Title: Whitebread

Author: Rentgirl 2

Category: Drama

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: m/m, angst

Pairing: J/B

Summary: Jim finds paradise lost.

Author's website: http://www.therentgirls.com

This The Sentinel tale is, as always, for Melodie (Rentgirl one.) You keep me on schedule, run our website, format our stories and do our vids. You are amazing and appreciated. *Special thanks to The BetaBunch*. Star, Pam, Mary, Elaine, Rose and Annette, y'all are wonderful.
You keep our characterizations honest and attempt to teach us grammar. Thank
you.


Whitebread
by Rentgirl 2


I should get up and go for a run.

I've been awake for hours, staring through the skylight watching thin, gray clouds rush by. Forty minutes ago I told myself a storm was blowing in, but after living in the Pacific Northwest for the better part of my life, I know the difference between rain clouds and what Sandburg likes to call decoration clouds. The clouds this morning are definitely of the decoration variety; high and quick moving, they color the sky but barely even block the sun.

If not a run, and I'll go ahead and pretend the run is out due to bad weather, I should hit the gym. I've rarely let two days in a row go by without working out since I was a kid. A weight training course at Thomas Jefferson High School taught me the benefits of exercise: endorphins, muscles, and my Dad's approval.

Mentally, I did a quick body survey. Yeah, I think my thigh is sore. I flex my right leg searching for a little residual pain. Sometimes, on rainy days like today, my old bullet wound aches. I don't feel much tenderness when I bunch up the muscle, but it's enough to give myself a pass on today's excursion to Gold's.

If I'm not going to take care of myself, I could at least take care of domestic chores. The loft is clean, naturally, but I know the fridge is leaning toward empty, the truck could use an oil change and there are a couple of batches of dry cleaning waiting to be picked up.

Household chores. What a stimulating way to spend a free Saturday.

Well, I have a couple of tuna rolls and some fried rice left over from yesterday if I eventually get hungry. I normally check and change the fluids in the truck myself, but there is no real reason I couldn't part with twenty-five bucks on Monday and run it by Jiffy Lube on my lunch hour. The mechanics there might not be as careful as I am but my time is worth something, right?

As for the dry cleaning, I have a lot of clothes. There's nothing at the shop that I'll miss much for another week or so. Besides, I'm almost positive Sandburg put a couple of shirts in the last bunch and I'm not quite ready for that yet.

I'm not ready to see his shirts hanging lifeless, wrapped in plastic. I'm not ready to touch and smell them. I'm not ready to discover his remaining garments are no longer softened and scented by wear and sweat. I'm not ready to find cloth rendered stiff and sterile with detergent and starch.

That would make all of this a little too real.

There doesn't seem to be anything pressing, anything that is going to make me move out of this bed anytime soon, so I'll give in. I grant myself permission to indulge.

Rolling on my left side, I drag his pillow over and rest my cheek on it. With my right hand, I fold the pillow around my face and begin to breathe in, slow and steady. If I leave my lips slightly parted I can pull air in alternating between my nose and mouth.

One time Sandburg went into an incredibly, almost interesting spiel on the receptor sites located in the nose. Now, I've actually studied anatomy and function in college and I have to admit, I was surprised how much I remembered as he went through the body systems. He had a theory on how a Sentinel's receptor sites might be larger or more numerous than those of a typical human and that led to increased sensitivity. I told him there was no way he was getting permission to cut my head open and check out my receptors. He just laughed and said, "Well, you know, if I live longer than you do, there's no telling what I'll do with your body."

Now, I'm pretty sure he couldn't care less about who lives longer or what will happen to my body after I die.

Anyway, while I lay here with his pillow wrapped around my head, dragging the air in slowly, I'm savoring. I imagine the tiny molecules that have been charged with his scent are settling into my receptors. It's like I'm absorbing him, like there's a part of him inside me, even if it's temporary and microscopic.

When you've lost everything, you're damn grateful for what you can get.

I roll to my back, releasing his pillow, allowing it to fall back into place on the bed. When I first realized his pillow was one of the few things I had left, I toyed with the idea of zipping it up in a storage bag to retain his smell as long as possible. I envisioned myself on cold, lonely nights breaking the plastic seal and sniffing to my heart's content, then squirreling the pillow away so I could make it last for as long as possible.

The idea stuck me as a little too pathetic, though. Like if I did it, I'd become some old miser, rationing out doses of Sandburg. I opted not to do it.

Now, weeks later, as his delicious smell is rapidly vanishing, I wish I had done it, pathetic or not. I wish his pillow and his smell were wrapped up and hidden in a cupboard, my hoarded treasure. Unfortunately, it is too late.

Fuck. How had everything gone to shit so quickly?

It had taken a while but we'd eventually gotten back on our feet after the dissertation disaster.

He told me he was sorry and I told him I was sorry, but I don't remember us ever saying what exactly it was we were sorry for. I don't think we were even mad at each other, we were each mad at ourselves.

Looking back, I guess he needed to forgive himself for the whole thing blowing up in our faces. I needed to forgive myself for not trusting him.

I don't think we ever achieved that measure of forgiveness. Our hurt, our anger, our doubt and self-loathing, were all buried. Buried and waiting to destroy us.

In typical Sandburg fashion, he not only attended the Academy, he excelled. He was amazing. His entrance might have hinged on favors owed, but his performance was his own.

By the time graduation rolled around, it was safe to say even his biggest detractors had been convinced. When he hit the streets again with me, he was unstoppable. Sandburg had always been bright and insightful but now he had the added expertise and training. He was awesome. We were awesome.

It was bound to happen, naturally. We'd been heading there since the day we met. Collision course with destiny? The right alignment of the stars? Just plain horniness? Who can say.

Modern fiction has duped us all into believing the momentous occasion of our lives are accompanied by cataclysmic events. Movies, books and television have taught us that the turning points in our lives are marked by great drama. Such as the deathbed confession of guilt, the profession of love after an accident or the loss of virginity during the depths of a deadly storm. Maybe it works that way for some people but not for me.

The day I came face-to-face with true love was pretty typical. Sandburg had to testify in court that morning so I spent my time playing catch up at my desk. He called around 11:30, offering to pick up Indian food for lunch. I immediately said yes and dropped my vending machine sandwich into the trash.

He wanted to take care of me back then and I wanted to let him.

He insisted we eat in the break room. "Come on, Jim," he coaxed. "We can eat all cramped up at your desk the rest of the week."

Like always, I followed him.

Sandburg stood with his back to the sink, sort of leaning against the break room counter. Droplets of rain had beaded up in his short, dark curls and his eyes were bright with excitement as he recounted his testimony.

The room was a little stuffy and filled with the aroma of curried rice, stale coffee, and wet, warm flesh. I was fascinated, not for the first time, by the play of his pink tongue and white teeth and full lips as he formed words.

I don't know how long I stood there cataloging each flick of his tongue, each purse and pucker of his lips, each flash of glossy enamel as sound after sound, letter after letter, syllable after syllable poured out of him. It must have been too long because he scrunched up his forehead and called my name.

That's when I gave in. There was something about the way he said my name that afternoon, soft and concerned, that made it impossible for me to fight it anymore.

I closed my eyes and brushed my mouth against his.

He gasped, sighed and leaned up to press his lips to mine.

Nothing in my life had prepared me for the singular sweetness of those kisses. Only our lips touched but the current flowing between us hit me right in the heart.

I felt the slightest dip of his tongue in my mouth. When I would have sucked it deep inside, he pushed away. Breathless, confused, I asked, "Why?"

A smile lit his face. "Uh, we're at work, Jim, in the middle of the day, with the door open."

"Ah." The sizzling in my veins had disconnected my brain from my vocal cords.

With the smuggest grin I ever recall seeing in my life, Blair whispered, "This little interlude isn't cancelled, Jim, merely postponed."

I cleared my throat. "Good."

The little fucker laughed and sat down to eat. Everything was back to normal as we shot the breeze and slurped down curried rice and sugared tea.

The whole kissing incident could have been a figment of my imagination except, as we walked out of the break room, Sandburg discreetly caressed my hip.

"Tonight," he promised. "At the loft."

If real life were fiction, the skies over Cascade would have been peppered with lightening bolts and tornadoes. Instead, the night Blair and I consummated the most intense love of my life was marked with a light drizzle being carried on a cool breeze.

As I drove us home in my truck, we talked about our day and the upcoming interdepartmental basketball game. We talked about a seminar on crime scene forensics Sandburg was taking in Seattle next month. We discussed the pros and cons of buying a Bow-Flex so I could exercise at home and cut out the middleman, Gold's Gym.

We talked as we always had, about everything and nothing. So when we entered the loft and Sandburg slammed me against the front door, I was caught completely off guard.

He rubbed his body against my instantaneous erection and hissed, "Now."

I couldn't speak so I nodded.

The smug grin made a reappearance as he unbuttoned my shirt, smoothing his hot hands over my chest.

"Jesus, Jim," he murmured, unsnapping my jeans and kneeling in front of me. I stood there, pants pooled at my ankles, one hand wrapped around the doorknob and one hand pressed on the doorframe for support as his mouth bobbed up and down on my cock.

I'd like to say I lasted a while, that I impressed Blair with my stamina, but I was shooting into the wet heat of his gorgeous mouth in an embarrassingly short time. A moan of satisfaction, of true enjoyment, escaped him as he swallowed and stood.

With a "Come on, Jim," thrown over his shoulder, he practically swaggered up the steps to my bed.

Like always, I followed him.

My bed was a churning sea of limbs and lips and tongues and teeth until nearly dawn. Sex with Blair was the tight, squishy, fluid kind. The hot, nasty, tasty kind. The kind where your body is sated and sore and tired but the idea of stopping is abhorrent. It was the kind of sex I'd only dreamed of.

Near sunrise, I cried uncle. He chuckled and let me pull him in close to sleep.

"You know, Jim, Naomi is totally wrong about you."

"What did Mommy Dearest say this time?" I tried to keep my tone light. I had to get along with Naomi because he adored her. She was never going to be out of my life if Blair was going to be in it.

"She thinks you're white bread and you're so not."

"White bread?" I was pretty sure the hippy earth-mother had insulted me. Again.

"You know, the straight laced, middle-class guy." He licked my jaw and my dick stirred. "I mean, yeah, you are those things but you're so much more."

"Because I'm a Sentinel." For some reason I felt ice start to form where flame had existed seconds before.

"God, you're an idiot sometimes." The honest affection in Sandburg's voice warmed me again.

"My Mom looks at you and sees an upright, steady regular guy. She tends to take everything at face value. She can't see the Army Ranger in you who can kill a man with a half-cup of tap water. She doesn't know you inhale tuna rolls and spinach yogurt regularly but if you wanted, you could live on grubs and cockroaches."

"And all that's supposed to be a plus?"

He kissed me hard and continued. "She doesn't know that you two have similar musical tastes and you're both crazy about me."

I knew he was kidding. He didn't have a clue how right he was.

"Right, Chief," I teased back. "So, my diet, my music and my ability to commit murder keeps me from being white bread?"

"Well, yeah." He gripped my hardening cock and stroked it gently. I guess he figured I was still a little tender. "And you're way more open-minded than Naomi would believe. I mean, here you are, a nice repressed WASP who not only sees ghosts but helps them move on. You're a Christian who accepts that you and I have animal spirits. You took a leap of faith and brought me back from the dead. You are so not white bread, Jim."

Things could have become morose, but Blair scrambled on top on me and lowered himself till my cock was fully sheathed in his tight, slick body.

His head back, his body riding me, his mouth slack and moaning, Blair was almost too much to bear. I never wanted to be without him in my arms again.

So began the happiest three months of my life. During the day we were what we'd always been--best friends, partners, roommates. Outside that, there was nothing overt. Nothing to suggest to anyone that we were spending our nights wrapped around each other, tasting each other, stroking each other, taking turns being inside each other.

To a white bread guy like me, Blair was a wonderful pagan, a wild gypsy. He was so amazingly beautiful as he moved naked around the loft. After the first week of becoming lovers, he and I rarely wore clothing once the front door shut behind us.

I've never been particularly modest about my body but I'd thought Blair was shy. Not now. He paraded around proudly.

I called him on it once. "When did you get to be such an exhibitionist, Chief? I'm not complaining, mind you, just curious."

He smiled as he slipped his hand between the cheeks of my ass, searching for the opening into me. "I noticed if I stay naked, you stay naked." I groaned as his lubricated, talented fingers began to circle and probe me. "And I like you naked, Jim. I like you naked very much."

We were in a constant state of sexual arousal. There were times we hardly made it inside the loft before we fell on each other, naked and devouring. It was thrilling and heady and I never wanted it to end.

Many nights we picnicked on the living room floor. A blanket and a feast spread in front of the fire, he and I talked and laughed and fed one another cold Chinese food with our fingers. I would lick hoisin sauce off his lips and wonder how I'd ever gotten so fucking lucky.

We were happy. Honest to God, we were both happy.

I should have told him, though. Keeping silent is one of the greatest regrets of my life. I should have gathered up my courage, taken my pride in my hands and risked it.

I should have let him know he was my heart, the love of my life. I should have told him the moments we were alone, whispering and sharing and touching, were the most important I'd ever experienced. I should have told him I was safe when we were together.

But I didn't. I was afraid.

He was Blair Sandburg, pagan Gypsy, untamed Bohemian. I couldn't tie him down. I couldn't scare him away. We were happy and I wasn't going to rock the boat.

The sex was incredible and he reveled in it. The sex deepened our friendship and brought us even closer. God, I loved him so fucking much. I needed to be with him any way he'd let me for as long as he'd let me.

If my life was a movie, that Tuesday afternoon the earth would have been shaken with earthquakes. Volcanoes would have erupted, the streets would have overflowed with molten lava. A tsunami would have crashed into the Cascade Bay.

My life doesn't work like that. The afternoon my happiness was shattered, the afternoon my life with Sandburg was ripped from me, started as a typical day at the PD.

Simon was locked in City Hall with the mayor going over the fiscal report. Joel Taggert and Brown were out questioning a suspect. Megan was sitting at her desk typing a report. Rafe had the flu and had called in sick for the third day in a row.

Sandburg and I were pretty much caught up so he'd run down to the lab to discuss a forensic report with Dan Wolfe. The seminar he'd taken in Seattle had left him with more questions than answers and he'd taken to pumping Dan for his expertise when the chance arose.

I noticed Blair had left one of his folders on our desk. Deciding I missed him, he'd been gone at least fifteen minutes, I picked up the papers and headed down to the lab.

I smiled, imagining his face when he realized I'd been thinking of him. His pleasure in the smallest of things I did for him was always so out of proportion. It was kind of sad, really. Sandburg would serve up the shirt off his back to a stranger. Although he was no saint, his kindness and patience is damn near inexhaustible. Yet, he expects so little from others in their dealings with him.

It's as though he's surprised when someone treats him with consideration. He deserves so much more than he's willing to settle for. I wish I would have been the one to shower him with the kindness, the respect, the trust he so richly deserved. I wasn't.

That Tuesday afternoon I proved I'd never truly forgiven myself for not trusting him. Instead, I proved I still didn't trust him.

If my life was one of those Lifetime mini-series, music, dark and angsty, would have been swelling as I walked down the corridor in the basement of the PD.

I heard him before I saw him. He was speaking in that breathy, flirty voice he used with me so often in the past three months. A perfume, cloying and sickly-sweet, drifted to me. A high, feminine giggle answered his low, sexy chuckle.

Jealousy, sour and ugly, ripened within me and I hadn't even laid eyes on him yet.

His back was against the wall, left leg bent and left foot propped up. The girl, blonde and pretty, handed him a card. She was tiny, Sandburg towered over her.

I wondered if he enjoyed being the dominating figure. I often forget how short he really is. For one thing, his height, or lack of it, just didn't bother him. For another, his personality and presence could be so overwhelming. It rarely crossed my mind that he'd never hit 5'8" without a damn heavy tread on his hiking boots.

They both spotted me at the same time. There wasn't a drop of guilt in him as he pocketed her card.

"Hey, Jim. What's going on?"

"Um," I held out the file. "You left this on the desk. I thought you might need it."

As I predicted, he gave me a grateful grin. "Thanks, man. I haven't even made it to Dan's office yet." As if he suddenly remembered the woman he'd been hitting on, he stood up straight and waved her toward me. "Jim, this is Donna Knoll. Donna, my partner, Jim Ellison."

"Nice to meet you," I said, although it wasn't.

"You, too," she said. "Professor Sandburg, I mean, Blair, used to talk about you and the police department all the time in our Modern Western Studies class."

"Donna was one of my students at Rainier." Blair smiled but my stomach cramped. I hated allowing any reminder of his exile from academia to touch our life.

"A long time ago I was your student, Blair," she said.

"Yeah, like maybe two years ago," he replied. "Donna is interning in the PD forensic lab this semester. Cool, huh?"

"Yeah, cool," I answered, although it wasn't.

"I better get back to work," Donna said. She tossed her hair at Sandburg. "You're not my teacher anymore, Blair. Give me a call sometime, okay?"

"Sure." He watched as she popped through a doorway down the hall. He looked back at me. "Small world, right? I guess I'll have to catch Dan later. We better get back to work, too, huh?"

He fell into step with me and we walked to the elevator. My jealousy, tasting like bile, lapped at the back of my throat. "Yeah."

We were alone in the elevator as I made the first of a series of mistakes destined to topple my house of cards.

"So," I said, carefully keeping my tone neutral, "are you going to call Donna?"

Blair seemed confused. "Call Donna?"

"Yeah, you know, Chief, call her." I nudged him in a buddy-buddy way. In a you-lucky-dog-you're-gonna-get-some way. "For a date."

We reached our floor but before the door could open, Sandburg hit the hold button. "Do you care if I call her?"

"You're a big boy, Sandburg," I said, my grin covering the emotions threatening to boil out of me. "You can do what you want to do."

"I see." Blair's body was tense and his face held a trace of defiance. "So, we're not exclusive."

"Exclusive?"

"Yeah, man. You and I are not exclusive?"

I told him what I thought he wanted to hear. I told him what I thought I had to so I could keep him for a little while longer. He was a wild Gypsy, right? An untamed Bohemian? If I had any chance of sustaining our relationship, of staying in the glow of his affection, I had to lie.

"No. I mean, I never thought we were." It felt like I was pushing out the words through shards of glass.

His face relaxed, his body almost slumped as he released the hold button. "Okay then," he said.

I know now I completely misread him. I guess I have from the beginning.

His defiance wasn't the challenge I believed. He didn't want me to say I knew he was free to be with whomever he chose to be. In his mind, he'd already chosen. He didn't want the door left open so he could come and go as he pleased. He wanted me to slam the cage door shut, for us to be locked up together, committed to one another.

Blair wanted me to declare my love and fidelity to him and instead, I'd cut him loose. He wasn't some exotic, tropical bird, needing to live free among the treetops. I'd allowed myself to be blinded by the beauty of his plumage. In reality, he was more like a wren. He wanted to nest, to find a mate and a place to stay for all his life.

Looking back, his slump in the elevator hadn't been relief that I acknowledged he was free to see other people. It had been defeat. I had devastated him.

For three months I'd kept my counsel, never telling him in words how much I loved him and the life we were sharing. I'd spent those three months with one eye on the clock, hoarding the moments we had, fearing they were running out.

For three months, he had thought we were telling each other with actions, instead of words, how much we loved one another and the life we were sharing. He'd spent those three months hoarding the moments and bricks of memories to build our forever.

I never said I love you because I was afraid to give him the words.

He never said I love you because he didn't think I needed the words. To him, it was self-evident.

It took a long time for me to understand all this. Weeks of sleeping alone, weeks of bone-deep loneliness, had finally opened my eyes to how completely I have fucked up.

At the time though, I thought I'd dodged the bullet. I'd hidden my true feelings and acted like a very sophisticated fuck buddy. Inside, I was dying a slow, agonizing death. No one, not even Blair suspected.

It was several days before I allowed myself to feel the shift in our relationship. We still tore at each other the moment the door to the loft slammed shut. We still had sticky, dirty, amazing sex all over the apartment.

There was no joy in it anymore, though. The laughter and sharing had been replaced with ravenous desperation.

Midnight picnics were a thing of the past. Lazy, sudsy showers and Sunday afternoons spent snuggling under an afghan on the sofa had been taken over by separately run errands and evenings spent apart.

Something was broken, I knew that much, but I was completely unequipped to deal with it. At least, I thought I was. Now I know all I would have had to do was go to him and utter those three little words, "Blair, let's talk."

I didn't do it, of course. I believed talking about the state of our relationship was the most frightening thing in the world. I was so damn wrong. Since then, I've discovered the most terrifying of all things is to know I've squandered away what was most precious to me.

In my life, I moved from one fucked-up relationship to the next. My dad and I could never see eye-to-eye and that particular stain tainted my relationship with my brother, too. When I cut the old man off, I also left Stephen behind. The only reason the Ellison men speak to each other at all is Sandburg. He nagged me into forgiving and trying again. I never thanked him.

A psychologist would label my childhood as a textbook example of how to grow a loner. I was ten when my mom split. Dad was cold and uncommunicative. The man I chose to be my substitute father-figure was murdered practically before my eyes. Is it any real wonder I have one divorce and a long string of exes behind me?

The closest friendship I had forged besides Sandburg was Jack Pendergrast. A shrink would have a field day with that little fiasco. Jack was not only a friend, he was my mentor, and the man I chose to emulate when I came to Major Crimes. And how did I repay him? By fucking his girlfriend. Makes me sound like a prime candidate for therapy.

Given my history, I had an excuse for keeping my mouth shut around Sandburg, right? Except Blair was nothing like anyone else from my past. When I was with him, I was nothing like the person I used to be. Still, I used my old tried-and-true method of clamming up with the same old results.

From the start I had tried to browbeat, intimidate and distance myself when it came to Sandburg. It was impossible. The kid could have given a duck lessons in buoyancy.

With the perfect combination of enthusiasm, humor, aggression and compassion, he pushed his way into my life and wormed his way into my soul.

He understood me in ways Carolyn never did. In all fairness, I let him see more of me than I ever dreamed of showing her.

I can be a selfish prick. Carolyn and I married because we worked together, the sex was adequate and I didn't want to be alone anymore. I never needed her and not long after we said "I do," she knew it. I hurt her and I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have hurt her, shouldn't have slept with her and sure as hell shouldn't have married her.

Sandburg, I needed. I suppose he'll never know how much. Yeah, when I met him I was walking the razor's edge between sane and crazy and he saved me. I needed him for so much more, though. He was my sounding board, my companion, my rock.

Once, after we'd been lovers for a couple of weeks, I'd come home in a foul mood. Blair instinctively knew I needed space rather than conversation. I can't even remember what had set me off. Anyway, after a quiet dinner he urged me out on the balcony.

It was a warm night with a light breeze coming in off the bay. He'd put sleeping bags on two lounge chairs he'd set side-by-side. We settled down, not touching, looking up at the stars.

For a long time we lay in companionable silence. I watched for comets and satellites in the black satin of the night. I listened for the waves hitting the shore and the comfort of Blair's soft breathing.

The tension slowly drained off me. He must have felt the change in me because he began to tell me a story.

"When I was about eight, Naomi and I lived in New Mexico. Before I went to bed every night, we'd lay on the back porch and talk about our day and watch the moon go by. One time I told her I wished I could reach up and grab a star. The stars looked so big in the desert sky. She told me I couldn't actually touch a star but while I looked up at them, they belonged to me and were mine to wish on. I used to dream someday I'd buy my own yard so that the stars over it would always be mine."

Now, I'm hardly a romantic guy but something about the longing in his voice made me speak up. "Well, Chief, I guess the stars right there," I pointed above our heads, "are ours then."

He did the unexpected. Without saying a word, he reached over and took my hand.

My heart turned over in my chest.

No, I'm not a romantic guy, but there in the dark, surrounded by a busy city, yet completely isolated, I continued to hold his hand. I felt secure and serene and I allowed myself to pretend we were still going to be like this when I was seventy.

God, I wanted that. I still do.

For a month after the Donna Knoll incident, I walked on eggshells holding my breath and my tongue. Each morning I woke up trying to convince myself everything between Blair and I would right itself. Each evening, my body sated and my chest hollow, I went to bed wondering if this had been the last day I would have him with me.

The horrible anticipation and strong sense of impending doom colored every aspect of my life. I marveled no one called me on it. How could Simon not see how I was withering away? Why didn't Joel notice I was in agony? Had I become so good at hiding myself and my emotions in plain view?

I must have been great at it because even Blair, Blair who knew me, Blair who understood me, Blair who cared for me more than anyone else in my life ever had, didn't see it.

Or maybe he was so engrossed in his own pain he couldn't deal with mine, too. After all, he'd been laboring under the misconception we were practically married and then I'd basically told him that while I certainly enjoyed fucking him up the ass, I didn't consider us a couple and we were both free to find our entertainment elsewhere. Why did I let that lie stand?

If my life was an important Oscar winning film, complete with subtitles and an award winning musical score, Cascade would have been burning to the ground as I took the mail out of our box that Friday evening. Both sides of Prospect Avenue would have been lined with a Greek chorus, wailing and gnashing their teeth. The moon would have turned to blood.

Instead, it was a run-of-the-mill payday. Sandburg had taken Daryl Banks to some headbanger retro rock concert at The Bay Civic Center. Simon wasn't wild about Daryl going so the boy had employed a preemptive strike and talked Sandburg into chaperoning.

Blair had been eager to do it. At the time I'd wondered if he was more pleased because he was going to the concert or was getting away from me for the night.

So, I'd driven home alone. I'd stopped at the bank to deposit our checks and picked up a sub and some potato salad for my dinner.

When I got to the loft, I sorted our mail. It was mostly the usual shit: bills, offers for Platinum VISA cards, a letter from Naomi and some kind of official letter from the Seattle PD for Blair.

Why would the Seattle Police Department be sending something to Sandburg? He'd finished the forensic seminar and received his certificate of attendance months ago.

Like some husband frightened he's being cuckolded, I held the letter up to the kitchen light, hoping I could see inside. No such luck. I'm a Sentinel, not Superman, and I couldn't see through the heavy, cream-colored envelope and the multi-folded letter.

For a second I considered steaming it open but that scenario hit me as a little too Lucy Ricardo. Not to mention, Blair would notice.

I ate my dinner in front of a made-for-television version of The Shining. God, why did they even bother with a remake? Nicholson's movie version was a classic.

Daryl and Blair would be late. "Attending a concert takes like, so much energy," Sandburg had declared to me years ago. "Which is why concert goers partake of the traditional Grand Slam Breakfast afterward."

The two of them knew I'd never enjoy the kind of concert they'd gone to so they hadn't issued an invitation. A mere month ago, though, Blair would have asked me to meet them at Denny's later. Those days were gone.

I carried the letter around the loft for the better part of the evening, willing it to fall open so I could legitimately read the damn thing. No such luck.

Around one in the morning I heard Blair's Volvo humming down Prospect. I threw his letter in the basket and sat on the sofa, pretending to watch some replay of a golf tournament.

As he fit his key into the lock, I willed myself to calm down.

"Hey, Jim," Blair called from the doorway.

I half turned in the sofa. "Hi, Chief. How was the concert?"

He walked over and leaned down to kiss me. I froze. I didn't mean to but my nerves were buzzing. Hurt flashed in his big, blue eyes, then he sniffed.

"Sorry, man. I stink like smoke and other unpleasant stuff, huh?"

Leave it to Sandburg to make a gracious excuse for my shitty behavior.

"A little, yeah," I lied.

"Okay, quick shower." He disappeared into the bathroom. Normally, I'd have hopped into the shower with him. I mean, it had been over twenty-four hours since we'd last pounded each other into orgasmic ecstasy and we just didn't let that kind of time elapse between fucking sessions.

But I couldn't get into that tub and do him while that time bomb from Seattle waited in the basket. I stuck my head in the door.

"Hey, Chief, you hungry?"

"Uh, Jim," he said through the shower curtain, "I just inhaled a breakfast. I'm totally stuffed."

D'uh. "How about a cup of coffee or tea?" Not much of a peace offering but I wasn't ready to say goodnight.

"Okay, thanks. I'll be out in a minute."

Pulling two mugs down from the cupboard, I tried again to get a grip. My panic was completely out of proportion, I knew, but I couldn't get passed the idea that the moment was at hand. I was going to lose him.

Sandburg must have picked up on my tension because he came out of the bathroom swathed in my blue robe. Even with the weird off-kilter state of our relationship, we still usually waltz around the loft nude. I handed him a cup of decaf.

"So, was the concert good?" I asked as I propped my hip on the kitchen counter.

"Really good. Daryl loved it." He sipped at his coffee. "My ears are still ringing. I must be getting old."

For just a moment, the sorrow of the last month retreated and things were as they should be. Blair was smiling at me, sharing with me. He smelled damp and delicious. The rain was spattering against the skylight making the loft seem secret and snug. I could have said nothing and given myself one more night to pretend everything was going to be just fine. I could have, but I didn't.

He placed his empty mug down in the sink and stalked toward me, his lust evident. Before he could slip his arms around me, I blurted out, "You got a letter from Naomi today."

"Uh huh," he answered as he slid his hands up and under the back of my tee shirt. God, those hands felt so wonderful on my skin. He pressed his erection against my thigh.

I should have just kissed him and let him fuck me all night but instead I persisted. "And you got something from the Seattle PD."

He immediately pulled back. "Really?"

I couldn't tell if he was pleased or pissed. "It's in the basket," I said unnecessarily as he was already opening it. "Anything important?"

"Sort of." He walked into the living room and I followed. Blue robe wrapped tightly around him, hair still glistening with water droplets, he began to pace from the windows to the sofa. I sat down in the lone chair.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Chief?" I winced inwardly at my accusatory tone.

"Yeah." He kept pacing.

"Sandburg?"

"Oh, sorry, Jim." He didn't stop moving but he started talking. "Remember the forensic seminar I went to? Well, when I was there I had dinner one night with the department head."

I felt my old friend jealousy crawl up my spine. "And?"

"See," Blair plopped on the sofa, "we were talking about new trends in evidence gathering."

I pictured Blair and some stuffy old forensic specialist, maybe a Quincy look-a-like, talking a mile a minute in some greasy, cop hangout.

"And?"

"Right." He jumped up and resumed pacing. "I told him I used to be an anthropologist and one thing led to another and he told me about this study the University of Washington was going to do at the Seattle PD."

"A study?" I hated to hear Blair say he used to be an anthropologist. He might still be one if I'd trusted him. Together we could have found a way to salvage his career.

"Ron was proposing using police officers with extended expertise in other fields in conjunction with the forensic division. There have been a few similar things at the FBI but this would be the first of its scale with a university overseeing it."

"So?"

"So, at the time the University was looking at bringing in a linguist, a social scientist and an education specialist."

"All those people were working as cops?"

"Yeah. Not all of us start out as cops, you know. Neither one of us did."

I didn't want to go there. "How would using those cops help forensics?"

He sprawled on the sofa again. "What Ron is theorizing is police are trained to view evidence in a specific, linear way. He thinks that by training rookies to look at things only from a SOP view point, things are being missed or incorrectly interpreted. The program will eventually help cops look at the same old thing in a new light."

The excitement was bubbling up in him as he talked.

"Sounds like it will be interesting, Chief."

"It should be pretty cool. Because the project is a joint venture between the University and the PD, Ron has been waiting for the funding to come in. The police department is all for the study but didn't want to pay for it."

"Typical," I said, waiting for the punch line. "I take it he got the funding."

"He did."

"Great." I was willing to be happy for a friend of Sandburg's.

Blair was suddenly still. "Hey, Jim, I hadn't exactly planned on telling you about the project like this but..."

At last the other shoe was about to drop. "But what?"

"When Ron asked me a couple of months ago if I was interested in participating, I told him no." He jumped up and walked to the glass doors.

"Why did he write to you then?"

Blair was silent for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer. Keeping his back to me, he leaned his hand against the metal frame of the door.

"Things are different now, man." Blair shook his head. "Maybe things aren't really different. Maybe I've started to see them more clearly." He turned to me. "I called Ron two weeks ago and asked if he had a spot for an anthropologist in the study. This letter says yes. He wants me to come to Seattle."

I've replayed this moment at least a thousand times in my head. Around time five hundred, I finally got it right. Around time five hundred, I tell him no, you can't go because I love you and I need you. I can live without you but I don't want to.

Unfortunately, this was the first time, the real time, the only time that counted in the grand scheme of things and I fucked it up.

"Oh," I said. I found a half smile for him somewhere. "Sounds like an incredible opportunity for you."

"It is." His enthusiasm seemed to leech away a bit but he kept on plugging. "It's an important study. It could revolutionize evidence gathering. I could contribute something worthwhile."

This part of the scene only took me two hundred replays to get right. In my corrected version of the events, I take Blair in my arms and set him straight. I tell him you've done more worthwhile things in your short thirty years than most people do in a lifetime. He asks me to elaborate and I say he's been a wonderful friend to me, to Joel, to Simon and to so many others. I say he's a terrific teacher and a great cop and a damn good person.

In this revisionist version of history, I kiss him and say he saved my sanity and that was damn important to me. I tell him our life together is important and worthwhile.

So, it only took me two hundred times of rehearsing and editing to make the confrontation turn out the way I wanted. But in reality, in the first and final version, the only one of any consequence for me and Sandburg, I fucked up completely.

"What exactly does your participation entail?" I tried to sound curious not defensive.

"The actual study is six months long. There is a good possibility of it turning into a permanent position at the end of the project."

The words were hitting my eardrums but not my brain. "Permanent position?"

"Yeah, Jim." He swallowed hard. "I should have mentioned all of this to you before but I honestly didn't think I had a chance since I turned them down the first time. Plus, it's so close to the start date of the project."

"How close to the start?"

"Um," he looked almost embarrassed to tell me, "I have to be in Seattle in a little over two weeks."

All the oxygen was mysteriously sucked out of the room. "Seattle in two weeks? What about your job here?"

"I'll put my notice in first thing tomorrow."

If I hadn't been so consumed with my own pain and panic, I might have noticed the sense of waiting that surrounded Blair. Looking back, here was my second chance, my last chance to declare myself. I was oblivious to it. I was still looking at this man as a wandering Gypsy searching for adventure instead of what he truly was, a man searching for love and permanence.

If I hadn't been so blind, so damn caught up in repeating the patterns that had led me into failure so many times before, I could have stopped it all then. I didn't.

"Couldn't you take a leave of absence while you're in Seattle?" I sounded very reasonable.

"There's no guarantee a slot will still be open in Major Crimes by the time I get back. It wouldn't be fair to ask Simon to try and hold a spot for me. Besides, if I could work as an anthropologist on the police force, well, that would be the best of both worlds, man."

It would, of course. My fear, my lack of trust in him cost him his chosen career. Ron was offering a way for Sandburg to get back at least a little of what he'd lost.

"So you're moving to Seattle." An obvious statement but I'd hoped saying it aloud, hearing it in my own voice, would help it penetrate my skull.

Blair moved off my chair and perched on the coffee table so our eyes met and our knees were touching. He took my left hand in both of his.

Although his eyes were dry, I'd never seen such grief in them. Not even for Maya. At the time I assumed the grief was due to the fact he didn't want to hurt me. And since everything was about me, I didn't once consider part of his sadness might have been for himself.

"Look, Jim, I think me moving is a good thing for both of us. Don't you?"

I didn't but I nodded. "I guess."

"I mean, your senses are under control so you don't really need me at work anymore."

Again, I didn't agree but I was too stupid to let him know. Instead, I answered, "I guess so."

"Right, you've got good control now." He squeezed my hand tight and for a second I was transported back to that night on the balcony when I told him the stars above our heads belonged to us. Back to the night I gave him the closest thing to a declaration of love I'd dared. Back to the night I secretly dreamed was one in an unending string of nights we'd be together.

Blair coughed softly and I was snapped back into the horrible present.

"Besides, man, this, this thing between us," his voice was so kind and gentle it hurt my ears, "just isn't working out. Don't get me wrong, Jim, you've been great. You've been more than I could have ever asked for."

"But?" I prompted. The cool, silvery knife-like pain he was piercing my heart with wasn't enough. I wanted him to splay and gut me.

"I'll always be your friend, Jim. Hell, you're the best friend I've ever had. You've always been there for me, man, and I'll never forget that."

I couldn't stop myself. I had to know everything. He was trying to spare my feelings when what I needed was him to cut me just a little deeper so I could die.

"But?" I said again.

"We want totally different things out of this. We're both looking for something we're never going to find with one another." I thought he might cry but instead he smiled. "Staying together like this is wrong and you know it. It's holding us back from finding what we really need. We both deserve more."

I should have pressed him for a better explanation, but he fitted his mouth over mine and I took what comfort was offered.

His mouth was sweet and familiar and thrilling. I had his clothes off him and was tearing at his flesh with my teeth and nails and tongue and he moaned and begged for more. Our lovemaking was slippery and frantic. It bordered on painful.

I wanted to crawl inside him forever. I wanted to imprint him on my skin and heart so that no matter how many years, how many lovers, how many lifetimes passed between now and my physical death, I would be able to remember him in perfect clarity.

I wanted to be able to recall the first time and the last time I saw those blue eyes flash at me. I wanted to be able to recall the timbre of his voice and the sunlight in his laughter. I wanted to be able to recall the rush of his breath against my face and the coarse silk of his hair under my hands.

I needed to be able to remember that once upon a time we'd belonged together, that we'd fit together. I needed to be able to remember that once upon a time I was as important to him as he will always be to me.

The next two weeks went by in a blur.

The Sunday after Ron's letter arrived, we found a nice place for him in Seattle, not too far from the department there.

We spent the next weekend moving his stuff. Boxing up his things, pulling his pictures off the wall, separating his CDs from mine, sorting his pots and pans and dishes out of the kitchen cupboards had been so much worse than it had been with Carolyn. It was like ripping my soul in two.

The guys at the station were sorry to see him go. They threw a little get together for him at Rafe's on the Friday before he left.

Unashamed, I listened in as he made his rounds at the party. He took each person aside and thanked them for something they'd done for him over the years. Simon, for standing behind him when the dissertation shit hit the fan. Megan, for helping him get to Sierra Verde and keeping a lid on the Sentinel stuff. Joel, for believing in him when no one else did.

And of each person he asked a favor--to keep an eye out for Jim. Christ, even as he was tearing my heart out, he was trying to keep me safe. That's when I began to suspect, way too late, that he might love me.

He had to report to work on Monday morning. The Saturday before he left, we devoured each other over and over. Knowing this would be the last time and that this part of our relationship would be over when the sun rose kept us awake all night.

There was not a speck of his fragrant body I didn't lick and suckle. He surged as deeply into me as possible and I returned the favor. After we'd made love for the last time, I held him close and counted his breaths. His heartbeat seemed to sing to me, "goodbye, goodbye."

I was going to cook a farewell feast for him but he claimed he wasn't hungry. I brewed a pot of Kona while he showered and poured it in a thermos I'd purchased for his trip.

We decided to say goodbye in the loft.

"It's not like we won't see each other again, Jim," he said but we understood the life we'd shared was over.

"I know. I guess I've grown accustomed to your chaos."

He laughed then turned serious. "I'm just a habit, man. All of this is." He smiled that beautiful smile I love so much. "And according to a study I just read, it only takes 14 days to break a bad habit."

I smiled back but didn't mean it.

When he kissed me goodbye, I could taste the salty, bitterness of unshed tears. His or mine, I wasn't sure.

As I watched his car pull out of the lot and drive down Prospect, away from me, I was hit by the incredible wrongness of it.

For the first time in five years, he was leading but I was not following.

He called a few times in the beginning but the conversations were stilted and painful. My fault, I think.

Naomi was right about me. I am white bread, through and through.

Sure, I can kill a man with tap water and I like Asian food and can live on crunchy bugs if I have to. Yeah, there are some weird, mind-altering things I believe in. I'm a Sentinel for Christ's sake. I believe because I have no choice; there are weird realities in my universe.

When it came down to the most precious thing in my life, however, I proved I was white bread. I have let my fucked up, tight-assed, repressive upbringing rule my life.

My fear of trusting Blair has broken his heart. My fear of being hurt has caused me untold agony. My fear of trying again, of opening myself up, has left me all alone.

Most importantly, my fear of rejection had cost me Blair. I've given up the person I wanted most in the world to save my pride.

Only now am I beginning to comprehend how much I've lost.

Sighing, I turn over on the bed. I really should go for a run today.



End Whitebread by Rentgirl 2
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