses were all geared toward fun and recreation.
Pausing in an alley between the paintball arena and far end of the batting cages, he listened for a minute, scanning through what he heard. here was nothing out of the ordinary that might indicate the vandals harrying the stores were around. Normally destruction of property wasn't a Major Crimes kind of case, but an unusual lull in the workload in that department had made Simon willing to shake loose one of his detectives when his friend Captain Carter had asked.
Jim had volunteered, partly out of boredom and partly because it gave him an excuse to be out. Though Blair hated it when Jim went on calls without him, this one seemed harmless enough, unlikely to turn into anything that would call for their special partnership. Besides, he would be able to run over to the university after he was done for a quick visit.
Blair was teaching two summer classes, building up administrative goodwill for those times the demands of the police department interfered with his school responsibilities. Since he wouldn't do expeditions right now, he had to have some way to build up his cache, and he took on half the unwanted jobs in the Anthropology department because of it. Jim missed having him ride with him, especially lately when he couldn't seem to get enough of his lover's presence.
Noting the limo pulling up behind the paintball store, Jim put aside personal issues, and watched as it parked near the back door. A limo in a family oriented recreation center was odd enough; the rider sneaking in the back way was worth paying attention to. The moment the bodyguard stepped out to open the door for the passenger, Jim knew who was in the car: Elliot Tarryton, owner of the Complex proper. Gregor Haurer, his bodyguard and corporate security chief, had been known to Jim by reputation before he went into the personal security business. He had been one of the few CIA spooks that Rangers spoke of with respect, and the ex-military personnel grapevine had been eager share the news that he'd retired to Cascade.
Haurer scanned up and down the alleyway before opening the door, probably not seeing him because of where Jim had parked and because of the morning light in his eyes. Satisfied that no trouble was waiting, he let Tarryton out, but neither of them made a move to enter the building. Instead a tall, beefy man with fair hair badly in need of a wash stepped out, looking sour and argumentative.
Interest piqued, Jim concentrated on the meeting, piggybacking sight and sound so that it seemed he stood right beside the others.
"...contract says by midnight on the first of the month, and by damn, you won't get it a minute sooner," the blond said. To Jim he sounded snotty, ready to fight.
"So you insist on keeping my staff waiting for you every month because of the legal technilese in your lease," Tarryton said mildly. "You're keeping hard working men and women from their home and dinner because you begrudge me - and I'm not even the one being inconvenienced."
His tone implied that the shopkeeper was the worst kind of insensitive asshole there was and the other man flushed angrily. "I'm sure you pay them well enough."
"True, but this isn't the kind of business relationship that is conducive to success for either of us, Mr. Hayes. If you have some sort of personal vendetta with me, I wish you would simply be up front with it and stop the petty grievances you're always throwing in my path."
The tone stayed reasonable, but Hayes grew angrier. "Maybe I just hate having to do business with your kind at all!"
Haurer stiffened, and Jim reflexively put his hand on his gun. But all Tarryton did was shrug with both hands. "In that case, when your lease comes due, I won't be looking for a renewal from you. I'm sure you'll find plenty of buildings with as much square footage and acreage as this one, and in an equally ideal location. Possibly even for the same rent that I charge."
Yeah, right, Jim thought to himself. Paintball games took *lots* of room, and anywhere but in this patch of property between suburbia, the city proper, and the industrial sections, the rent would be premium.
"It's not right," Hayes blurted out. "Decent man having to scrape to get by when *you* have money, power, influence. Tell me, how much of your shoddy empire did you earn on your knees in filthy bathrooms or dark doorways?"
A discrete shift backwards that Jim wasn't sure he saw at first held Haurer in place, and Tarryton lost his reasonable stance. "And how far has your blind prejudice taken you, Mr. Hayes? Has hatred made your life any easier at all?" With an air of dismissal he turned to his car. "I'll instruct the night watchman to take your check or cash from now on out. As he is a legitimate member of my staff, and therefore my representative, legally he is as good as my personal secretary. If you refuse to do so, you will be in violation, and I will have you evicted, sir."
Without looking back, Tarryton got in his limo, Haurer hovering protectively between him and the shopkeeper. Letting his eyes speak for him all the while, he walked around to get in on the other side, telling Hayes exactly what he thought of him.
Once the door was shut, Jim switched his attention completely to the blond, not particularly surprised at the hatred he saw there. He knew the type far too well, and had had his share of run-ins with them since he and Blair had become a couple. Hayes didn't look defeated, however. Only more determined and Jim leaned forward as if that would let him see what alternative plan the man had to deal with his landlord.
In the half-opened doorway next to Hayes, Jim saw a flash of movement and focused on it. A man was just inside the threshold, the darkness hiding most of his features. Saying something to Hayes, he gestured with his hands, which were holding... holding what? Trying to bring the object into focus, Jim zoned on the hint of metal and shine, trying futilely to resolve it into something recognizable.
"Jim!" Blair's voice, sounding strong and worried in his ear, jarred him back to normal just as click of a rifle's trigger being pulled hit his awareness. Without thinking he slammed the truck into reverse, backing it out of the alleyway, tires squealing. For one second he thought about roaring around the perimeter of the building, in hopes of locating the weapon and shooter, but he put the Ford in gear and sped off for the University.
There was no question in his mind that he had to get there, now!
Lights and siren going, he pulled up to Hargrove Building a record time later, his hearing searching out the distinctive mélange of sounds that made up Blair's aural signature. Using that to guide him, noting that heartbeat was slow and breathing was ragged, Jim charged through the hallways until he came to the lecture hall, bursting through the doors to find his lover collapsed next to the lectern and surrounded by students.
Pushing his way none too gently through the crowd, he barked, "What happened?" Kneeling beside Blair, he eased his limp form onto his lap, tilting his head a little to keep the blood flowing from his nose from going down his throat instead. Fingers sure and capable, he checked the pulse, surprised to find it steady but not surprised at the surge of sensation through their connection at the contact. Blair's breathing steadied as well, the fact that he wasn't half choking on blood any longer helping considerably.
Several voices whispered to each other that he was the cop Dr. Sandburg worked with sometimes, and one of those volunteered. "Man, I don't know. One minute he's talking about standards of observation, the next he's staring into space like he's stoned on something. That lasts long enough for everybody to start wondering if he's going to start babblin' about seeing god or aliens or something, then he kinda just, well, crumples. No bones, you know?"
"Anybody call an ambulance?" Jim brushed aside the hair that had fallen over Blair's face, then took out his handkerchief to hold against a seeping nostril.
"911 said it should be on its way," a new voice spoke up. "Is he going to be okay?"
She sounded genuinely worried, and Jim said honestly, "I don't know. Vitals are good, though." Bending closer, he whispered, "Chief? Hey, you're scaring me here." Though he used a joking tone, it cracked around the edges, despite his best effort at control. "Blair?"
With a jerk, Blair's eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up, hands going up to grab Jim's shirt at the collar. "Jim!"
"Shh, it's okay, it's okay." A bustle behind him told him that the paramedics had arrived and he tightened his hold on his partner to prevent them from taking Blair away. "Relax, take it easy a minute. You passed out and the EMT's want to check you out, okay?"
Wide-eyed, clearly confused, Blair nodded his agreement, sinking into Jim's arms as if he feared being removed from them, as well. He didn't fight the oxygen mask placed over his face, and answered the questions the medics shot at him as best he could, all the while protesting he felt fine.
Despite that, it was decided to take him to the hospital, mostly because the bleeding didn't stop and Jim was worried about it. Blair spent the trip there bitching at him at sentinel level for excessive caution. Taking advantage of the paramedic's obliviousness, he got more and more creative with his complaints, wringing grins and even the occasional snort of laughter from Jim, earning them both weird looks from the attendants.
At the hospital, though, all traces of humor died, and Jim stood by the windows at the entrance, staring blindly out them. He'd relinquished his grip on his partner only because he didn't want to start a fight with the staff unless it was necessary, and because he knew he could keep tabs on him with his hearing. Then, too, recovered fully from his scare, Blair was fighting against being hovered over, preferring to deal with the doctors on his own, as usual.
There was no one thing in particular on Jim's mind as he waited; too many sensory impressions and half-formed thoughts chased through his head to allow coherent thought. But the times Blair had collapsed because *Jim* had been injured or ill, blood flowing freely each occasion, came to the forefront over and over. Blairhad brushed it off each time, blaming it on the newness of their connection. But the bond wasn't that new, any more, and the reaction was getting worse. Add to that the shared zones, and Jim was more uncertain about his senses and the consequences of having them than he had been since just before Incacha's death.
A whirl of scent and sensation touched his awareness. Without moving he asked dryly, "Simon, do you tip the E.R. registration clerks to call you when one of us comes in or do you have a crystal ball?"
Cigar not burning, but still in hand, Banks answered, "I think they do it out of self-defense, to keep you or Sandburg from being too much trouble. What is it this time? One of your cases popping up unexpectedly, or his knack for finding trouble?"
"Actually, I think I might be the problem," Jim said honestly, startling himself. A moment later he mentally shrugged. Simon was the one person besides his partner who knew about the sentinel thing and who might be able to help him understand what was happening. "I was checking out the Complex, like you asked me to, and zoned trying to see something. Then Blair's voice yanked me out of it just in time to avoid getting shot." Lowering his head, he admitted, "I didn't hang around to find who was pulling the trigger; knew I had to get to Blair."
"God, Jim," Banks said tiredly, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses.
Arms crossed over his chest, he finally turned to face him. "He was out cold, bleeding from the nose. Doctors are saying things like seizure and tumor where he can't hear them, but *I* can. Not that they're close to right; I think it happened because he knew I was in danger and warned me."
Sitting heavily, Simon confessed, "I've wondered more than once what price the two of you pay for your closeness."
"Why is Blair carrying the burden of it?"Jim snapped. "I don't black out or anything; I just know that I have to go to him."
Consideringly Banks said, "From what Sandburg tells me, your senses are a genetic thing. You're literally made to do the things you do. But Blair is just another man who happened to find a sentinel and start working with him. Maybe for a normal person the, uh, thing, the two of you share is harder, less natural."
That hit Jim hard. Clenching his teeth until his jaw throbbed, he managed to hide the pain and say blandly, "Then because of me he's being pushed into being something he's not?"
"Jim," Simon said very gently, "Until the two of you got together, Blair was the straightest man I knew. If he could make the huge change to being your lover, is it really such a reach that he could be changed in other ways?"
Feeling the color drain from his face, Jim asked quietly, "He doesn't love me because I'm a sentinel, Simon."
"I didn't say that he does!" he denied hastily. "You have to know me better than to think I'd insult the both of you like that. I'm just saying that the senses are part and parcel of who you are, and like being a cop, it makes a difference *in* the people closest to you."
It made sense, too much sense for Jim's taste, and he sat tiredly next to Simon, putting his face in his hands. "So what do I do? It's too late to go back to being the way I was; I'm not sure I could without driving myself insane."
Simon didn't have anything to say to that, and Jim sorted through everything he'd learned about his gifts, trying to find an answer for himself. Finally his captain offered doubtfully, "You learned to control the sentinel thing. Couldn't you, I don't know, treat the connection like another kind of sense to be controlled? They call psychic abilities the sixth sense. It doesn't seem like much a stretch that you could handle one the same way you handle the other."
Desperate for a solution that would allow him to protect Blair, Jim considered what was being suggested, trying the idea on and looking at it from differing angles. In the distance he could hear his partner outrageously bullshitting a doctor with a tale of not eating for several days, getting dizzy, and trying to use a method taught to him by a shaman in Indonesia to control it. Convincing the man against his better judgment it seemed, the doctor allowed Blair go without any further testing, and Jim had no doubt the same tale would be used later to pacify the authorities at the University, as well. The conversation was accompanied by the sounds of clothes being pulled over skin, and he stood.
"Blair's on the way out. Look, I'll think about it, maybe see what I can do. But don't mention it to him, okay? At the very least we'd have a world class fight over me cutting off something he considers damned useful, if not absolutely essential to the upkeep and maintenance of a sentinel."
"Not to mention he'd see it as about the same as gouging out your eyes," Simon agreed, standing as well. "And I'm not so sure he wouldn't be right. Jim, this might have been my idea, but don't do anything without talking to him."
"Better blind than hurting Blair," Jim muttered, the hastily changed subjects since his partner was nearly on them. "About the Tarryton Complex.... I'd like to stay in the loop on that. No matter how hard I try I can't pinpoint what I saw, and it doesn't make sense that someone would try to shoot me when all I was doing was sitting there. Unless he made me as someone he has a personal grudge against, but from that distance he shouldn't have been able to tell who I was."
"No problem, as long as it doesn't interfere with your other cases," Simon agreed.
Crashing through the double doors that separated the waiting area from the exam room, Blair said cheerfully, "Get me out of here before they find another reason to stick me with a needle! I'm a pint short already! Hey, Simon! What're you doing here? Visiting Wayne?"
Simon smiled at the mention of his friend, Wayne Chen, who was on the physician's staff at Cascade General, and who he met thanks to Jim and Blair. "He says hello, as a matter of fact. And since I'm here, need a ride?"
"Thanks. I've got just enough time to get to my next class." Blair led the way out, pulling at his bloodstained shirt. "And change. I think I've got a T-shirt I can pull on until I get home."
"Don't you think you should go home and rest?" Jim asked sharply.
"Why? Like I told the doctor, I feel great! Energized!" Pausing, he spun in place and grinned at the two men with him. "So what happened, man? What kind of trouble were you in that I picked up on?"
Grimacing, Jim filled him in on his trip to Tarryton's, shoving the rest of it away until later.
That night, holding his sleeping lover close and nosing gently through the curls spilling over his shoulder and chest, Jim replayed his conversation with Simon, giving what he said careful thought. Much as he hated to admit it, his friend had a point. If the connection was linked to his senses - and in his own mind, at least, they were - then he should be able to 'dial it down' to a level that didn't endanger Blair. Make it one-way, maybe, so that he could still keep tabs on his partner.
He tried envisioning a dial labeled 'Blair' but couldn't; what they shared was too all encompassing for the limited up/down range of any dial. Besides, his awareness of Blair included all his senses; it always had, and they constantly fed him input about his lover. That gave Jim an idea, and he idly skimmed a hand over Blair's back while he thought.
From the first he had been more 'aware' of Blair than he ever had been of any person. He had learned his scent and all its variations before they had become friends, really. Sound was the same way; he only noticed 'blairnoise' when it was missing now, it was such a part of him. And he had always touched him far, far more than he ever had anyone, including his ex-wife.
If the bond was in part because of the senses, then withdrawing them, limiting the sensory knowledge he had of his partner, might curtail the connection as well. It seemed very possible, and, more importantly, he was fairly sure he could confine what he picked up to what any other person would know about another. After all, he knew what 'normal' felt like even if it was a thing of the past.
As if hearing Jim's troubled thoughts, Blair wiggled restlessly, mumbling indistinctly.
That made Jim ask himself what Blair would do when he found out what he was attempting. Hit the roof, probably. Simon had hit the nail on the head when he compared it to blinding himself; Blair wouldn't be that nice about it. He'd be horrified that Jim would ever consider voluntarily stifling or hiding part of himself, especially for his sake. And he'd be insulted and angry that Jim would want to make a choice like that for him. It didn't take sentinel hearing to imagine him saying scathingly, "If I don't have a problem with an occasional nose bleed, who the hell are you to bitch?"
Though he could marshal his arguments, rehearse them in his head until he could rattle them off as fast as Blair could argue, Jim knew he didn't have a chance of convincing his lover that blocking their connection was the right thing to do. It had been too hard, too traumatic for Blair to accept it in the first place. Beside, he hated fighting with him. It left him feeling as if he were caught in an earthquake; the whole world was uncertain underfoot.
He would have to just do it, and do it carefully enough that Blair wouldn't pick up on what was going on until was a done deal. That meant making damned sure that whatever side effects that came up stayed hidden, completely. If he got irritable from lack of Blair, he couldn't show it, or five minutes after he snapped at someone, his lover would find out and be quizzing him about what was wrong. Or if the senses misbehaved - and by now he was too experienced with how they could mess with him not to think it wouldn't happen - Jim would have to either hide it or come up with an alternative cause.
For a moment the idea of cutting his mate out of his life in any way ripped at Jim, making him tighten his loose hold on the lax form. Responding with a sleepy squeeze of his own, Blair snuggled closer, trying to comfort even while deeply under. That hardened Jim's resolve, and he pressed his lips to the broad forehead, closing his eyes to better cherish the taste/smell/feel. Then he carefully rolled away, turning his back to him, and set about fighting with his senses.
Long hours later he finally succeeded in caging them, at least where Blair was concerned. Though he could hear the driver of a car on his street cursing drunkenly about getting a ticket, the only thing he heard from his bed mate was a plainly audible breathy snore. No heartbeat, no bodily noises. It was the same for all his senses, so that there was sort of a blind spot where Blair should be, and Jim *hated* it. Being blindfolded, gagged, and wrapped in plastic wrap couldn't possibly be more miserable than being closed away from the source of his life.
Exhausted with his internal battle, he dropped off, only to dream of a panther trapped in a glass cage, snarling and scrabbling to get out, while a wolf howled mournfully in the distance.
Heart in his throat, lungs working over time, Blair sat bolt upright in the bed, sleep gone but night blanketing his vision so that for a moment he didn't know where he was. Then the faint light from the skylight created the familiar shadows of their bedroom, and he swiped his hair away from his face, wondering what had awakened him. Automatically he sought out his lover, forehead wrinkling in confusion when he found Jim laying on the very edge of the bed, facing away.
Must have gotten too warm for him, he thought muzzily, his own cooling sweat making him shiver. Blankly he looked around again, wondering what could possibly kick him out of sleep but leave his sentinel undisturbed. Finding nothing, he tried to remember what he'd been dreaming, but all he could find was a vague impression of terror with no specific images to go with it.
At last, shrugging to himself, he crept over to huddle up against the broad back of his lover, throwing an arm over Jim's waist as he did. Thankfully sleep was, for once, close enough that with luck he could drop back off and save himself from sitting in the darkness, unable to rest and revisiting old nightmares until dawn came. But even as he slipped into the comfort of both slumber and the presence of his mate, a feeling of dread lingered at the edge of his mind.
It was still with him when the alarm went off the next morning, but it was quickly buried under the rush to have breakfast, get ready for work, and the million other details that ate up the hours. At odd times throughout the day, though, it would dart through his mind, unsettling him and making him check and double check everything around him in a futile search for a source. It grew so annoying that he called up Jim, just to ask what was going on at the station, but he only succeeded in worrying his partner.
Finally he threw his office work into his pack, determined to go home and meditate, at least until he had the freewheeling anxiety cornered, if not defined. A knock on the door to his office didn't so much as put a pause in his stuffing of papers; whoever or whatever could talk to him on the fly. When the dean of Anthropology, Scott Latham, and Dr. Eli Stoddard walked in at his cheery 'come in,' Jim trailing after them, laughing at some remark, his hand stopped mid-flight.
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it, it wasn't my fault, I wasn't even there," he said facetiously, eyeing the three men suspiciously.
"Relax, Sandburg," Jim grinned. "We're not ganging up on you; I happened to run into these gentlemen on the way."
"Why does that not reassure me?" Blair mock-grumbled. He waved at the chairs in front of his desk, then perched on the edge of it.
"Want me to make myself scarce?" Jim asked Dr. Stoddard politely.
"Actually, detective, since our proposal would affect Dr. Sandburg's performance at the police department, perhaps you wouldn't mind sitting in? It would also give him a good sounding board for later, when he makes his decision." Dr. Latham looked very pleased with himself, and he settled his not inconsiderable girth comfortably in his chair.
Blair and Jim traded mystified looks, but Jim obligingly wandered to the rear of the office, and poured himself a cup of sludge, making the offer to serve the two older gentlemen with a lift of a cup. They nodded him an approval and he poured, using the spare mugs Blair kept on hand.
Acutely aware of his partner, but more concerned with his guests for the moment, Blair focused on them, and smiled. "Hey, if I'm not in trouble, then to what do I owe the honor?"
Exchanging a shrug, the two men regarded each other, then Stoddard spoke up. "I don't know if you're aware of this, Blair, but you're beginning to get an excellent reputation in our field for your work with Cascade Police Department. The papers that have been the resulting from your consulting are varied in content, extremely insightful, and have been providing a fascinating new look at the whole concept of the 'American melting pot.' If this keeps up you may become an acknowledged expert on American subcultures."
More confused than ever, Blair took his glasses off for an excuse for something to do with his hands. "I didn't know that; in fact, it surprises me. I would think that studying the cultural changes that are happening due to immigration would be common. More sociological than anthropological perhaps, but surely…."
"That may well be the case," Latham interrupted, "But few have the perspective that you have been fortunate enough to acquire. Nothing reveals the strata of human society faster than stress, and police works sees a great deal of the results of that stress up close and personal. At any rate, your studies have been attracting very positive attention."
Holding his distress down to a level where only Jim could sense it, Blair was appalled at the attitude being projected by the other two anthropologists. They seemed to regard the good work he did at the department only as a convenient means for him to further his career in anthropology. Fighting the niggle of conscience that reminded him that he'd been the same once upon a time, he asked with an edge showing in his assumed good humor, "I'm really flattered to learn that, Dr. Stoddard, but I know you didn't come down here into the pits of un-tenured teachers to tell me."
Jim came around the desk to hand out coffee, not incidentally walking close enough to Blair to give him a reassuring hand on the small of his back on the way back to the coffee pot. It let him wait out the slightly startled silence from his colleagues while they assimilated the abrupt way he had derailed the carefully planned speeches they had in mind to coax/bully him into whatever it was they wanted. And they clearly wanted something they thought he was going to refuse.
Irritation showing only as sitting up straighter and leaning forward authoritatively, Latham said, "I merely wanted you to understand why you were chosen among all the other possible candidates for this really rather unique and potentially prestigious project."
"Project?" Blair protested immediately. "Dr. Latham, I'm already…."
"Hear me out, first, young man!" Latham snapped.
With an effort Blair closed his mouth over the rest, but retreated to his own seat behind the desk to emphasize his unwillingness to co-operate.
Obviously wishing to play conciliator between the other two, Stoddard stood himself and wandered around the room for a moment, looking with apparent interest at some of the artifacts and sipping at his coffee. About the time Blair's patience was ready to give out, he said conversationally, "Do you know who Jason Swett is?"
With a snort, Blair answered, "The only billionaire who gives Donald Trump a running for the title of World's Most Conspicuous Consumer."
That earned him a chuckle, and the tension in the room lessened considerably. "For all his flamboyance," Stoddard said, "He's done good charitable works. Granted, he does milk them for all the publicity they're worth, but he *does* give, and give generously."
Going back to his chair, he seated himself again, then went on. "His current personal crusade is education. More specifically, multicultural education designed to give young people a better understanding of the differences they might encounter among their peers. Social and ethic tolerance, that sort of thing.
"He's funding a mobile classroom toward that end, funding it very generously, and he personally asked me to assemble the best possible team from around the country to design it, money no object." Stoddard couldn't help preening a bit, but Blair didn't begrudge it to him. A high profile project like this was a professional coupe of the highest order, guaranteeing the participants professional stature for quite a while.
"Congratulations," he said sincerely. "Is he giving you a free hand?" The question was more than idle curiosity. A patron who insisted on over-seeing every detail of how his money was spent was a nightmare all researchers lived in fear of placating.
"Completely." Satisfaction oozed, but again, Blair couldn't blame Stoddard. The whole proposition was sounding more and more like an academic wet dream. "We've already discussed some of the parameters - elementary to middle school level, multi-media, hands-on, adaptable, and, of course, highest priority, mobile. The plan is to have the prototype tour several major cities first, and if the public approval is high enough, duplicate it to be able to reach a larger audience. I think he envisions a fleet of them, but frankly, I'll be happy to have just the one making the rounds. It would still be more than many elementary and middle students are exposed to, and might serve to rejuvenate general awareness of Anthropology."
Against his will, interest seriously piqued, Blair asked curiously, "What disciplines are you planning for the team? At the very least, you'll need an elementary education expert."
"And a child psychologist, a sociologist, a media expert, computer software designer, technical expert for the nuts and bolts of making the whole thing road-worthy, and, of course, an anthropologist to oversee it all," Latham spoke up.
Surprised, Blair asked, "Dr. Stoddard, you're not handling that end?"
"No, I'll be doing the more practical side; budgeting, grants, coordinating the team."
In other words, doing none of the hard work while reaping all the benefits and making all the final decisions, Blair thought to himself. The perennial grudge that all new post-docs had about being the bottom man on the research ladder surfaced, but he shoved it away with long practice. It was, after all, an academic tradition older than the caps and gowns used for graduation. Then the shoe dropped for Blair. "Oh, no!" he said, jumping to his feet. "I can't possibly..." he stuttered. "Head it? I'm up to my.... thought you needed a research assistant... lots and lots of more qualified... no time! You know how much I've got on my plate right now!"
"Come now, Blair," Latham said. "It's early in summer session, which is precisely why we're beginning now. Most of the people needed have reduced workloads, or are looking for this sort of endeavor to beef up their credentials and pad their summer salary. The majority of what you're doing for us can be shuffled off to TA's or to teachers in more need of, ah, the academic experience than you are. Surely it won't take until the beginning of fall semester to have the first proposal ready."
About to reel off the dozen or so of good reasons that he could legitimately give for not getting involved in such a demanding project, Blair was startled when Jim spoke up suddenly. "Would you gentlemen mind if I have a word with Sandburg before you continue this discussion?"
The other two men shot equally startled looks at his partner; they had forgotten he was in the room. "Really, Detective Ellison," Latham started.
"I promise it will only take a moment," Jim said silkily.
Both Stoddard and Latham looked sour, but Jim ignored them and latched a strong hand around Blair's upper arm. "He'll be *right* with you," Jim added, practically dragging the smaller man out of the room.
Once they were in the hallway with the door safely closed, Jim pushed Blair gently into the wall and whispered, lips nearly in Blair's ear. "Do it, Chief," he unexpectedly urged. "We'll find a way to make the logistics work."
Astounded, mouth open, Blair stared at his lover for a moment, then whispered back, "You *want* me to commit myself to a job that will eat damn near every minute I can wring out of a day? Or don't you get how *massive* the scope is on what they want me to do?"
The near-pained look chased over Jim's eyes quickly, telling Blair that his choice of words could have been better. Before he could apologize for implying that Jim was the all brawn stereotype people often treated him as, his partner shot back without a trace of the defensive sarcasm that should have been present, "Look, hear me out, first, okay?" At Blair's willing nod, Jim said, "The job at the department - that's pretty dead end, isn't it? I mean, unless you're thinking of using it to wrangle some political appointment, there's nowhere for you to go as a consultant. Right?"
"Yeah, but that's not the point of what I'm doing and you know it."
"Hang on, you said you'd listen," Jim said seriously. "Career wise, this," and he waved at the hallway, implying not just Hargrove Hall, but academic anthropology itself, "Is what you want to do, make your name in, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he rushed on. "Then you should do what you have to in order to make your mark, Chief. I mean, I'm doing what I want to do, I've got my rep already, know where I could be in ten or twenty years. But you're just starting, really, and you've got a long way to go to get where you want to go. You shouldn't miss a chance like this because of me."
Blair didn't know what to say to that, though his mind spun with a dozen different things he *should* say. The thing of it was, Jim was right. He really couldn't afford to turn down an offer like Stoddard's, unless he was willing to never be treated seriously by the profession again. Especially since it was the second time the elderly anthropologist had approached him. The years of labor that he had put into his academic life rose in front of him, and he protested weakly, "I don't want you riding alone, Jim. It could get you killed."
"We both know I'm dealing with the zone out factor pretty well, and there are things I can do to minimize the risk, like doing the leg work only when you're around. I'll even take time off if I have to; god knows I have enough vacation time saved up. Point is, we *can* work around it; it's not like the project is going to be forever."
With an attempt at dodging the bullet he was beginning to realize he didn't want to miss him, Blair said, "Travel. You heard him; team from all over the country. I'll have to travel for meetings."
That struck a nerve, he could tell, but Jim went on stubbornly. "With teleconferencing and the internet, you could probably cut that down to a minimum and get points for cutting costs. But, like I said, I'll take time off if I have to. I really think you should do this."
Knowing his willpower was going down for the third time, Blair feebly tried, "I won't be able to do my share, you'll have to carry me, possibly at the department and definitely around the loft."
"Call it payback for the times you've had to carry me for whatever reason," Jim shot back, totally disregarding the fact that both were in the habit of picking up the slack whenever either was swamped for whatever reason. "At least go in there and listen to them map it out, get an idea of the scope and their expectations. Then if you honestly think we can't do it, fine. But give it a chance."
It was the 'we' that did Blair in. Jim's assumption that it would be 'their' work, even if all he did was provide back up, told him that his partner truly thought this was a good move. Grinning, he surrendered. "You're just trying to find a way to sneak Wonder burgers, aren't you?"
"No, never," Jim denied instantly, eyes dancing with relieved humor. "What makes you think I'm so desperate for Wonder burgers that I would shove you onto a plane and wave goodbye while dialing their take-out?" He pressed in close, his body saying something entirely different from his words. "For a nice, big, thick rare steak smothered in saute'ed onions and mushrooms, yes. For a mere burger... you're worth more to me than *that.*"
"Wow, a whole steak," Blair chuckled. "I have serious market value then."
"With baked potato, butter and sour cream," Jim admitted. "But you're worth it."
Blair tossed his arms around his lover's waist and gave him a hard hug. "How'd we get off onto food anyway?" he laughed.
On cue Jim's stomach gurgled at them, and he chuckled, "Let me guess; you came over to have dinner with me. Got to go back to the station this evening?"
Reluctantly pulling away, Jim looked at his watch. "No, but I do need to be in early tomorrow. Since I want to go back over to Tarryton's Family Complex and have another look around, why don't we meet at Michaelangelo's in, say, an hour and a half, and celebrate the newest feather in your cap. You can even pay for it to show off your new solvency."
"More like my newest headache," Blair disagreed. "*Providing* I say yes."
Wrapping long fingers around his wrist and giving it a gentle tug, Jim smiled, then left, tossing back over his shoulder, "You will, Chief."
He did. And, much as he was loath to admit it, even to himself, he loved the unexpected turn his life took. True to his word, Latham dropped most of Blair's workload onto other shoulders, most of whom accepted the burden with a wry grin and congratulations for Blair. It allowed him, at first, to keep things steady at the station, hardly changing his work there with Jim at all.
The biggest change initially was his sleeping habits. As Jim had predicted, teleconferencing, e-mail, and a shared web site proved the most effective way to communicate during the first weeks of the mobile classroom team coming together, getting acquainted and brainstorming. But since he was the only one on the west coast, the others scattered up and down the east coast with two in mid-America, he adjusted his schedule to make himself available to them first thing in the morning, *their* time.
It meant he got up at 3 or 4am, did the team conferencing work, had breakfast with Jim, went to the university to do research or teach, have lunch if there was time, go the police department to take care of things there, home if no stake out, then crash about 9pm or so. It played hell with his social life, but at least he worked with his lover, so there was little impact there, he believed.
They found ways to keep their relationship strong. Jim would always come upstairs and hold him until he fell asleep, and Blair would always bring a cup of coffee up when Jim's alarm went off in the morning. Those private moments went a long way toward making him feel loved and cherished, even if all they shared was a sleepy kiss and cuddling. But frequently enough to keep Blair quietly smug, they made love, slow and sensual or hot and heavy, depending on mood, just like always.
It made it easy to ignore the increasingly frequent silences from his mate, and even easier to dismiss the occasional crankiness. After all, there had to be *some* reaction to the change in their lives.
The only serious blot was the night terrors that would jolt him awake, shaking and close to panic, several times a week. But since they never disturbed his sleeping sentinel, and he always was able to go back to sleep almost immediately, Blair brushed them off, chalking them up to as an alternative to the nightmares some of the cases Major Crimes handled gave him.
That didn't stop him from being nervous to the point of nausea when it came time three weeks later for the first real meeting with the rest of the Mobile Anthropology Classroom team. Though he was comfortable enough with them as people not to have any worries about how well they would work together in the flesh, so to speak, he did *not* want to leave Jim. No amount of rationalization or reassurances that the ex-soldier/cop/sentinel could certainly take care of himself lifted the heavy rock in his middle that grew as take off time approached.
The conference had been deliberately scheduled over a weekend, to minimize the impact it would have on those team members working other jobs. Not incidentally Jim had a court day on the Friday and Monday off, so there was no reason to think that his partner would be in any more danger than usual. But he grew more and more agitated, until it precipitated a rousing fight between the two of them as he finished packing. Jim did not appreciate the appearance that his partner didn't trust him to be able to take care of himself, and Blair couldn't give a good explanation for his extreme worry.
The ride to the airport was tense, though they managed to make up after a fashion before it was actually time to leave. It was Jim who tried to make things better between them while they waited for the flight to be called, clumsy and awkward though the effort was. All Blair could do was cling to him, whispering apologies over and over, fighting the fear trying to swamp him.
Amazingly he was able to channel it into a flurry of productiveness that inspired the others at the meeting, to the point they had the first rough draft of their proposal ready by the time he left Monday evening. It didn't last past boarding the flight home. Once he was confined to the aircraft it rose up stronger than ever, taking all his will keep from overwhelming him.
As luck would have it, he sat near the back of the plane, and a woman traveling with an infant and toddler was in front of him. Helping her with the children kept him occupied, but also kept him from disembarking until nearly the last moment. On his way down the ramp, fumbling with his carry on with shaking and sweating hands, he uselessly craned his neck to see over the small group in front of him, desperate for the sight of his lover.
When he was through the gate at last, Blair stood to one side, anxiously scanning through the crowd, heart in throat. Jim was nowhere to be seen. Fire ants scrambled through his mind: his lover couldn't find a parking spot or was delayed by traffic, he'd gotten mixed up on arrival times, an important call came up and Jim had to go into the field, the Mayor was being a pain in the ass and not letting the detectives leave early. As reassuring as all that was supposed to be, none of it did more than crank up his fear.
Jim was too anal to be held up by traffic or misread an arrival time, and if anything else had come up, his lover would have delegated a friend to let Blair know. That left only two possibilities, each totally terrifying. Either Jim was angrier than their parting and daily phone calls had indicated, and was avoiding picking him up on some flimsy excuse or another, or he was hurt, injured in the line of duty and no one *knew* to pick Blair up.
About the time Blair thought he would simply sit down where he stood and have a full-blown panic attack, the last of the passengers melted away and he saw Jim sitting on one of the chairs at the very edge of the seating area. The sentinel had his head bowed into his hands, his own body tense with what Blair knew was pain. Abandoning his luggage without a thought, he raced over to him, calling his name.
At the first sound, Jim's head jerked up, and the most beautiful, heart-breaking smile Blair had ever seen bloomed over his features. Instantly he stood, which was a good thing, because Blair couldn't stop running, couldn't stop himself from slamming into his mate and hanging on for dear life. Too breathless from his rapidly dissolving terror to talk, he could only tremble and hide his face in Jim's shirt while strong arms folded around him.
He didn't know how long they stayed like that, holding on painfully tight and slightly swaying with each other, but an odd motion from Jim finally made Blair pull back just in time to catch his partner glaring at someone belligerently. A quick glance showed him the gate attendant was studiously avoiding looking at them, her mouth twisted in distaste.
And even that wasn't enough to make him let go. Somehow Jim got them in motion, retrieved his bags, got them into truck, all without once removing the arm snug around Blair's shoulders. Even after he started the engine, they stayed tucked together, uncaring about the lack of seatbelts. It wasn't until they were nearly home that Blair was able to find his voice, and then it came out shaky and uncertain. "There is no way in hell I'm doing this again," he swore. "I've been going out of my mind, and *don't* blow up at me again telling me I'm over reacting, and that you were taking care of yourself for decades before you met me. I *know* that, but I can't help how I feel."
Jaw so tight Blair didn't understand why it didn't shred from the stress, Jim gave him a small squeeze, then said quietly, "Chief, it's impossible for two people to be together all the time, not even in primitive cultures. There has to be a way for a sentinel to be without his guide. What if one is injured during a war or becomes ill when the hunting is scarce? It doesn't make sense; they *both* could die if one doesn't go on as necessary."
"I know, I know!" Pulling at the hair on the side of his head, Blair thought furiously. "Maybe I should listen to you on this; you seem to be handling it okay." Suspiciously he peeked at his partner. "Right?"
There was a pause, then Jim admitted slowly, "I've had a headache almost from the time your plane took off. Not enough to slow me down, but it bothers me."
"Senses okay?"
Again, a wait before Jim reluctantly answered, "Touch has been... odd."
"Odd? Spiking, off line, odd how?" Blair asked gently, hiding his fond exasperation.
Pretending to be busy with driving, Jim delayed answering until they were parked in front of 852. "Know how your skin feels after a really, really deep massage? Not exactly good, not exactly bad, just more *there* than normal?"
Blair couldn't help wincing. "Must be distracting as hell."
"Missing you was worse."
The unexpected declaration, softly spoken in the darkness of the truck cab, drove a spike of pure love and need through Blair from the top of his head all the way into his maleness. Trembling again, this time from a rush of desire as intoxicating as a drug, he twisted in his seat and stretched up, thinking only of finding Jim's mouth with his own. Answering the need either by instinct or because his own was as demanding, Jim met him halfway, lips already open. The kiss was rough, urgent, as raw in its lust and passion as the first time they had kissed.
Groaning deep in his chest, Jim backed out of the truck, taking Blair with him, trying to quiet both of them with nuzzles and hugs enough to at least get inside. It sufficed, barely, though they stumbled up the stairs alternating between fast, deep thrusts of tongue and tearing away to go a few more steps. Somehow Jim got the door open and both of them through it, but Blair was barely aware of anything but the necessity of getting naked, now!
He went for the buttons on Jim's shirt before the door was completely shut, and helped his lover wrestle off his coat a moment later. Shirts were gone by the bottom of the stairs, shoes kicked off as they rubbed against each other on the way up. Pants were tangled around ankles at the top step, and they hurtled toward their bed, bare and furiously erect, lips never losing contact.
There was no chance of slowing things down or making it last, and Blair threw himself into the loss of control, grinding against Jim with a complete lack of self-restraint or caution, knowing that any bruises raised would be cherished by both of them. For his part, Jim was all over him, hands skimming lightly one moment, and grappling painfully to bring him closer the next. Hips rocking into Blair convulsively, he hardly seemed to care what his cock was bumping against, as long as they were *touching.* Blair sympathized completely. Much as he knew the climax roaring toward them would be mind-numbingly blissful, it was the act of holding and caressing his lover that mattered. *Nothing* mattered but getting as close to Jim as humanly possible, and then just a bit closer still.
But the body has its own needs, and his finish seared through him with bone destroying force, sending an incredible shock wave of pleasure through his mind that allowed nothing but its own existence. He didn't even feel his back arch and heels dig into Jim to try to answer the imperative of being one with his mate. When the shivers of release finally faded enough to allow thought, he was flat on his back in the middle of their bed, cradling Jim's head to the center of his chest while his lover languidly, dreamily licked and kissed the bare flesh. Hands tenderly petting, Jim was sprawled between Blair's wide-flung legs, reflexively humping the bedding while he cherished him through the afterglow.
Feeling wonderfully, thankfully, calmed and centered for the first time in a week, Blair drifted through the moment, content to be exactly where he was, doing exactly what he was doing. Jim seemed as happy; there wasn't any urgency in his caresses, only a relaxed savoring of the body he held. He was almost detached in his attentions, as if what he was doing didn't matter, as long as it involved Blair.
There was something familiar about that, eerily so, and it nudged Blair's conscience, making him try to focus on why Jim's focus was slightly diluted. Before he could ask or frame the question properly, even to himself, the phone rang, startling them both.
"Leave it," Jim muttered. "We're off duty. We're so off duty we're not in the same country as that phone."
Tempted to go along with him, Blair pointed out anyway, "At least listen to the message, so we'll know why Simon is tearing us a new one."
The answering machine picked up, and in the silence of the loft, Blair had no trouble hearing for himself who was on the other end. True to his expectations, it was Simon, and, surprisingly, he sounded apologetic. "Jim, I know Sandburg just got back, and that there's a good chance this machine is about to die a violent death by a pissed off, frustrated lover, but the Tarryton thing has been a burr under your saddle for a while. You've said all along it was going to escalate until somebody died, and it seems you were right. Hoo's Hobby Shop has burned down, arson it looks like, and there was someone in the building when it happened. If you want to be the primary on the case, you'd better get down here."
By the time Simon was through speaking, Jim was sitting up on his heels, indecision plain on his face. Body sated, feeling secure and well-loved, Blair murmured, "We should go. I know you can always check out the scene later, but by the time forensics has gone over things and the coroners have moved the remains, everything will be all messed up sense wise."
"I don't want to go back to work," Jim answered, but they both knew he was already mentally back on the job.
"Hey, the bed will be here when we get done. Or do you think a quickie is going to do more than take the edge off here?"
Bending down to take a quick, hard kiss, Jim said, "At times I wonder if either of us will ever get enough."
"God, I hope not," Blair said sincerely.
With a chuckle at that, Jim got up and got dressed, taking clothes from the drawers rather than try to track them down where they had been flung. Blair did the same, for once only needing a single short-sleeved layer because of the sultry summer air, pausing briefly once in a while as he did to touch Jim lightly in some way. That went on all the way to Tarryton's Family Center - both of them stealing small pats and squeezes which were a poor substitute for being home and wrapped around each other. Surprisingly, Jim didn't retreat all the way back into his cop mindset until they were nearly at the scene, unusual for him, but Blair thought he understood it perfectly.
He was having trouble getting back into work mode himself.
The hobby shop was at the farthest edge from the main entrance to the Complex, and long before they had navigated the smaller streets they could see the confusion of people and fire engines surrounding the building. It had obviously been a major fire, but contained quickly enough that it hadn't spread to any of the other stores. This late at night the expected gathering of spectators was small; mostly owners of other businesses and the night clean up crews. In the midst of fire trucks, police cars, rescue units, and unmarked cruisers, the limo stood out glaringly, drawing Blair's eye to the two men standing near it long before Jim had parked the truck.
They both automatically got out, and he could see that the sentinel already had his senses on high, so he stepped to Jim's side in case he was needed. He was studying the two men standing near the limo a few yards away; the occupants Blair guessed. "Do you know them?" he asked quietly.
"The dark-haired, walking cover for Gentleman's' Quarterly, is Elliot Tarryton," Jim answered. "He owns the complex, along with half of Cascade, I sometimes think. He rents to the businesses here, and has backed loans for several of them. You should read the leases; he really meant it when he named it 'Family Complex. A shopkeeper can lose his lease for allowing children on the premises during a school day, unaccompanied by an adult, for instance."
"And the security patrols don't hassle them when they are loose on their own; they just call their parents!" Blair volunteered, remembering the chagrin of Rainier's resident kid genius when he got busted for 'playing hooky.' "Place has a good reputation; half the yuppies in Cascade bring their kids here to play."
Jim nodded; that apparently wasn't new information to him, and for a split second Blair wondered when he had become so knowledgeable about the premises. And why he hadn't been the one to provide the information. Before he could ask, his partner went on, "The ice blond next to him is Gregor Haurer, professional body guard, and, rumor has it, Tarryton's lover." Jim took a deep breath and unexpectedly grinned. "Cancel that. Definitely not a rumor. We weren't the only ones rudely interrupted this evening, Chief."
"You can tell from here? Scent?"
"Mmm," Jim answered, going back to business and beginning to scan their immediate surroundings with both a cop's and sentinel's eye. Nevertheless he finished briefing Blair. Haurer is a 'Nam vet, marital arts expert, and former CIA operative. But one of the rare good ones; Kelso likes him. Tarryton had a shaky reputation - not exactly shady or crooked, but it was hinted that he didn't mind taking advantage or pushing his weight around to get what he wanted. Then Haurer came to work for him and that kind of speculation faded. Haurer's been getting the credit for that."
A nudge got them walking forward, and Blair sneaked a last peek at the pair over his shoulder, admiring the supportive way the bodyguard hovered near the businessman. When he turned his attention back to the front, Simon was coming to join them, his ever-present cigar sketching abstracts in the air.
"Pretty simple-minded arson," he said immediately. "It's obvious the idea was more of the same kind of destruction and vandalism that's been plaguing this place for a while. My guess is whoever's behind it didn't have a clue the old man was in the back. According to security, Johnston Carter was pretty regular in his habits and almost always locked up the place at 9 pm sharp. The exception is when he's doing inventory, and then he had a habit of letting them know he was going to be in late. Didn't call this time, though."
"Any witnesses?" Jim asked automatically, heading for the shop. "For when it started, or the last person known to have talked to the victim?"
With that the conversation fell into the routine that Blair knew by heart, and he only listened with half an ear, giving more of his attention to the way Jim was sorting through his impressions while he walked. By the time they reached the carcass of the burned out building, he was positive that the sentinel hadn't found anything suspicious about any of the bystanders. The vandals hadn't hung around then to admire their work, then. That was odd. Given that they could blend in with whoever showed up for gawking at the fire, most would have come back to get cheap thrills from the gossip in the crowd.
Picking their way carefully through the waterlogged debris, Simon led them to where Forensics was working. They gagged at the smell, then Jim murmured, "Brace yourself, Chief," and squatted down to lift the sheet covering the corpse. Blair didn't prepare himself, but he didn't look, either. Burn victims were the hardest for him. They barely looked human any more, and what was left was an obscene parody of the human form in his eyes.
After a minute Jim said thoughtfully, "We might want to look at other motives besides vandalism, Captain. This man was probably dead before the fire started."
Simon gave a little jump, but from behind them Serene Chang agreed. "More than likely; the autopsy will show whether or not there was smoke in the lungs. But to guess from the relaxed posture of the limbs, as opposed to the defensive crouch fire causes in living victims, I would guess it had been at least an hour before the flames did their damage."
"The fire was to cover a murder?" Blair hazarded.
"Could be. Or he could have already been dead of natural causes in the back of the shop, and the arsonists didn't know when they started the fire. We'll check out the murder angle, anyway."
Expression distant, Jim rose to survey the wreckage, occasionally picking up pieces to examine more closely. Chang slanted a long look at him once, but most of the department was used to his odd working habits. Since it gave him the best record any of them had heard of, no one gave him a hard time about what methods he used to get his 'hunches.'
For his part, Blair spoke with Simon, getting an update on the case. He kept a weather eye on his partner, but they were practiced enough that he didn't need to use the softly spoken, 'heads-up, man,' that would pull Jim back from the brink of a zone.
"From the start none of this has made sense," Banks said thoughtfully. "Kids out for trouble, playing pranks, destroy out of thoughtlessness and pick targets at random. Usually they travel en masse, are easy to spot, and as easy to deflect. The security teams roaming this place are good at what they do. High spirits are okay in the right place, and any one getting out of hand is pointed either to the exit or the right place to burn that kind of energy off.
"There's never been any warning, and never anyone around that admits to seeing anything. A rock thrown through a plate glass window, spray paint on signs or doors, fixtures torn down, equipment damaged - you know the kind of thing I'm talking about, Sandburg. It *looks* random, but *feels* premeditated, if you get my drift."
"Didn't the uniforms think at one point maybe rival gangs were working themselves up to claiming the Complex as part of their territory?" Blair asked, details from Jim's last conversation about the trouble here floating up to the front of his mind.
"It was a good theory," Banks agreed. "But it didn't pan out. For one thing, it's too far out for most. And, like I said, the security here is good. Gang colors are *not* allowed, and neither are gang grievances. Word on the street is that most are happy with the Complex being neutral ground. Guess even bangers need a place to play once in a while."
Thinking about what Jim told him about the owner, Blair said slowly, "Could it be, uh, more personal than you think? Could the real target be Tarryton himself, and since they can't get to the man, they're targeting his property? Someone with a grievance or grudge?"
Coming up beside them, Jim answered, "Tried that on for size already, Chief. Man owns real estate all over Washington, let alone Cascade, and some of it more publicly visible, like his corporate headquarters. None of it is having any unusual problems with vandalism."
"Security's better there?" Banks asked.
"Haurer's in charge of it all, and it's all good."
The only other thing that came to mind for Blair was that it could be a hate crime, gay bashing as it were. But hate crimes don't hide. The words 'fag' and 'queer' were generally tossed about in abandon. Of course, the 'fag' in question was one hell of a wealthy and influential man. Maybe the bashers were being uncommonly circumspect to be able to keep up their activities as long as possible.
Wondering if Jim had had the same thought, he started to ask, but Jim took him in a loose grip at one bare elbow and guided him out of the burned and charred structure. "Time to go straight to the source," he announced calmly. "Let's see what Mr. Tarryton thinks about all this."
They made their way carefully, justifying Jim's possessive hold, but he didn't drop it once they were clear of the building. Instead, as if he thought Blair would be reluctant to speak to a rich man, he urged him forward, staying slightly behind until they were nearly within polite speaking distance of the other two. It wasn't until Haurer dropped a fast glance at the bracelet on Blair's left wrist, immediately flicking another up to the identical one Jim wore, that he caught onto what his partner had in mind.
As soon as the bodyguard did that and returned his eyes front and forward like a proper subservient guard, Jim let go, with a last gentle tug. "Smooth, Ellison, smooth," Blair sub vocalized. "Let him know that we're a couple so he won't go too ballistic when you poke into their private life."
A barely audible snort told him that his sentinel had heard. Aloud he said, hefting his badge up for inspection, "Mr. Tarryton? Detective Ellison, Major Crimes, and this is my partner, Dr. Sandburg, a consultant with the department. I apologize for bothering you, but would you be available to answer a few questions?"
"Certainly, Detective, though I don't know how helpful I can be." Tarryton sounded genteelly concerned, a bare step above politely disinterested. "I heard about the fire from the night staff and came down in case I could be of assistance to the shop owners. At the time I didn't know about Mr. Carter, or that the flames had been successfully contained."
"Well, for starters, do you know who we should notify? So far no one has had any idea about family," Jim said with professional briskness.
"No, though I do know he lived alone. If you like, I'll have my assistant pull the file we have on the business. It's possible the lease has co-signers or what have you." As detached as the man was trying to be, Blair thought that he picked up on an underlying emotion - dread maybe.
"That would be appreciated," Blair said, unconsciously making his voice friendlier than Jim's had been. "I'll be notifying the Victim Advocates unit so they can start proceedings if necessary to enter Mr. Carter's home, but if it he does have family, your assistance could speed the notification considerably."
"Would it be possible for us to drop by for the information in person?" Jim inserted. "There are one or two other questions that I'd prefer to tackle when we're all fresh."
Blair barely bit down a smirk at Jim's choice of words, and the fleeting look of disconcertment on both Tarryton's and Haurer's made it harder. He had the impression that the businessman was about to deny Jim's request when his bodyguard subtly shifted. If he hadn't been on the giving end of such 'hints' a thousand times himself, he might have missed it. As it was Tarryton smiled a bit wryly and said, "Of course. Shall we say 10, then? I'm sure whatever else I have on my agenda can be moved or delayed."
Not paying the slightest attention to the implied tone of being inconvenienced, Jim said smoothly, "Sounds good. Tomorrow morning, or should I say this morning?" With that he turned on his heel and left, striding away as if he'd already discarded them as being of any other use to his case.
Feeling awkward as always when he did that, Blair made do with a fast nod of farewell and trotted after him, not able to get mad. Once they were in the truck, he asked with mix of irritation and admiration in his voice, "How do you do that, anyway?"
"Do what, Chief?" Jim asked distractedly, starting the engine.
"Manage to give the impression that you've got far better things to be doing than talking to whoever the hell you're questioning, while being totally polite when you do it?"
Jim turned to grin at him, laying a caressing hand in a good place. "I *do* have better things to be doing."
"Then why are we sitting here?" Blair asked cheekily.
"I'm drawing out the anticipation," Jim said dryly, but he put the truck in gear and started driving one-handed.
"Anticipation, my ass. You're trying to torture me," Blair shot back, bucking up into the fingers touching him.
"As a matter of fact, it *is* your ass I'm anticipating, and since I can't do much more than that, why should I be the only one to suffer?" Jim asked practically.
"Suffer? You don't even know the meaning of the word. Yet!" Blair promised direly, the words offset by the slightly breathless way they came out.
"You'd be surprised, Chief," Jim said, unexpectedly serious. "You'd be surprised." Then he found the sensitive spot just where cock met balls and pressed just right, nearly sending Blair through the roof in shocked pleasure. Both the tone and words were lost in the increasingly heated love-play between them, and Blair didn't remember them again until he was nearly asleep later that night, too exhausted and replete to wonder what Jim had meant.
Waking with a pounding headache the next morning was an unpleasant surprise to Jim. He'd been half expecting it to vanish completely when Blair arrived, since it had made its first appearance as soon as his lover had winged out of sight. And somewhere between Blair throwing himself into his arms and finally getting to their bed, it had vanished without him noticing. He supposed he'd attributed it to the absence of his guide all along, just as Blair had done when told about it.
Obviously they were both wrong.
Carefully opening his eyes, he couldn't help but smile, pain and all. Blair was lying on the other side of the bed where Jim had unwillingly left him the night before, after he'd fallen asleep. Curls a wild mass of confusion, skin rosy and beard burned in half a dozen places, not to mention decorated with a profusion of love-bites, his mate looked as if he'd been loved to within an inch of his life. The utterly replete and sated smile lingering on the full lips only added to the impression, and it was all Jim could do not to wake him up and do it all over again.
He didn't dare. At the airport, torn between loosening the death grip he had over his senses to finally locate his lover and keeping his vow to himself to choke off the connection, he'd had the choice snatched away by Blair's impetuous greeting. His senses had spun out to his mate, snaring them both completely, and it had taken all Jim had had not to glut himself there in the airport.
At the deepest level of himself, he'd been incredibly relieved that Blair had been content with dry humping the first time. His hard-on had been forced to take a back seat to what his senses demanded, sometimes fading completely. Thankfully Simon's call had come in, and the deeply ingrained control the job required allowed him to rein his errant senses back in again.
By the time they'd returned home, he was able to make love the way Blair deserved, though there had been very little satisfaction in it for him. It was hard to get off when you felt like you were shrouded in a dozen layers of latex. All that had mattered, though, was that he could get hard and stay that way as long as Blair needed him to be.
When his lover had dropped off into contented exhaustion, Jim reinforced his tethers on his senses where Blair was concerned, as he did periodically to make sure that he wasn't accidentally-on-purpose slipping. So far he had no idea if it was actually working to dampen the bond. Short of becoming injured or ill, he couldn't think of a way to test it. The small signs of it, the sort of thing that had allowed Simon to realize what had happened before either he or Blair had had a clue, had always been done unconsciously. If either of them were missing those, neither had noticed.
He supposed the headache could be a result, though. In that case, he could live with it.
After letting his eyes feast a few more minutes - after all, Jim seldom had reason to use sentinel sight where Blair was concerned - he slipped out of bed, letting his partner sleep. Between jet lag and last night, he needed the rest.
It took willpower, not only to *not* keep track of Blair while he went through morning routines, but not to crawl back upstairs and re-join him. It would hardly surprise Simon if he did call in. But his innate sense of duty was strong, and his reasons for giving Blair space more so. He went to work and had most of the paper work sitting on his desk cleared up by the time he needed to go to Tarryton's headquarters.
Once there, he showed his badge to the receptionist in the main lobby. "Detective Ellison; Mr. Tarryton is expecting me."
With smooth professional grace, she nodded, handing him a folder. "I've unlocked the elevator that goes straight up to his floor. You'll be met at the top. Straight down this hall, last elevator on the left."
Putting on his own professional air, he nodded and went the way she'd indicated, hiding his amusement. So Tarryton is getting back a little of his own for last night by emphasizing his power and position,Jim thought while the elevator ascended. Good move if I hadn't seen better before I'd left home. He scrubbed at his forehead in the privacy of the elevator. I am *not* in the mood for power games. Hope this satisfies his ego.
The door slid open silently for anybody but a sentinel, and he winced at the scrape of metal over metal. To his surprise, Haurer was on the other side waiting for him, and for a moment the two of them sized each other up. Fast,Jim decided. Much faster than you'd think for his slenderness, and age. Bet it's all wiry muscle. If we danced, who won would probably depend on the terrain - and the reason for the fight.
Haurer came to his own conclusions; like Jim, they didn't show on his face. Impassively he asked, "Alone, Detective?"
"My partner had other responsibilities today," Jim said blandly, walking out of the elevator and automatically falling into step with him.
"At the university?" The question was posed for the pure reason of telling Jim that he, too, had been researched, and Haurer didn't consider him an unknown quantity.
"Among others." Then because he wanted the man to know that they weren't antagonists, he added, "Sandburg manages to get himself involved in more ad hoc activities than any one I've ever known. You'd think between the department and Rainier he'd have enough on his plate."
"I know the type," Haurer said dryly. The grin they exchanged was the universal one of men complaining happily about beloved spouse, and they entered Tarryton's office comfortable with each other's unspoken agenda.
Taking his cue from his bodyguard apparently, Tarryton offered coffee and sat in one the chairs positioned to one side for informal conversation. Genuinely grateful for it, Jim joined him and took a drink of the strong brew, then set his cup down and got right to business. "According to the M.E., Johnston Carter died of a massive coronary before the arsonists torched his shop."
Relief visible on his face, Tarryton sat back in his chair, looking up at his companion as Haurer came to stand behind him. With a fleeting touch to the barely visible hand on his shoulder, he gave his attention back to Jim. "Thank you for telling me that. I didn't like the man, but I can't think of a worse way to die."
"For his sake and his families', I'm grateful," Jim agreed. "As far as the case is concerned, the exact cause of death makes no difference. Though they're not, for a time the perpetrators *will* think they were the cause of Carter's death. They might always, if they don't buy the official press release. As far as they're concerned, they're in all the way now. The incidents have been increasing in frequency and damage all along; you can expect violence to be added now, as well, directed toward both customers and owners."
Both men nodded, as if his news wasn't unexpected; Haurer had probably anticipated it. "We'll be beefing up security, both the number of men on duty and the number of patrols," Tarryton said, confirming Jim's guess.
Hesitantly, beginning to like the man despite the inauspicious start, Jim told him, "That might not do any good; the evidence is strong that an insider at the Complex is involved. Either in security or an owner."
"Not one of my people," Haurer said firmly. "Every last one is checked out before they're hired, and you probably have a very good idea of how thorough I can be." He began to pace in agitation. "The whole idea behind the Complex was for it to be a safe place for play, for family time. From the start it's gotten the best of my people, and there are pay bonuses for working shifts there to keep them. It is not one of mine."
Eyes following his bodyguard, Tarryton said, "We have considered that possibility ourselves, Detective, obviously. After all, in one incident the high intensity night-lights for the go-cart field were shot out. Security noticed it getting darker in that section, drove over, didn't find a soul after an exhaustive search, and called in the initial report of six lights out. By the time the police arrived, there were eleven. Arrogant bastards hid, then went back to what they were doing; they knew the patrol would go back to its rounds after the call. I assure you, we *have* checked our personnel very carefully."
With a shrug of his hands, Jim conceded the point. "That leaves the owners or their employees." He thought for a moment, then decided to be totally honest. "And they think *you're* behind it; trying to drive them out to sell the land to a developer for a huge sum of money."
Stiffening, Tarryton jerked his eyes back to Jim, face going expressionless. Behind him, Haurer stopped pacing and immediately came to stand behind him again, hand in what Jim was realizing was its customary place. They were both obviously ready to do battle, and do it together.
The part of Jim that never stopped thinking about Blair wondered if that was how other people saw the two of them. More than a team, more than partners even. *More* in some indefinable way that could be recognized, but not described. For a heart-rending moment, head thumping noisily, he missed Blair, missed him far more than when he'd been physically gone. Discipline rose to help him before his pain reached his eyes or his silence was noticeable.
He went on speaking with barely a pause. "It's only a rumor, one that I couldn't trace to its source. And even the ones passing it to me didn't really believe it; money as a motive for you didn't make sense to them. Not to me, either, by the way. Most were forthcoming about how much they paid for rent, and you're part owner in more than one, a co-signer for the business loan in others. It's plain that profit isn't what you have in mind for the Complex."
"No, it's not about money," Tarryton said shortly. Jim kept quiet, letting his body express his interest, and waited patiently. After a squeeze from his companion that only a sentinel would have seen, the businessman added, "It's about payback. You've probably heard all the publicity about me; poor kid makes good, rises to wealth and power through hard work."
"The Living American Dream," Jim quoted Business Weekly.
Tarryton snorted in disgust. "My dream wasn't to be rich and wealthy; it was to never have to be hungry or cold again. And it did happen through hard work, but I'm not stupid enough to believe my own press. Luck and a damned good friend played a big part. My first job was working as a cashier for a specialty shop; model trains and airplanes. I loved it! Busted my ass, became friends with the owner who was one surly son of a bitch, but he bankrolled me on *my* first shop."
Taking another drink of his coffee, Jim nodded. "More than one person told me that you encourage them to hire the same kids who frequent the shops. Pays off, too, most of them think. For every one that doesn't have a work ethic, there's another that loves what he's doing so much, he busts *his* ass. Which is the other part of where you were going with the Complex, besides being a safe playground." It wasn't a question; it was a simple statement of fact.
"Payback," Haurer confirmed for both of them.
That left only one question, the Jim had really come to ask. "Mr. Tarryton, we have to stop this now before someone gets hurt. I don't have to tell you that. But we're operating with too little information, which forces us to use the old stand by. Method, motive, and opportunity. Method and opportunity are obvious if revenge or hate is the motive. Is there someone who has a *personal* reason for wanting to see the Family Complex fail, or see *you* fail to succeed with it?"
Tarryton tilted back his head to exchange a long look with Haurer, and Jim was struck by such a strong feeling of deja vu that he nearly choked with it. Mentally fumbling to identify why such a common, simple gesture would seem emotionally charged, he remembered Blair tilting up his head in almost the exact same way under a dozen different circumstances. For the two of them to share information, to trade a smile, to say with eyes what couldn't be said aloud, to reaffirm with a look what they were to each other.
Shock hit him hard, and he hastily buried it deeply, not letting himself look or think about it. Not here. Not now. But his study of the pair in front took on sharp intensity, his senses and instincts dissecting every bit they could pick up.
Either it never showed or the other two men were so wrapped in each other, they missed the brief flurry of emotion in Jim. With a fraction of a smile, Haurer gave a last pat to his companion, then came around the chair to sit on the floor beside Tarryton, knees up and hands crossed over them. "Keeping your private life *private,* he said, meeting Jim's eyes frankly, "is damn near impossible when you live in the spotlight of the press. Still, we do the best we can. People reach their own conclusions despite what you say or don't say, do or don't do. And people have reached their conclusions about us."
"For the most part," Tarryton said next, "We don't confirm or deny, and just deal with the fallout. At the complex, there are three people you could classify as 'fallout.' Chastity White of the Doll Hospital, Eric Hayes of Premier Paintball, and...." He hesitated, then added, "And Johnston Carter of Hoo's Hobby."
That made Jim sit up and take notice, figuratively speaking. "If he wasn't happy with you personally, why did you come out last night to the fire? For any landlord that's a bit above and beyond, but when there's a problem already, it looks damned suspicious."
Again Haurer and Tarryton said a lot to each other with a single look, then Haurer said, "I told him that at the time. But with all that's been happening at the Complex, he thought that it would upset the other owners if he *didn't* show. There have already been some rumblings from a few of them about pulling out, trying elsewhere when their leases run out. At the moment it's only rumblings. As you've learned, the rent is damned reasonable and business in the Complex is *good,* even for the more esoteric specialty shops, because they get impulse overflow from the more popular business."
"So it was intended as a show of support to the others, though it would have been Carter directly benefiting," Jim said thoughtfully.
"Exactly," Tarryton said firmly, giving Jim the impression he was getting the last word in a fight he'd had with his companion the night before. "If it made me a target, so be it. It is more important to keep the other business owners on as even a keel as possible."
"I see." Though a canny businessman had to be a good liar, not to mention an ex-CIA operative, Jim was nearly positive that he was being told the truth. And, to his cop instincts, it didn't feel right that Tarryton would use violence to remove problems. It was too easy to use money and influence to accomplish the same thing, if that was what he wanted. Right or wrong, he had the impression that both men considered people like Carter and Hayes as minor blemishes in their existence.
But to a bigot, neither of them would be considered minor. Tarryton and Haurer would be an offense to everything they believed in. Recalling the confrontation between them and Hayes during his first visit to the Complex, Jim said slowly, "You as the target; get *you* out... What would you do if the majority of businesses wanted out because of all the trouble? If they lost confidence in you? Sell the whole thing? Maybe sell them *their* piece of it, at less than market?"
It was Tarryton's turn to sit up and take notice, though he didn't bother to hide his reaction. "I hadn't thought. Greg?"
"Yes," he answered thoughtfully, obviously hearing the wealth of questions behind Tarryton's use of his name in that tone. And answering them with the one word.
The shock Jim had shoved down reared up against its walls, but he held firm, not letting this new show of how connected the two were break his resolve. Later. He'd deal... *later.*
The couple gave him their full attention, but Haurer spoke for both. "The Complex is important enough to both of us that we would give it up before being the cause of it closing. It's likely that we would have tried to arrange for an employee buy-out of a sorts. If all of the owners came together as a cooperative, each buying as much of a share as they could. Or we might float loans for those who couldn't buy in right away.
"Don't know how we'd handle the security. Subcontract?" Haurer was practically talking to himself. "Having guards on hand and highly visible is too important to keeping the place running smoothly. Makes parents feel secure and encourages trouble-making kids to take it elsewhere."
Getting them back on topic, Tarryton asked, "Is there any way to test or prove this theory, Detective Ellison?"
"Since it's only a theory, there's little I can do, officially," Jim answered, thinking it through. "I'll run a background check on both of them, and check with my sources about any extra-curricular activities they might have. Since your security has more carte blanche - would it be possible for you to keep track of Hayes and White's movements through the complex? When they leave their shops, where they go, that sort of thing?"
"That's tricky; we could get sued for harassment or invasion of privacy," Tarryton said. "But since we're stepping up patrols anyway, we could offer, ah, escort services to employees and owners staying after closing. That gives us an excuse to at least know if they're on the grounds or not. And our people are discreet; it shouldn't be obvious that they're watching unless the person under scrutiny is paranoid about it already. A hint in and of itself, if you ask me."
"Agreed." Seeing that they had accomplished all they could, Jim stood and offered his hand to Tarryton. "I need to bring my captain up to speed on this and start those background checks." He grinned at Haurer as he finished with Tarryton and turned to him. "And you'll let me know if *yours* turns up anything interesting?"
With a snort of amusement, Haurer gave a healthy shake. "My sneaking around days are over, Detective. Thank God. I'm sure I'll be speaking with you later."
"I'll count on it, then." Jim left without looking back, unable to bear seeing them standing side by side with what they felt for each other as tangible as body heat to Jim's awareness.
He held down his riotous feelings until he reached his truck in the parking garage, then, taking advantage of the relative isolation of his parking spot and lack of foot traffic, he dropped his face in his hands and let go. Outwardly, all that showed was the frenetic pulse of his jaw muscle and a brittle tension in his body. Inwardly he quaked under an onslaught of confusion that was as bad as when his senses woke up in Peru.
Astonishment and jealousy seemed to be the strongest contenders for dominance. Intellectually he knew it was possible for other couples, other lovers to be as close as he and Blair were. Emotionally, it had always felt so unique, so wonderfully, incredibly impossible that his heart had always believed such a close union was theirs and theirs alone. Ridiculously it made him angry that Tarryton and Haurer were blessed with their version of it. And because they came by theirs naturally; it hadn't been forced on one of them by a freak of genetics.
That brought his head up, and he reached for his keys without thinking to put them in the ignition. Had he been making a false assumption; *was* the bond he'd been trying to choke off because of his senses? Or was it a natural part of what he and Blair shared? Very, very carefully he reviewed what he had seen of Haurer and Tarryton.
Their connection had seemed to be due to an *awareness* of each other that wasn't unlike how he was with Blair. Whether consciously or not, because of their feelings, they paid close attention to each other with some part of their mind, no matter what they were doing. With practice, that could lead to being able to read another person as if they an extension of you. And he hadn't seen any evidence at all that it went deeper than that; deep enough to reach across distance to tell one of them that something was seriously wrong with their lover.
Thoughts sifting and ordering methodically, carefully, he put the truck in gear and began to drive, not worried that his distraction would put him in danger. Having something for his body to do always made it easier to think, and he trusted his reflexes to be able to cope if the road threw the unexpected at him.
If a connection could arise from the level of attention paid to your partner, then it was logical that a sentinel/shaman pair would create a more powerful one. After all, he couldn't help but be more aware of Blair than was normally possible for partners. On top of that, as open and giving as his guide was, he responded to the level of attention with equal intensity. It also meant that when Jim cut it off cold the way he had, that on some level Blair knew the difference. That would explain why his lover had been so panicked about a short separation. He wasn't afraid of being apart; he was afraid of what he sensed was happening and was blaming it on the obvious.
Pulling into the station parking garage without remembering the drive there, Jim stopped the truck and made his decision. If he wanted what Tarryton and Haurer had without the burden the senses put on Blair, he was going to have to substitute plain, old everyday tender loving care for the input he had depended on his abilities for. He could do that. Hell, he wanted to do that. Blair deserved it. After all, his partner had built his part of their life together with nothing more than that and a shit-load of stubborn.
That made Jim smile, and he got out, rubbing at his temple where the pain was winding itself up tighter again. It bothered him for a moment, then he told himself that he'd better just get used to it and deliberately began plotting what he could do to show Blair what he meant to him. That kept him occupied until he reached the bullpen, and he pulled up short at the sight of his partner sitting at his usual place, already elbows deep into the paperwork that accumulated during his absence. Hating that he hadn't *known* Blair was there, telling himself to suck that up, too, Jim crossed to his side, calling out to Henri on the way to alert Blair that he was there.
At the sound of his voice, his mate looked up, eyes beaming and beautiful, and Jim knew he was doing the right thing. After giving with a smile the gentle tug on Blair's wrist for a 'hello, I love you,' he sat and started on his report for Simon about his conversation with Tarryton. When it was done, he gingerly slipped out a folder from Blair's pile when he wasn't looking, and started in on it, sure that his partner wouldn't remember that he hadn't gotten to that one yet when he found it in the done stack.
It was a good start; and doing the shopping before Blair got home that evening to make a list for tomorrow was a great next step.
Blair disembarked from his plane, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and unable to believe he'd actually nodded off on the flight back to Cascade. The anxiety that had kept him on edge last time had been much reduced, for which he was grateful. He didn't know how he could have handled it along with his current reality of running like the Red Queen from "Alice Through The Looking Glass" - going at top speed just to stay in one place.
Once Swett had approved of the initial plans for MAC, he had set the nearly impossible deadline of having the mock up ready by the end of the next meeting, six weeks later. Somehow he and the others had met it, too, though Blair couldn't honestly figure out just *how* they had. Shifting his bag to the other hand, he snorted. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep had a lot to do with it, he admitted to himself. No wonder I crashed. Odd, though I haven't really *felt* tired. In fact, I've worked through two nights in a row and honestly didn't remember I hadn't slept. If it weren't for Jim... His thoughts trailed off, becoming diffused and glowing in the warmth of the incredible memories of the last weeks.
True to his word, Jim had picked up the slack around the apartment and Major Crimes, and had done it so effortlessly Blair had to think about it to see where he had. If that hadn't made him feel cherished and special, the way Jim had been especially loving and attentive would. Not that his partner made passes. With the kind of schedule Blair was keeping it was impossible for him to know when it would be welcomed and when it would be a nuisance. But if Blair so much as smiled sexily, Jim would prowl over to him and onto him and into him and.... and he was going to have to stop thinking along those terms if he was going to be able to walk.
Already anticipating getting home, Blair patiently picked his way to the main hallway of the airport, looking up and down the seating area for Jim. To his dismay, it was Joel Taggart he spotted waiting to one side, and he hurried toward the captain, questions flowing to the tip of his tongue.
"He's all right," Joel said smugly the instant Blair got into earshot. "But there was a nasty incident at the Tarryton's and he couldn't get away from the special meeting the mayor called."
"Oh, my, God. Joel, please tell me no one was hurt for real this time," Blair said, automatically putting one of his bags into his friend's outstretched hand.
"Only because the security guards were on their toes." Joel started down the corridor, talking as he went. "The go-carts were sabotaged. Luckily it was an adult driving when the first one went haywire. He didn't panic, just took his foot off the accelerator and tumbled off when the speed was low enough. Security made the owner check them all, though, and sure enough, over half had been tampered with."
"If no one was hurt, why did the mayor get involved?" Blair asked, following Joel toward the main exit of the airport. "And how did you get out of it?"
The dark face lit up with wry humor. "Money. It's an election year and since Tarryton is working closely with the force on this, His Honor apparently thought he should, too. Me, I used the move from the Bomb Squad as an excuse: haven't been working in Major Crimes long enough to be familiar enough with the cases or the proper procedures on them."
"Yeah, right, like you weren't spending half your time there already. How's the ride with Jim working out anyway? I gotta tell you, I'm glad you've been there to watch his back while I've been out of town." Blair nimbly dodged an over-burdened man coming through the wrong doors then broke out in a grin at the sight of Taggart's unmarked cruiser sitting, bubble lights on, in the tow away zone in the unloading area. "Simon will not like it if he finds out about that, man."
"Simon's idea." Joel tossed the bag he held in the back and waited for Blair to get in. "Riding with Jim has been an eye-opener. The man's instincts are so sharp, they should be registered as a deadly weapon. Walks into a crime scene, stalks around like he's looking at the whole thing through a microscope, then asks questions about things it wouldn't even occur to me to think about! Like he has this image built about what happened that's so real, he can run it like a movie in his head."
You have no idea, Joel,Blair thought happily. You have no idea. Aloud he said, "Now you know why the rest of the department puts up with his less than cheerful attitude. Speaking of which, he must have been worse than a bear with a sore ass if Simon's willing to abuse the regs to get me back to the job as fast as possible."
"Actually, Jim's been pretty quiet," Joel said absently, concentrating on pulling into traffic. "To the point you can almost forget he's around, especially during a stake-out. Sometimes he just sort of sits there, staring into space, looking kind of, well, *lost.* Then he snaps out of it and goes back to work, or gets up and takes a walk." His tone turned confidential and a bit shy. "Frankly, Blair, I think he's missing you."
Blair hardly heard him; the news that Jim was zoning, and doing it often enough that it had been noticed had both his heart and brain in overdrive. "Bet the rest of the guys, specially Rafe, give him a hard time about the spacing thing," he joked weakly, trying to get more information from Joel.
He shot him an odd look, and Blair belatedly played back the last line. Inwardly groaning, he stood his ground. It was too late to back-pedal now and he *really* needed to know more about the zones. Obligingly, Joel said, "I've been spending a lot of time with him, otherwise I wouldn't have noticed. It's not like he does it a lot or for long." A moment later he added. "I think Banks noticed, though. I've seen him watching Jim while he's woolgathering, then go back to whatever he's doing the minute Jim shakes it off. Once he called him in and they talked quite a while, but it wasn't to dress him down, I don't think. At least, Jim wasn't scowling when he came back out."
"I'm sure that if Simon has a problem with it, he'd let Jim know loud enough for the entire bullpen to hear," Blair said, forcing himself to sound amused, and not completely relieved at the information. If Simon hadn't called him to let him know, the zones couldn't be that bad or worrying. "So why the hurry if I'm not needed to keep Jim from snarling at the mayor?"
"Because the press is beginning to notice all the trouble at the Family Complex, and both Tarryton and the mayor are desperate to play it right." Joel slanted a glance at Blair, smiling gently. "Banks wants to be able to say that he not only has his best team on it, but he has the services of an expert. The advanced publicity Swett is giving the mobile classroom gives your name a lot of impact, and apparently having an anthropologist on staff is becoming a corporate fad."
Groaning theatrically, Blair put his head back on the seat. "Nothing like a little pressure to perform. As far as the classroom is concerned, right now it's only a bunch of cardboard with pretty pictures glued on it!"
Grinning, Joel shook his head. "It'll be great, and you know it." He sent another look Blair's way, and this time Blair was able to meet it easily. "You're really loving it, just like Jim said, aren't you? You're practically shining here."
"Yeah," Blair admitted, popping up and waving his hands with the speed of his thoughts. "It's hard to explain why, especially when all that an outsider can see is the amount of work I'm putting into it. It's like, the best of all possible worlds, you know? It's creative, building something from scratch, but it's anthro, and, man, people have *always* been a fascination to me, and I'm getting to share it with kids, kids who might never see anyone who *isn't* just like them on the surface, outside of the movies or the tube. And we're trying to let them know that it's okay to be different, even *under* the surface, so we're doing good on a lot of different levels. You wouldn't *believe* how neatly all the different disciplines are coming together into this. I never realized how much education, anthro, psychiatry...."
"Whoa, whoa, I get the picture, I get the picture!" Joel laughed. "Police work must be boring as hell compare to that."
Blair chuckled and said, "With Jim as a partner? Get real." Nevertheless he sat back again, and asked, "Want to bring me up to speed on what is going on around Major Crimes? And not just the cases, either. I want the gossip, alllll the nice, juicy stuff."
Taggart happily did just that, filling Blair in as he drove them to the station. By the time they arrived, he'd covered the basics, and, as requested, had started in on the stories currently making the rounds at the bullpen. He led the way to one of the conference rooms as he talked, both of them nodding 'hello' to people they knew on the way.
Blair was only listening with half an ear to Joel; most of him was fighting down an incipient hard-on that a mule would be proud to claim. It was going to be agony standing there next to Jim while the meeting wore its endless through what was left of the evening. All he wanted was to do exactly what he had done when he got home last time. Throw himself onto Jim and stay there!
He followed Joel into the conference room, and pulled up short, a horrible spike of pain impaling him to the soul.
The room was empty except for Jim and Haurer, side by side and bending over a map spread on the table, close enough to each other to kiss if either should turn his head. The white blond hair and pale complexion beside Jim's dark hair and honey-toned skin was a beautiful contrast, and for a minute the two warriors looked so natural together, an insane part of Blair wondered why he'd ever had the nerve to think he belonged where Haurer stood. Jim was wearing the half smile he used when he was pleased about something, and a soft, somehow intimate sounding, laugh from Haurer told Blair the other man was why he smiled.
To add to his shock, though he'd been in the room long enough for Joel to have reached the table, Jim hadn't looked up at Blair. Hadn't been aware of his presence at all, though he should have known he was in the building, let alone less than ten feet away. It was as if he were totally absorbed by the man beside him.
Shock quickly turned into anger, and without thinking Blair strode across the room. "Hey, Jim! Mayor must have let Major Crimes off easy if he's gone already." To his relief - and to the awakening guilt following hard on the heels of his irrational reaction - his lover jerked his head up and broke into the delighted grin that did much to put Blair's rocketing emotions back on an even keel.
But he didn't move from his spot, and all he said was, "Good flight home, Chief?"
Okay, so officially they were in the closet, and Joel was in the room. And Blair had done his own form of 'don't tell' on the way home from the airport. But damn it, he wanted more than a tepid, 'hey, chief.' "Smooth enough for me to doze, if you can believe it," Blair said, concealing his irritation. He went around the table and deftly inserted himself between the two men, all but rubbing along his partner as he did.
Jim swayed into the touch, eyes glazing slightly as he stared down into Blair's face though his expression didn't change. That did more to improve Blair's mood, and he asked seriously, fingers encircling the strong wrist of his lover for a gentle tug, "We didn't get anything on our two suspects?"
It was Haurer who answered when it became obvious that all Jim was going to do was stand there, smiling into Blair's eyes. "Ms. White's whereabouts have been accounted for, as in the other incidents since we began keeping track. This time Mr. Hayes was not. We're fairly sure that she's not involved, or that if she is, it is merely a case of not interfering with the other's plans. If Hayes is involved, he must be working with partner or partners."
Blair hardly heard him; like Jim, he was caught up in the spell they were weaving with a barely tangible touch and loving looks. There was a minute of silence, long enough to seep into his seriously muddled head, and he started to pull away, get some distance between him and his lover so they could work. "Uh, others? Any leads on that?" he stuttered, making himself drop his gaze.
"We'll be keeping tabs on the regulars to the paintball arena." Haurer said. "Some with that hobby might make good recruits for the sort of hate that Hayes spews."
There was a touch of sardonic good humor in his voice, and that seemed to prick at Jim's lack of composure. Jaw tightening, he shifted enough to put a measurable distance between himself and his partner, though he stayed close enough that Blair could feel the heat roaring off of him. "That won't do us much good," Jim said in astonishingly normal tones. "If he's bringing in someone from outside the Complex to help. So far, though, we haven't found any ties to the sort of groups that actively encourage violence toward minorities."
"Not that he has to belong to the KKK to find help," Joel spoke up sourly.
"True," Haurer agreed. "It could just be his drinking buddies for all we know."
"Do we have enough to stake him out?" Blair asked, bludgeoning his brain cells to get them back online - and get other parts of him offline.
Before they could answer, Simon came into the room, rubbing at his forehead. "Haurer, Mr. Tarryton is waiting for you in my office. Believe me, he's more than ready to leave. Sorry to drag you all the way down here for nothing, Sandburg."
"No problem," Blair said honestly, "I'm just glad I missed being put on display."
"You have something in common with Elliot, then. His patience with politicians has never been very strong," Greg said dryly, reaching for the pins holding down the blueprints.
"Then I need to find a way to let him know I appreciate him pulling the mayor off our backs so we could get something done," Jim said easily, catching the end as it came up and rolling them into a cylinder.
"What am I? Stale donuts?" Banks asked irritably. "Jim, you got an aspirin? After an hour with His Honor, my head is ready to explode from the smell of bull manure."
"Sure." Jim handed off the prints to Joel, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small bottle of Advil. "To answer your question, Chief, no, not yet. Greg is going to tread some very unstable legal ground and see if anyone is frequenting the arena to the point of ridiculousness. Unlikely that Hayes will be careless enough to let that happen; he's been pretty slick so far."
"You're sure he is behind it," Blair said, frowning, following the bottle from Jim's hand to Simon's and back. It was obvious from the way it sounded that it was nearly empty. Jim had said he was having trouble with headaches; he hadn't said it was bad enough that he was chugging chemicals to help.
"No evidence," Jim agreed absently, leading the way toward the door. "But, yeah."
"I think we're in agreement on that," Simon muttered. "For all the good it does us. Hunches and being 'a good judge of character' will *not* persuade a DA that we have a case."
"So we keep working," Joel shrugged. "Like always."
That brought various snorts and moans of agreement, and everyone went their separate ways, leaving Jim and Blair to go down to the parking garage. They didn't look at each other, both of them trying to maintain a professional front on things, Blair knew, but with passion denied to him, the mishmash of emotion rolling around in his gut fired back up. Growing angrier, trying to fight it off because there was no *reason* for it, he maintained an uncomfortable distance all the way to the truck, thankful that he'd taken the time to toss his bags in it before going up with Joel.
Once they were on the way home, Jim reached for his hand, and Blair pointedly pull it out of range, killing his pang of guilt at the flash of hurt on his lover's face. "How long have you been eating Advil like candy? Don't bother to deny you don't. Simon expected you to have a bottle on you, and that doesn't happen over night."
Looking thoroughly confused at the attack, Jim said shortly, "I'm not taking any more than I should. And I've hardly been hiding that I do, from you or anybody else."
A more sane part of Blair knew that it wasn't an intentional dig at how busy he'd been lately, but the anger snatched up the words as an excuse to burn hotter. "You told me you had a headache; you didn't say a word about it being bad enough to poison yourself with that shit. I'm not a mind-reader; if you'd said something I would have helped."
Expression going blank, Jim ground out, "I tried the other things you keep on hand. They didn't help, the Advil does. Just because it's manufactured instead of being produced by some holistic, do-it-the-natural-way, refugee from the sixties doesn't mean it's automatically garbage. And why should I run to you for a lousy headache anyway?"
"Oh, here we go again with the big, strong silent act," Blair said derisively. "Badass cop Jim Ellison doesn't need anybody to watch out for him, doesn't need any help, doesn't have anything wrong even though his fucking head has been fucking hurting for *weeks!*" He was shouting by the time he got to the last words, though he didn't have a clue why.
There was a surge of nasty satisfaction when Jim gave him a look of pure rage, but it died into putrid sorrow when all he did was lock his jaw tight and shut down. There was no point in trying to argue - or anything else - at that point. For all practical intents and purposes, no one was home in Jim's body except the trained automaton created by the army and sustained by the department. It was Jim's way of sealing off the dangerous parts of him that could sneak out in the guise of anger, a way of protecting those he
ADVANCED STUDIES
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