Feeling like Halloween ghost himself, Jim drifted through the huge party sprawling through the old hacienda, not really seeing or being seen by any of the revelers. Most of Major Crimes, along with a goodly portion of Rainer's Anthropology department was here, dressed as mummies or vampires or clowns or whatever. Scrambling and scurrying among the many adults were the small reasons the party was being given in the first place - children from the Big Brothers and Big Sisters program and Child Services Community Center.
They had all been en-route, driving caravan style, to a haunted house/hay ride/costume party at an old cider mill off the coast road when a deadly fog had unexpectedly rolled off the ocean. It had obliterated vision and made progress impossible, forcing them to turn around and begin inching their way back toward Cascade. Less than half way home they had come upon a six-car pile-up that completely blocked the road. Before the wailing moans of disappointment from the children - not all of them still officially that young - could build, a matronly woman separated herself from the crowd of good Samaritans helping the crashed motorists.
Looking very much like anyone's dream of a sweet grandmother, Mrs. Cevantes' eyes flashed with fire when Simon initially turned down her offer of accommodations for the group. After a brief, intense exchange that had ended with the police Captain not only profusely apologizing for casting aspirations on her character, but thanking her for making him see reason, she had led them up a twisting, narrow dirt road to her home.
The hacienda style house had seen better days, but had an air of benign neglect, like an aged society matron who could no longer be bothered with the false facades of youth. It was a sturdy square structure with two stories and many rooms, all encompassing a large courtyard. Filled with the elegant reminders of grander time, and wonderful dark corners and nooks, the house was an instant hit with the youngsters. They promptly got involved in a complicated game involving hiding, running, and belly splitting yells, while the adults set up the party.
Joel and Mrs. Cevantes commandeered most of the able bodied to carry the group's supplies into the enormous kitchen. Well augmented by her own stores, the two of them proceeded to produce a cornucopia of treats, snacks and finger foods that were set out a long buffet table in the old-fashioned ballroom. Small tables, chairs, damask table clothes, silver cutlery, crystal and crystal candle holders were resurrected from storage and set into place, creating the atmosphere of an elegant restaurant.
Those not helping the food, cleaned up bedrooms for sleeping, lit fires and candles to augment the scarce electric lights, or kept the youngsters entertained. Fueled by frequent visits to the kitchen where cider with a decided kick steamed fragrantly on a back burner, they had the house readied for the transplanted party in short order.
Mrs. Cevantes generously told everyone to treat her home like theirs for the duration, earning her a round of applause and hugs from those so inclined. Her only caveat was that they should stay out of the courtyard. In recent years what had once been a lush garden had fallen onto hard times and was now a hazard of crumbling paving stones and overgrown thorns.
That one restriction only served to make the rest of her home more inviting, and before long everyone was settling in, being merry and having a great time.
Everyone but Jim. Maybe it was because he had refused to dress in costume. Or maybe because he had come only because his truck bed had been needed to haul groceries (and, to be truthful, because Sandburg had simply assumed he was going, never giving him a chance to say no until way too late). Or maybe it was because the house, warm and inviting as it was, reminded him with its understated wealth and luxury of his childhood home. Parties there had been something to endure, not enjoy.
So he floated from room to room, feeling distant and unconnected to the festivities, watching without being noticed.
In the old-fashioned library, lit only by a huge fire, hushed with ceiling high shelves of books on the four walls, Simon Banks sat in a big easy chair, a cluster of small ones close, telling a ghost story his gramma had told him. His rough, deep voice speaking of spirits and strange happenings was by itself enough to send shivers down young backs.
In a ladies drawing room, complete with embroidery stand and piano, Megan and two of the TA's that worked with Sandburg were helping with last minute costume adjustments. Repairs were made, make up was applied, and accessories were added or changed. For those without costumes, there was a huge old-fashioned steamer trunk filled with clothing that would have looked at home on the Titanic for them to scrounge through.
Several couples had found quiet crannies to retreat to, and were celebrating the occasion in the spirit of another holiday entirely. They added loving giggles, sweet teasing, and a glow of secret smiles to the already warm atmosphere. Those catching sight of them had their own fond and indulgent smiles to mix in, as well.
In the formal parlor, the furniture had been pushed aside and games were being organized. Amidst the traditional blind-man's bluff and apple bobbing were some creative variations, including a pin-the-badge-on-the-cop who was not standing still for it. Rafe and Brown were trying to decide how to hang the spider pinata without damaging anything while Daryl Banks looked on, eating a candied apple and offering silly advice that did not help the laughing officers with their task.
Throughout it all, Blair, dressed as Peter Pan (The Robin Williams version, man!) twinkled and flashed, seemingly helping everybody at once. His laughter rang the clearest and most frequently; his encouragement and teasing was the most easily heard. Megan had sprinkled him with glittering confetti, calling it fairy dust, and no less than three wide-eyed youngsters had asked if he was *really* Peter Pan.
Seeing him become the embodiment of the night was a knife twisting in Jim's gut. Sandburg, whose profession was to be the outsider, the observer, the consummate detached on-looker, was treated as if he were the reason for the party or an integral part of it at least. Jim, who had engineered Major Crimes' participation in both the Center and the Big Brothers, who had made the original suggestion for the celebration, may as well have stayed home like he'd planned.
Of course, that's why he had intended to. Not because Blair's joyous enthusiasm underlined his own sense of isolation, but because he always felt that way. It was as if he were visible only when doing the job, when he was needed, or if he was meeting someone's expectations. Standing on the fringe of everyone else's good time again, clueless as to how to become part of it, was not how he had wanted to spend the holiday.
Now he was trapped in a beautiful snare of polished, fragrant wood, dark creaking leather, rich red damask, sparkling crystal, and flickering scented light, desperately wondering if sentinel sight and ranger reflexes could get him through the fog and safely home. Choking on claustrophobia, he meandered through the halls and rooms, feeling the huge house shrink in on him.
Seeing Mrs. Cevantes slip from behind heavy curtains and feeling a wisp of fresh, moist air, Jim slid beneath the cloth himself, catching the French door just before the latch locked close. Idly he wondered if their hostess was feeling the weight of her surprise visitors; her face had held a mixture of resignation and sorrow. Grateful for the reprieve from the celebration and the crushing closeness of the house, he dismissed her from mind and surveyed his surroundings.
Cool, damp air caressed his cheek like a lover, coaxing him out of the night shadow of the house and into the fog. Behind him he could see ribbons of the land-bound cloud gliding wetly over the hacienda, cozying around the building, as if to shield and protect the party going on inside. It muffled the lights and sounds of the merriment, selfishly keeping most of it for itself, but letting fragments escape to haunt the garden.
In the courtyard itself, the fog slithered around the plants and ivy-covered furnishings, as if inviting them to play hide and seek with it to join the party vicariously. They accepted, becoming indistinct shapes at times, occasionally fantastic images, and only rarely revealing themselves to be a mundane chair or tree. Jim took the fog up on its invitation, as well, unconsciously becoming as quiet and stealthy as it. Though Mrs. Cevantes may have thought the garden shameful, Jim found it appealing; a cooler, darker version of the jungle he had honed his skills in so many years ago.
Opening his senses, as if reminded by that memory, Jim effortlessly catalogued all he experienced, taking a rare moment to actually enjoy it. Carrying the reminder of the sea in its scent and a far-flung cry of a gull, the fog enfolded Jim in a misty garment that was refreshing after the cloying heat of the house. Sight could be sharpened to pick out individual droplets, and to Jim they had a more charming and alluring sparkle than the crystal and silver inside. He had always found the natural aroma of plants moving through the cycle of creation pleasant, and here it was accented by the faint presence of late-season roses.
The only discordant note in the sensory symphony was the jangle of fitfully running water, and Jim's curiosity sent him off to find the source.
In the dead center of courtyard, hidden by a half fallen tree, madly growing roses bushes, and several human-sized, vine-covered boulders, was a fountain that apparently worked only in fits and starts. Inching cautiously through the thorns and rocks, Jim stopped in front of it, admiring it despite its uncertain operation.
A beautiful young man who reminded him sharply of Sandburg stood at the base of a very natural looking waterfall, leaning back against the man-made cataract to let the stream cascade over him - when it flowed. One hand reached out, but only about half way, as if wanting to invite someone to join him, but afraid to actually do so. Exceptional skill had been used in the sculpture's creation, showing through nature's graffiti of moss and vines, especially in the face of the young man.
His expression was impassive, ironically stony, with only his eyes suggesting how very deeply he felt his isolation from whomever he reached for. The carved orbs somehow conveyed soul-deep loneliness, though shielded with resignation. A gift from the fog - tears - only added to the overall impression of melancholy.
Thoroughly captivated by the piece, as much by the resemblance to Blair as his own sympathetic response to it, Jim worked his way around slowly to view it from every possible angle. As he did, shifting shadows changed the emotions seen on its features: hope, fear, longing, pain. The last held him, calling unwillingly from his mind memories he had fled to the garden to escape.
****Childish voices chanting, "Liar, liar, liar..." because he said he could see/hear/smell something they couldn't.
Older boy, but voice still with the treble of youth in it, "You're nothing but a big sneak, Jimmy Ellison. What'd you do; listen at the keyhole? Peep in the window?"
Wierdo. Creep. Snitch. Freak. Monster. Monster. Monster, monster, monster.... ***
His own father's voice shouted the last, over and over, resounding in his head, shaking his brains and gut from the sheer volume. With iron will Jim took the sound and dialed it down, then pushed it beyond himself, holding his entire body ramrod straight and unbending as he exerted control.
How long it took, he didn't know, but eventually the taunting, punishing voices were subdued. Feeling stiff and cold from standing inwardly focused so long, he sighed, but didn't move. There was a certain amount of ... comfort... in being motionless. It was as if by keeping his body at rest, his thoughts would remain that way as well and allow him a breather. The fountain was running again, much more smoothly now, and it was a soothing sound to help him escape into the peace of immobility.
As cold and unyielding as that peace was, he knew it was all he could expect from life, so he embraced it, not caring about the freezing ache in his feet. Around him the vines shuffled, rustled, creating small, whispering tongues that praised him for his quiet, for his stillness. Their action showed him the bones that supported them, and he saw with remote interest that what he had mistaken as random boulders, were actually more sculptures of people. They were in various stages of weathering, as if some were newer than others, or perhaps made of sandstone instead of granite, but all held expressions of loneliness and sadness.
The sibilant language they spoke welcomed him as one of their own. They promised him that soon, very soon, there would never again be painful thoughts to confront, old knowledge to battle. There would only be marvelous, wonderful suspension of mind and body.
A distant complaint from his lower legs tugged at Jim's attention, and he looked down at himself to see stone seeping up them, his feet already solid rock. Dispassionately, almost disinterestedly, he watched the process climb up his body.
Deep in his mind, the sentinel/survivor part of him began to rumble warningly.
As if in answer, the promises and cajoling mingled in the fog changed to reassurances. No choices were being taken away, it wasn't death working its way through him. It was simply stillness, easily broken if he wished. Testing that, Jim took a single step, really more of shuffle forward, and the shadows on the face of the artwork shifted to show appeasement.
See, see, see? All you have to do is move, but why move? Why disturb yourself? Cease activity in the body and all the chaos in the mind stops, too. You know this, you know, you've done it before. You've felt the stillness: silent, peaceful, restful stillnesssssss. Pacified, his sentinel mind let him drift away into the feeling of the numbness creeping its way over his knees.
It had progressed into his thighs, nearly reaching his groin, when an alien sound broke into his zone, urging him to alertness. No, not alien, he corrected. Unexpected here, that was all. Merely unexpected. Why would Sandburg be here in the dark and wet instead of at the party?
Respiration, heartbeat, blood flowing, footsteps, restless flickering of hands over hair or in the air - Blairsound - threaded through the deep gloom surrounding the fountain. Jim thought about calling to him, to question his presence or ask his opinion on the sculpture, but why break his own solid tranquility?
Sandburg was probably only involved in a game or looking for something specific from the garden: herbs or a rose for a new lady, maybe. He'd finish whatever he was doing and go back inside where he belonged. That was best. Oh, it was very, very much for the best that Blair not find this spot, a hidden part of Jim declared stubbornly.
Not questioning that source, Jim forgot about letting his partner know where he was and tried to go back to watching himself blend into stone.
But Blair didn't return to the hacienda, didn't retreat from the weather he hated so much, but ambled slowly toward Jim, his footsteps slow and tired. As he walked past the outermost statues, a promise of moonlight brightened the courtyard, trembling on the broken surface of the waterfall in a dance of beckoning light.
"Ahhhh, man!" Blair breathed reverently, apparently as captivated by the beauty of the fountain as Jim had been. Head tilted to one side, he admired the central figure, lips lightly pursed. He, too, moved to view it from varying positions, even going so far as to squat on his heels for a second for a different prospective.
Slowly, his hand rose, too, not in imitation of the rendered man, but as if to caress it through the air. "Jim," he murmured.
Startled, Jim almost spoke himself, wondering if the clever grad student had realized he was there. Blair's face had lost its appreciative look, though, and was instead filled with a longing powerful enough to show the carving for what it was - mere reflection of human emotion.
Jim flicked his eyes away, feeling as if he were intruding on a private moment. His damnable detective's instinct wouldn't allow the retreat for long. It had to know *why* Blair would empathize so strongly with the piece, and he slowly drifted a look back over to his friend to search for clues.
Blair had his eyes closed, and he was taking careful breaths, measuring them by an internal count, as if to meditate. This was an unusual time and place for it, but Jim took the freedom of the smaller man's inner retreat to study him.
The dampness and barely-there moonlight had leached all the color and sparkle out of his Guide, leaving behind a gray-tone portrait that was devoid of energy or interest. Even the feather in his ridiculous hat drooped heavily, weighed either by accumulated mist or the serious thoughts keeping Blair captive.
It was odd to see his partner so motionless, made nearly two-dimensional by the background he was poised against. Odd, in fact to really *see* him. For the first time Jim realized that he had only actually seen Blair as himself in the loft, surrounded by his candles or curled on the couch, reading. Usually he was whatever the people or circumstances around him dictated he be, reflecting back to them whatever was expected or needed.
Using his vibrant personality and constant motion, he was a mirror the world could see itself in, so he could be accepted. Only in their home had he dared to let those shiny surfaces drop, and show his real face. And mirrors were every bit as isolating and impenetrable as the immutable walls Jim had used for the same reason.
Something about their surroundings, though had put those reflecting barriers down. That thought shook Jim to the core, and he brought his sight all the way up, scanning the other man concernedly. Yes, his feet were already transforming, matching the material of the fountain.
Suspicious, anxious, he brought up his hearing as well.
Apparently satisfied that Jim had made his decision, or simply distracted by another presence, the hissing voices of the garden had begun to persuade Blair as they had him. To the weary traveler, they promised rest, refuge, belonging. He would fit in here, never again be required to conceal himself behind blinding motion. Here was only deep, calm, meditative stillness. Peace in inactivity; serenity in stasis.
Having accepted the lure of quiet himself, Jim felt guilty at his immediate, powerful surge of denial that Blair would. It was his Guide's choice, wasn't it? Like it was his? Why was it that what made perfect sense for himself struck him as *wrong* for his friend? Struggling with his dilemma, he lost track of where he was in his own metamorphosis, discovering only when he'd decided to question Blair himself. Though his jaw and lips moved, no air came; there was only inflexible stone from his throat down.
Heart leaping, he made himself lurch forward, to make contact the only way he could now. As he'd been told, movement stopped the mutation, even reversed it. But he had been in the grip of the statue for so long, there was almost none left to him. Driven by that innate sense of wrongness, he stumped toward his partner, tediously covering the ground he had practically loped over earlier, all the while trying to summon air for a single word.
By the time he reached Blair, his Guide was almost completely stone. All that was left of human softness was his eyes and the cap of slicked down curls. Giving up on speech, Jim reached laboriously up to touch....
And hesitated in mid-motion. Not because of the irate bustling of leaves around them or the violently splashing water from the fountain hitting them. But because of the intimacy of the gesture; because he would be putting his crass, clumsy carved fingers where they didn't belong.
He had patted, tapped, play-punched, half-hugged, even belly bumped Blair. In this intimate, shrouded place, though, how would his partner take such a personal touch? Would he understand it was to get him to look at Jim? To call him back from his decision, at least long enough to think about what he really wanted, here?
Or would he be embarrassed by the invasion? Angry he had to deal with Jim meddling in his life again? Shocked at the presumption on Jim's part to question him at all?
A hint of gray blushed over Blair's eyelids; there was no more room for doubt. With the lightest, briefest butterfly touch a stone finger could create, Jim stroked over the vulnerable bit of flesh. Under his fingertip, he felt it jerk, come partly up, jerk again, as if the transformation kept it from rolling up smoothly.
"Waaaaaaaa..." Blair exhaled a breath he had been holding, adding a question to the sound.
Staring into the clouded confusion in those remarkable blue eyes, Jim struggled once again to produce a sound, a question of his own. Then the blue cleared, becoming crystal sharp and brilliant, and all Jim could do was stare helplessly into them, trying to put speech into a gaze.
"Jiiiiiiiiiiiiiii..." Blair breathed, tilting closer.
With clumsy intent, Jim clenched his one moving hand into the soaked curls at the back of Blair's head. By some miracle he was able to swallow slightly, and with that bit of air in him, he whispered, "Rrrrrrrrrreeeessssst hhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrr." And he pulled the stiff form toward his chest.
Blair *flexed* like a piece of metal under enormous weight, then put his arms awkwardly around Jim's waist, lifting his head to keep their eye contact. "Whyyyyyyy?"
Lowering his own head to the point he could barely keep Blair's features in focus, Jim put everything he had into finding another word, any word that would stir his Guide into refusing the lure of the garden. Finding neither air nor a shape for it, he closed the remaining distance to settle his mouth onto Blair's.
Even as firm and solid as those petrified lips were, they still felt better than any Jim had ever known. His own softened, flowed over the contours of the opening, and he tentatively reached out his tongue to explore and taste more than the gritty surface. It was met by a moist, lively counterpart that quickly introduced itself, winding and dancing happily in greeting.
All the universe shrank to Blair's sweet taste, penetrating scent, and burgeoning warmth. In truth, it was all the universe Jim wanted or needed. He pressed closer and held on tighter until his arms started complaining at the strain and lack of oxygen lights were flashing behind his closed eyelids.
Moaning, he ripped the kiss apart, and drew back enough to look into his new lover's face. Some time during their kiss, Blair had stretched up along the length of him, hooking one sturdy leg over Jim's hip and locking both arms around the bigger man's neck. Jim had left one hand at the back of his Guide's head, but the other cupped one buttock, giving support to the raised leg.
If they were going to be stone, this was the position he wanted to be in during the centuries it would take for him to crumble away. He held only pliant, rosy flesh though, and the only part of either of them that was still hard wouldn't stay that way if they kept kissing.
Smiling a secret smile at the dreamy look Blair was giving him, Jim murmured, "Home?"
"Yes. Now."
Wanting to kiss him again very badly, but wanting more to get away, Jim made himself pry Blair's arms away, keeping custody of one hand. That wasn't enough for his partner. Blair used the link to drag Jim's arm around his waist, and they turned together to leave.
A torrent of water flooded the area, rushing in furious waves that slapped against the statues. Reminded of the trap, Jim said grimly, "We have to..."
"No one else will be allowed to enter the garden, gentlemen," Mrs. Cevantes said sadly. "I *had* thought that such a merry party would be safe from lure of the fountain. But every gathering has its wall flowers, I suppose." She smiled at Jim understandingly, and said to Blair, "And I forgot that a clown often uses his mask of laughter to hide tears."
Uneasily, both of them looked back at the fountain, then at each other to trade a confused, puzzled look. Mrs. Cevantes went to stand in front of the angry young woman at its heart. "Lilly refuses to believe that all she has to do to be free of her loneliness, to stop being the outsider, is to *reach.* Just find the courage and step forward the one step that is halfway to meeting someone.
"Instead she surrounds herself with an entourage of empty souls as desperate and lost as Lilly was the day she cast the spell to create this trap. The only way she thought she'd ever be able to have friends, but she's still isolated, untouched and never touching."
With a visible shake, Mrs. Cevantes forced herself to turn her back on the carving. "Do go on inside. I am sorry I didn't notice quickly enough that you had gone outside to stop you from getting snared. I promise, I *promise* no one else will get close enough again tonight."
"And other nights?" Jim demanded flatly.
Uneasily Helen Cevantes shrugged, and began leading them back to the house. "Her couriers were gained before we found the ancient book she took the spell from and understood what was happening. Since then, my family has been very careful, but I am the last. After I die...."
She shrugged again, then determinedly put on a pleasant face. "I'm falling for the lure, too. Come, let's go inside."
Gallantly Blair held open the door for her, catching Jim's eye as he did. Already the older man could feel his partner's mind revving up, and he knew Mrs. Cevantes would be answering lots of questions before the night was over. A wash of sound/light/scent hit him, and he reeled inwardly, slamming his controls into place as he stepped through the door with Blair.
Behind them, their hostess took a last look out into the night, murmuring unhappily, sorrowfully, "Lilly.... Little Sister..."
At the grief in her voice, Blair put his arm back around Jim's waist, not protesting at the force Jim put into holding him close.