Title: A Most Peculiar Man

Author: Cristin Anne

Rating: PG-13 for description of suicide; m/m

Summary: One man's death leads another. Death story, with nice tag....

Warning: This story contains suicide and male/male relationships. If either of these things offend you, then don't read it!

Archiving: You want it? Take it. Just leave my name on it.

Disclaimer: These guys aren't mine. I don't have any claim on them what-so-ever. I promise to return them before I void the warranty, okay? Of course, I'm cloning Blair first :-)

"He was a most peculiar man
That's what Mrs. Riordan said and she should know
She lived upstairs from him
She said he was a most peculiar man."

The man walked up to his room, taking the stairs. He always took the stairs - never the elevator. He hated the elevator. Elevators always made him think of his partner. He barely felt the familiar tears touch his face as his partner's face flew into his mind. A face he would never see again. A face he hadn't seen in four years. Four very long, very tiring years.

Lost in reverie he walked up an extra set of stairs, just as he did every day. Every day since he moved here, after his partner died. And, just as he did every day, he walked to apartment 935 and knocked on the door.

An old woman opened it and peeked out. A brilliant smile lit up the woman's face as she looked at the man who stood at her door. No one else ever came to visit the 115 year old woman in 935, just the man who stood at her door. He rarely spoke to her, they simply enjoyed the company of being with another person. They sat together in silence, and when they did speak, they spoke of memories, of loved ones gone. Mrs. Riordan thought it odd that this man, almost 60 years her junior, knew so much of pain. And she felt for him.

Soon an hour had gone by, their time of reminiscing over. Mrs. Riordan lifted up a withered hand and placed it on his cheek, knowing, somehow knowing, that she would never see him again. So much pain at such a young age.... He looked down at the hand on his cheek, and placed his own hand on top of hers, accepting the goodbye, and walked out the door again.

"He was a most peculiar man.
He lived all alone within a house,
Within a room, within himself,
A most peculiar man."

He walked down one flight of stairs to his own apartment, 835. He walked slowly, dreading the thought of the empty apartment he was going to. He wished once more for the days when they entered their home together, laughing or brooding, but always together. He was never alone then. Now he always was.

He turned the key in the lock, and stepped into his single room apartment. It looked as if no one ever lived there. There was no sign of home - no books, no paintings, nothing unique. The only indication that he lived there at all was a single photograph lying by the bed. A picture of his partner eternally smiling.

He turned on the light and lifted up the picture, brushing his fingers against the face. He could feel the face's texture under his fingers, the way it was when his partner was still here. A face he had longed to put against his own, lips he had longed to kiss. But he had never said it. He had never dared. And now his chance was gone, gone forever. It was a past he longed to change, if just for a few moments. To at least have said the words. His partner never knew his love.

"He had no friends, he seldom spoke
And no one in turn ever spoke to him.
'Cause he wasn't friendly, and he didn't care
And he wasn't like them.
Oh, no! He was a most peculiar man."

Now, no one knew his love. He left his job soon after his partner died. He couldn't bare the looks of sympathy he received from those he had considered his friends, his partner's friends. They had also needed to grieve. But everything was given to him, and he couldn't stand it. So he left.

His friends tried to keep in touch - they still called once or twice a week. But he never did more than greet them, tell them he was fine. They had come to accept that answer, though feebly, and accept that he was rejecting them. They still cared, but he didn't. He wasn't like them anymore.

His job had killed his partner. His partner had died trying to save him, and daily it sunk deeper into his soul. He should have been the one to die, not his partner. His partner had so much more life to live, so much to give to society. But it had all left in a single instant, and his soul had left with it. He decided earlier that day that it was finally time to correct the error. Finally it was time for what was left of him to go.

He reached under his bed, finding the bag he had put there months before, and took out what he found there. It was a single canister of gas - transparent, odorless, and deadly. It had taken him months to find the one canister, and months longer to get the courage to take it out of the bag. But tonight was the night, so the canister sat on the desk, right next to the photograph.

He hugged the picture to him, not caring anymore if it crinkled or creased from constant handling. And as he fell into an eternal sleep, the picture to his breast, he murmured six final words. "I'm coming Blair. I love you."

"He died last Saturday.
He turned on the gas and he went to sleep
With the windows closed so he'd never wake up
To his silent world and his tiny room;
And Mrs. Riordan says he has a brother somewhere
Who should be notified soon."

Simon Banks held down a sob. To find his old friend like this, clutching a picture of another long dead friend... it was enough to bring him to his knees. He and Jim hadn't been close since Blair died - not for lack of trying. Jim had wanted to wallow, to remember and grieve for an eternity, not move on. And now, when Simon had finally accepted Blair's death, Jim had to go and make him grieve all over again.

The old woman upstairs, Mrs. Riordan, had called the department when Jim didn't come up for his daily visit. She was not sad when they told her what they'd found, she said she expected it. Then she said that he had mentioned a brother once, perhaps they should find him. She said that the pain in Jim's eyes was greater when she had last seen him than ever before, and she didn't know why.

But Simon knew. It had been Blair's birthday the day before - it would have been his 45th. The day that he and Jim had promised Simon that they would either admit they loved each other, or find separate apartments. They had laughed when he said it, ten years prior. They thought their Captain was going insane, and would forget about it within a week. But he had remembered, and so had Jim. And now Jim had admitted he loved Blair, and he wanted their joint living quarters back.

Simon placed his hand on his dead friend's forehead. "Rest in Peace Jim. I hope you've found what you're looking for."

As he walked out into the streets, Mrs. Riordan's final words to him remained in his mind. "But wasn't he a most peculiar man...."


"And all the people said, 'What a shame that he's dead, But wasn't he a most peculiar man?'"


tag

Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg together watched Simon leave, content to be in one another's company again. But they were sad for their friend, hoping his grief would be easy. There was too much grief already apparent in his face.

Slowly, Blair reached for Jim's hand. "You shouldn't have done it, man. You could have gone on," he admonished his partner. "Suicide shouldn't have been an option."

Jim looked ashamed, repentant. "I had to do it Chief, you know that. I couldn't live without you anymore. It was your 45th birthday. I remembered what Simon said that one day, and I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't go on without you." Jim took a deep breath, or as much as a dead man could do so. "I love you Blair. I love you."

Blair smiled up at him. "I know man, I know. I've always known. I love you too, and I'm glad you're here."

Jim gazed in awe down at his friend, and brought his lips to meet Blair's. He knew now that the old saying was true. Love really did conquer all. Even death.

END