FACING THE STORM



Chapter 1

Keeping his breathing steady and even, Blair focused all his attention on making the movements of his hands and body slow and fluid, trying to visualize the Tai Chi forms as he did. Carry Tiger and Return to Mountain flowed seamlessly into Grasp Sparrow's Tail which became Step Back and Repulse Monkey which in turn became…. Using every bit of will he had, he didn't let himself think of anything but the next series of moves: not the darkness he lived in now, not the empty loft or the absence of the one thing he could depend on in his eternal night, not the aching hunger that absence caused. All that existed was the pull of muscle, the tug of his sweat pants over his flesh, the flow of his hair over his bare torso, the shifting of limbs - the imposed calm that came from intense concentration.

It couldn't last. Blair knew that. As gentle and contemplative as Tai Chi was, there was only so much his body would put up with before insisting that he rest. With luck, though, he could push himself close enough to exhaustion that he could drift in fatigue until he showered and crawled into bed, sparing himself the nightmare of facing the enemy his blindness had become.

Not that he'd ever found it particularly pleasant to be suspended in nothing with only hearing and touch to orient himself by. But with Jim beside him, and always so much to do, Blair had done what he did best and quickly adapted. It didn't hurt that he had other, singularly unique tools at his disposal while he acclimatized to the changes in his life. Jim was always there, in his head, not a voice or a presence so much as a steady stream of impressions, half-formed sentences and images that ran just below Blair's own. Blair navigated with that as much as his own senses, and did it so automatically that it wasn't until it was gone that he'd realized just how much he'd come to depend on it.

Without that input, the darkness became a shroud, tightening around him constantly, making every step a danger, every movement a hazard. Without warning, the image of pushing frantically, hopelessly at an invisible, suffocating barrier hit Blair hard, breaking his concentration. He froze in place, suddenly unsure of where he was relative to the walls of the loft, unable to sense anything other than his own pounding heart and desperate panting. Even the floor under his bare feet seemed insubstantial, and he shivered, dread trying to add itself to his disorientation.

Almost instinctively Blair searched with his mind for Jim, but found only the angry whir and rush of other people, a million, million other minds, a hail of fiery shrapnel that could only destroy, not be used. He crumpled in on himself, frantically trying to block it out again, but succeeded only in adding to his panic. Breathing harshly and hugging himself tightly, he struggled to find a single thing, physical or mental, that he could cling to long enough to get his bearings.

Something shimmering and exquisite appeared on the very edge of his awareness, something he knew well and trusted. Love. Mentally latching onto it with everything he had, Blair huddled in on himself, forgoing his physical senses to slowly build on what his gifts were telling him. It was a familiar love, rich and powerful, gradually warming him; not for him, but for someone he cared for as well, though nowhere near as strongly.

For who then? He strained toward the glow of the emotion, to feel it fully, easily recognizing it a heartbeat later. Ah: love for Sam Beckett.

As if the memories that name conjured for him were a blue print to go by, Blair recognized the presence of Al Calavicci, strong and confident, humming to himself as he came closer to where Blair was in reality. He was near, likely in the elevator on the way up, and that tiny bit of information made the chaos engulfing Blair shudder, shift, and finally, finally settle into order. He was in the main room of the loft, not five feet from the French doors to the balcony.

Hearing kicked in, providing the muffled sounds of street traffic, closer to his right, and the feel of watery Spring sunshine, barely warm, caressing the bare skin of his back on that same side. Which meant he was facing… Blair mentally called up a map of his home with crystal clarity, located himself on it, and carefully stood on shaky legs. He made himself inhale slowly through the nose, then exhale from pursed lips in a tiny trickle of air, burying the effects of his panic attack so that Al wouldn't worry about him.

Not sure of how well he hid his distress, Blair did something he rarely did, even with Jim. He beat Al to the door, swinging it open before he could knock, grinning his very real happiness at his presence. "Al! In the flesh, no less! Man, to what do I owe the honor?"

Pulling him into a hard hug, Al said just a little peevishly, "You have no idea how spooky it is when you do that, do you?"

Mercifully Al was one of the few people who could touch him without overwhelming his mental defenses, and Blair allowed himself to revel in the sturdy warmth for a moment before drawing away, leaving a hand on his shoulder. "Actually, after going through it a few hundred times with Jim, I've got an inkling." His grin broadened and he added, "Always gave me a rush."

With a snort, Al said, "Yeah, that sounds like you."

Taking advantage of his grip, Blair guided him into the loft. "Can I get you a beer? Or maybe a cup of tea?"

"I wouldn't say no…." Al trailed off, and to Blair's surprise, laid a gentle palm over Blair's cheek. "You don't look so hot; you been over doing it again?"

Swallowing hard at the unexpected concern, Blair still said lightly, "I was doing some Tai Chi' - it's not that strenuous."

Unsurprisingly, Al didn't buy it, and tugged him toward one of the stacks of cushions piled around the living room. "And my great-aunt Nelly thinks I'm such a nice young sailor. Sit. Now. Put this sweat shirt on."

He bustled off in the direction of the kitchen, talking all the way, and Blair couldn't tell if it was to let him know where he was or if Al was just casually chatting to keep from scolding him. "Tea for you, with honey, to warm you up. I remember which one you like from when Sam and I stayed over while you and Jim recuperated from helping Sammy Jo. That's been nearly a year now - why still no furniture? I thought you two had decided to make this your home base. Not that we haven't been keeping a weather eye on things, but we've been as busy as you guys. You seemed to be doing okay, so we didn't worry or watch too close."

Too tired and cold to keep up his pretense of being all right, Blair curled into the softness of the cushions, soothed by the many textures and shapes. Al's voice waxed and waned as he moved around, accompanied by the normal sounds of someone making tea. It was oddly lulling, and Blair let the feel of them - and Al - wash over him. "Initially, we made the loft our safe house, sort of. We had another place that everybody knows about to keep up our pretense of being just Jim and Blair, grumpy ex-cop turned corporate security trouble-shooter and his perpetual grad student roomie."

Blair would have stopped there, but a questioning sound from Al prompted him to keep going, probably to make sure that he didn't nod off just yet. "This was going to be where I would come when Panther has to be apart from Chief, or if one of us was hurt and needed a secure place to recuperate. Its furnishings, or lack thereof, were made with an injured blind man's safety and comfort in mind. That's also why we buried the fact we used to live here. Between Jim and Sam, and what they can do, there's no official records left that Jim ever owned it, but I know every inch of the place and the local area, with or without borrowing Jim's sight."

"Amazing what you can do with a good virus and deliberate typo or two," Al agreed, kneeling by Blair and dropping a fleece blanket over him. "Long as the taxes get paid, through the third party of a third party, nobody official is going to pay attention to the place, either. And people are funny. Most who know that you used to live on Prospect Street probably couldn't say exactly where after a few years." He made his words casual and flippant. "Ellison, he lived at, oh, that was what, 85? 105? 58? Prospect. Something like that."

With a complete change of tone and seriousness, Al added, "Bet the fights to convince you to stay here alone could have been measured on the Richter scale."

Despite it all, Blair choked out half a laugh, but turned away from Al, digging his face into the cushions. His tone inviting confidences, Al added, "Must be heavy-duty, whatever you're trying to get done."

"Just tricky," Blair muttered, and let silence sit between them for a few seconds before deciding that if anybody could understand, it would be Al. Surely that could only help the gnawing emptiness, at least a little. Sitting up a bit straighter, he blurted, "We didn't want to do it, but it was Simon asking. After everything he's done for us, how could we say no, even if it meant putting the loft back on everybody's mental map." Almost to himself, he added unhappily, "And a separation for us."

"Simon Banks, Jim's Captain at Major Crimes?"

"Police Commissioner now." Blair plucked uneasily at the edge of the blanket. "He's convinced the entire IA department is corrupt, and he asked Jim to go undercover there for him. Right now, it's just ride-along and consulting, something Jim's been doing for Major Crimes since we got back. Stiers, IA's captain, noticed it and started trying to recruit Jim, which is where the brilliant idea came from in the first place."

"Smells of set up to me," Al said with a snort. "Stiers takes on Banks' man so Banks thinks he has nothing to hide, and then feeds him info to convince Banks of it."

Nodding, Blair said, "Works both ways, though. Jim makes like he's buying it, but pries at the cracks in Stier's cover-ups the way only he can. It's working, too. In two weeks he's gotten enough to let Simon know where to dig from his end."

"Since they know he's Banks' friend," Al said thoughtfully, "They'd be keeping an extra close eye on him."

"And Stiers is a major 'phobe who doesn't make any bones about it," Blair admitted tiredly. "He's surrounded himself by equally bigoted assholes. Thank God IA's been kept on short enough a leash by the former commissioner and polticos that they haven't been able to use their position to harass officers or spread that poison around. Still, there's been some incidents. Enough to convince us that Jim wouldn't be able to gain much in the way of trust if they knew he was in a gay relationship. Good thing we'd only come out to a few friends in Major Crimes."

Whistling softly, Al said, "I never know whether to puke or punch when Sam and I run into that, and some of times we Leap into, it's inevitable. At least we can Leap away if it turns physical. I can see why Jim would want you safe from Stiers and his buddies; they might see you as an easy target."

From somewhere Blair summoned up enough spirit to smile. "Would you believe this time it was my idea? I could just see those bastards turning on Jim in a dark alley or making sure he got in the way of a bullet during a fire-fight. We might have friends who can use Time to their advantage, but it isn't right to count on you and Sam to bail us out of trouble."

"I can't even promise you that we'd be able to," Al said, sounding very much as if that truth hurt. "Some things we *can't* change."

Curiosity poked through Blair's general misery, and he asked, "Can you tell me why? Is it something you just know, or do you only find out if you try to do it? Can you change things around it, maybe make the end results not as bad, or is it strictly hands off, can't do a thing?"

With a snort of laughter, Al gently knocked on the top of Blair's head. "That's better," he said inexplicably. "And the answers are, I don't know, I don't know, and I don't know. When we're here, we're here and any knowledge we bring with us is either what we need to get the job done or vague bits and pieces that sound half-crazy if we try to talk about them. All I can really tell you for sure is that we choose to Leap, each and every time, and for what feels like really good reasons. Isn't that the same method you and Jim use to decide which people to help? They manage to find you, and it feels like they're sincere in really needing your help?"

"Mostly," Blair admitted. "It's amazing how many…." A strong tickle of sensation that he didn't have words for abruptly silenced him, bringing on a powerful twinge of sympathy for his partner and all the times Jim fumbled for language to communicate what his senses were doing. Though he heard Al say his name questioningly, he didn't respond; the tickle demanded his complete attention. Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet, almost knocking Al over, his whole body straining to interpret what he was feeling.

The very next moment Blair knew without rhyme or reason what it was, and what he had to do. He ran to the door, heedless of any obstacles that might be in his way. All he could think, all he could feel was, "Jim's here. Finally, finally, finally, Jim's here, Jim's here."

The door swung open as he reached it, and Jim caught him up in a hug that lifted Blair off the floor, lips finding his in a deep, consuming kiss. The dead, cold place inside of him that should have been filled with Jim broke into needy clamoring. "Blair, thank God, Blair, Blair, oh, taste, good, feel, scent, finally, sound, all Blair, my Blair…."

Blair wrapped all four limbs around Jim, trusting his strength to hold him up, already completely erect and aching. It wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't been; his desire, as ferociously hot as it was, was nothing next to his need to have Jim inside him, body and mind. He didn't need to hear Jim's harsh groan or feel the steely length of him to know that was what Jim had to have, as well. It was clear in the urgency of the lips on his, and the power of the arms holding him.

A brutal sound sliced through their passion, and Jim jerked in violent reaction, nearly dropping Blair and inhaling a stifled cry of pain. Instinctively going with the aborted movement, Blair dropped to the ground, sliding his hand to Jim's gun in its shoulder holster, ready to defend the sentinel if necessary while he coped with the sensory overload. The next instant he identified the sound: the whistle from a boiling teakettle.

Invisibly relaxing and subtly shifting so that he could shelter Jim as he regained his composure, Blair murmured, "Al's here. I forgot all about him for a minute."

Forehead resting in the curve of Blair's neck and shoulder, Jim muttered, "I didn't even realize you weren't alone. God, I'm sorry, Chief. What if he had been an unfriendly?"

"You probably recognized him on some level," Blair said softly, restlessly patting and stroking Jim's shoulders and arms. "Then dismissed him because you had, uh, more important things on your mind."

With a nearly suppressed sigh of resignation, Jim lifted his head, only to lean down again to touch his forehead to Blair's, hands coming up to cup Blair's face, fingers tenderly mapping his features. "The most important thing in my life."

The unexpected declaration twisted its way into Blair's heart, and he kissed him hard, rapidly becoming lost again. When Jim pulled away, he instinctively followed him, trying to reclaim his mouth, but Jim stepped back, only his fingertips lingering, petting tiny, smoothing circles. Then that was gone too, but before Blair could mourn the loss, Jim wrapped an arm around Blair's waist and turned to face Al. "You can stop pretending to be fascinated by the view, now," Jim said dryly. "And thank you for taking the kettle off the stove."

"Who says I'm pretending?" Al shot back. "There's this really stacked blonde on the deck of a boat out on the harbor. I don't suppose you have a telescope I can use to get a better look at her…."

"Al," Blair said laughingly.

"…jib lines, I think she's tying them wrong," Al finished, with just a trace of teasing glee under his conversational tone.

"Despite your timing," Jim said, a smile clear in his words, "It's good to see you. Do you need us for a Leap?"

Almost seeing Al wave the comment away with an unlit cigar, Blair leaned into Jim companionably, content to let the two of them carry the conversation for now, certain it would be entertaining. But to his surprise, Al said, "Not exactly, but I was hoping you could help me answer a question about something that's been bothering me."

Blair felt Jim stiffen slightly, but he still said readily enough, "We're in the middle of a case, but it's not so demanding we couldn't manage a side trip." He became all business, giving Blair a last squeeze before moving away, toward the door. "In fact, it's probably a good thing you're here. You can help with my cover while you give us the details on what you need. Barbeque sound good?"

"You buying? Then it sounds great, as long as we're talking real meat here, not some tofu substitute."

"Great," Blair muttered, following his partner, pushing away huge amounts of frustration and disappointment . "Mad cow disease, high cholesterol, carbon from the grill – why don't the two of you just play Russian roulette and get it over with faster?"

"Not as much fun," Al said airily.

Arguing with him good-naturedly, Blair quickly tidied himself up, threw on a coat and his knife sheath, and picked up his cane. On the way down the stairs, Blair kept up the conversation, giving it only a portion of his attention. The rest was on Jim, who was far more tense than unexpected company with a possibly inconvenient request warranted. Almost automatically, he reached through their connection, both to offer support and to discover what was wrong.

The attempt rebounded off a webbing of watchfulness, worry, and alarm that was more suitable for a bust going down than a dinner out with friends. Concerned himself, now, he reached for Jim as if to be guided by him, but Jim directed Blair's hand into the crook of Al's arm, whispering to them both just before reaching the bottom of the stairs, "I was followed here - tracking/listening device in the truck. Make it look like I came by to take an old friend and his uncle to dinner."

Al hesitated. "Maybe we should leave Blair upstairs and just the two of us go out. They go looking to i.d. me, they'll spend weeks in terminal confusion."

Warmed that Al would want to protect him, Blair said, "Forget it. Enough people in general at the department remember me, and I've been there with him often enough since we came back to Cascade, it would look more suspicious if he didn't at least check up on me once in a while."

"And I need to fill him in on what's going on," Jim added, though even without their minds enmeshed, Blair could tell that he wasn't happy about it. "I wasn't planning on staying upstairs long, anyway; too risky. Better they think Blair's a casual friend, so having you along is even better."

"He told me a little about what's going on," Al murmured, reluctantly taking the last steps down to the exit. "Do you think they'll listen in on us at the restaurant?"

"They can try," Jim said grimly. "Ready?"

Smoothly picking up the debate on restaurants, Blair let Al lead him outside, and they kept up the chatter in the truck, while Jim used it as an excuse to circle the block to get a better look at the faces of their tail, presumably wasting time until they made up their minds. When he was satisfied, he ended the 'discussion' by announcing where he was going to eat, they could get out and walk someplace else if they wanted. Of one mind, Al and Blair playfully turned their dispute on him, the mood honest despite what it was covering.

Blair smelled the wonderful scent of barbeque, and moments later picked up on the raucous music that was the hallmark of one of Cascade's more popular restaurants. Frowning, he almost asked Jim why pick the noisiest place they both knew of outside of a Jag's game for food that wasn't really that good, but the question had its own answer embedded: noise. Not for the first time he was troubled about not being at his sentinel's side. Getting Simon what he needed seemed to be turning out to be much more dangerous than either of them had thought it would be when they decided Jim had to work alone.

He hid it, though not so well that Jim didn't notice, if the small touches he gave Blair under cover of the small crowd waiting for seats were any indication. Al seemed to pick up on it too, going out of his way to be as charming and entertaining as only he knew how. To his surprise, Jim requested a seat near the mechanical bulls, which gave Al another topic to go on about.

It wasn't until they were seated that Blair realized that a quirk of the acoustics of the restaurant created a small pocket of quiet that seemed impossible given the level of racket on every side. "Man, unless they've got a bug on you personally, there is no way anyone can hear us," Blair said the moment the waitress was out of earshot.

"And they'll assume we wouldn't discuss anything important in a place where shouting is about the only way to be heard," Jim agreed.

"Good," Al said flatly. "Now talk. Why would Stiers go so far as to put a tail on you if all he's trying to do is use you to keep Banks from looking too close at his department?"

"I don't know," Jim answered shortly. "What bothers me more is that he used electronics instead of relying on his men to do it. That leaves a trail that's a lot harder to cover up than how two of his detectives spent their time on shift."

"You've got a reputation, Jim," Blair said thoughtfully. "Not to mention your background in cov-ops. Could be he was just unintentionally paying you the compliment of thinking you'd be good enough to spot a normal tail."

"I'd go along with that if he hadn't bugged my phones and office - Simon's too. Not the loft, so far; likely they don't think it's worth the trouble at this point." Almost unwillingly, it sounded, Jim said, "Al, I don't suppose…."

"Sam and I Leaped into Cascade because of that big pile-up on the interstate caused by fog this morning," Al said promptly. "He's taking the patients that were going to be treated by a doctor too drunk to stand straight, let alone work his shift in the E.R. My job was to keep the sot at home. I told Blair earlier that as far as I know, your life is going the way it should, which is not to say that there's no trouble. Just that it's trouble you're supposed to have."

"With Blair beside me that means constantly, right?" Jim mock-grumbled. He wasn't willing to let it slide, but Blair found his hand under the table with his own, and squeezed, gently, reminding him that Al had troubles of his own, right now.

Pushing his fear to the back of his mind, Blair said, "That must be just about all you and Sam see, too. Does that have something to do with what you wanted to ask us?"

Al did something - Blair couldn't tell what by hearing alone - started to speak, stopped, then said slowly, "This is going to sound nuts, but I swear to you, some of the things I saw when I was just Sam's observer…. I can't just act like nothing's happening, when it *is,* I don't care how it sounds."

"Al," Jim said with just the right hint of humor, "Your whole existence is unbelievable, when you get right down to it. Don't worry about what is real or not; just tell us what's bothering you."

Al took a deep breath, and said, "Is it true that you can see ghosts, Jim?"

"Molly," Blair breathed. "We literally stumbled onto her case when I was learning to navigate on my own and got lost. Simon thought we were nuts trying to solve a 45-year-old murder, especially when Henri and Rafe were already working on one in the same location."

"But you saw her?" Al asked.

Jim's fingers flitted over Blair's curls. "We think I see them because of Blair's gifts. He's the shaman after all. The spirit world, or what passes for it, is his domain."

There was so much relief coming from Al that Blair couldn't help but lean over and put a comforting hand on his arm for a moment. "Do you know who it was? Where do you see him?"

"That's the thing. I never get a good look, but I'm willing to swear he's haunting me personally, because he shows up no matter when or where I am."

"What does Sam have to say about him?" Jim asked.

For the first time Al sounded uneasy. "He hasn't seen him, and I haven't told him that I have. He's too much a scientist sometimes, though if he can believe in UFOs, I don't see why he can't be less skeptical about spooks."

As skilled as Al was at hiding his true self from people, Blair could still pick up a gleam of words unspoken, a fear denied language in order to control it. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "There's another reason, isn't there? That you haven't told him."

Leaning back, as if to distance himself, Al said more unemotionally than Blair would have thought him capable of, "That's nobody's business but mine."

Blair could feel Jim bristle, but before he could speak, Blair nodded. "Then I won't pry. What can you tell us about the ghost, then? What do you see, when did you start? What makes you think he's not just another kind of Leaper? Sam's mentioned that there are some that just put in an appearance to ask him for help or point him in the right direction, then go without explaining themselves."

Though Al's relief was almost palpable to Blair, he said with his usual jaunty air, "By now I'd know a Leaper, good, bad or just nosy. They're not always up-front about what they want, but they don't lurk in shadows, either, the way my haunt does. One reason I can't give you much of a description. Uh…." He trailed off, obviously trying to clearly visualize what he had seen. "Wears a long coat, hat pulled low on his forehead, keeps his distance and his head ducked down so I can't get much of a look at his face. Seems skinny, maybe even frail, but that's just an impression."

Sighing, Al sat back, chair creaking, fingers tapping restlessly on the tabletop. "It's usually night when he puts in an appearance. First couple of times I just thought he was a recurring hallucination, left over from my bad old days. Mostly I'm alone, but a couple of times it's been when Sam's with me, but asleep. The haunt left when I started to wake him."

"Have you tried moving toward whatever it is?" Jim asked unexpectedly. At the silence that followed the question, he added with jaw-clenching self-consciousness, "When I went looking for Molly, she reached out to me, possibly because I had showed her I knew she was there and was taking what I saw seriously."

The waitress came back bearing drinks and appetizers, putting the conversation on hold for a moment, and when she was gone, Jim murmured softly, "Guess who came to dinner. Our tail is sitting three tables over, next to the window."

It was the only warning he gave, and after Jim had listened intently to make sure that a bug hadn't been delivered as well, Blair said, "Tell us about the first time you saw your haunt."

"Not much to tell." Al took a long drink of his beer, then settled into story-telling mode. "From my perspective, it was about three months ago, and we were in Lexington, Kentucky, 1968. I was in a horse stable, just walking along admiring the nags, and saw movement in a dark corner. Turned toward it, saw the vague shape of a man, and got the willies just looking at him. I said hello or something equally inane, then he just wasn't there any more. Dismissed it as being too damned tired from a Leap that wasn't going well, and left the stables. Since then, I've seen him about a half dozen more times, in about as many settings: bedroom, woods, hall of a hospital. You get the idea."

"And it's always when you're alone, more or less," Jim said, and Blair could have grinned at his detective-on-duty-here attitude. "If you were hoping I'd see him, too, and maybe see more than you can, sounds like he won't put in an appearance if I'm around."

"Not to mention that I can't predict when he'll show again." Al sounded disheartened, but said gamely, "Thought the two of you might be able to come up with something. If not, at least it's off my chest. Doesn't feel so much like I'm going off my rocker to have you take it seriously."

"I hear you on that," Jim said so dryly that he startled a laugh from Al, and Blair joined in. When it died down, they put away the topic by mutual consent, and turned their attention to food and drink.

It was a good meal, and a better evening, in Blair's opinion, despite the tension simmering just under the surface, and his battle to keep his poise. Pleasantly full and more at ease than he'd been since Jim went under, Blair reluctantly stood when Al did, fumbling for his coat. Under cover of the commotion of leaving, Al said softly, "There's no hurry to get to my problem, as far as I'm concerned. Give it some thought, and when you're free again, I'll convince Sam to drop by for a visit or something. Maybe we'll be able to work out a plan then."

Hoping for another diversion while Jim was busy, Blair said, "You going to be around long enough for another visit this time? Give me a chance to ask a few more questions?"

"Don't you ever run out of questions?" Al groused.

"Not since I've known him," Jim said, amused. "Give you a lift?"

"If you don't mind." Al dropped his voice again. "Though I'd rather we take precautions in case your tail decides to take a closer look at me." He seemed about to say more, but changed his mind. "Though it might be fun to give them the runaround."

"Another time, when Simon's ready to pounce, maybe. Right now I want them to think I'm clueless. They're keeping enough distance that I can simply drop you off without them noticing you're gone until it's too late to follow you. I've got to tell you, though, if they start asking around if anybody saw you, even this late at night, a man in a vivid green suit and purple shirt is going to be remembered."

To get a rise out ofAl, Blair said, "Man, for once I think I'm glad I'm blind. That sounds painful to look at, Jim."

"Better than the puce suit with yellow shirt and silver tie."

"Hey, I'll have you know that was a Pierre Cardin," Al said to Blair's laughing 'ouch, ouch, ouch.'

Still defending his wardrobe, Al led the way out, but fell silent in the truck. Jim put on a golden oldies station, and the three of them let the music fill the space until it was time for it to block the sounds of letting Al out. With a last one-armed hug to Blair and playful punch to Jim, Al wordlessly said his good-byes. Too soon it was Blair's turn, and he clung to the hand holding his below anyone's line of sight, before saying with as much honest cheer as he could produce, "I can make it up by myself; got those stairs memorized now, if the elevator's down."

The steely grip on him didn't lessen. "Turn on a light when you get there to let me know you made it safely."

"Yes, big brother," Blair said sarcastically, but he knew the desperate need to have Jim with him showed on his face, hidden by the night to anyone but his lover.

"I know you don’t want the blindness to be seen as a reason to treat you differently," Jim said stubbornly, keeping up their pretense though his whole body was vibrating with suppressed hunger. "But it's only common sense to take a few more precautions than the next guy, just because there are too many animals out there that look for easy prey. Like it or not, that's how they see you."

Blair hardly heard the words; he strained with all his will to slip past the tangle of emotions keeping him from connecting to his mate, sensing Jim do the same from his side. The impression of snubbing fingers against invisible, spongy barriers tore at his composure, and he simply couldn't bear it any more. With a last wistful stroke along a corded thigh and a daring touch to Jim's cheek, he said tiredly, "For the umpteenth time, I know I'm more at risk than the average guy, but I can't live my life cowering behind closed doors and the protection of friends. Thank you for worrying, but this is what I was dealt, and I'll play the cards my way."

Words totally belied by the tenderness of the fingertips that whispered over Blair's lips, Jim said, "Sandburg, you could out-stubborn a mule without working up a sweat."

"Quite a compliment, coming from you." Blair opened the door and eased out, surprised his body would obey a command that so clearly went against what he really wanted.

Trying to tell himself he could sense Jim's eyes on him, his heart wrapped around him, he trudged toward the loft, already dreading the long, long empty hours waiting for him.


Chapter 2

One of the few things Al disliked about his life now was that he didn't have his own car anymore, and he missed the uncomplicated pleasure of driving, of having a powerful machine under his command. It was possible, though, before he and Sam Leaped, to pinpoint cars that had been abandoned near where they would be, and on occasion borrow one. He avoided ones involved in crimes, like joy riding, but people walked away from their cars for the strangest of reasons, never to look back or care what happened to them. Once Al had driven a classic BMW whose rich-kid owner had simply gotten bored with it and left it where it was.

Sam teased him about it, despite the habit proving useful more than once, like tonight, and he walked a block from where Jim and Blair dropped him off to get into a respectable little MG convertible. Hot-wiring it took less than a thought, and he tooled down the streets of Cascade, enjoying the kaleidoscope of neon, headlights, and streetlamps shifting through the fine mist dampening the Spring night. He didn't think; didn't want to think, and immersing himself in the shifting of gears, co-ordination of clutch, brake and gas made it possible.

When he had won enough peace to be able to sleep, Al drove to the hotel where he and Sam were staying, and parked in the garage underneath, cleaning his prints off the MG to abandon it the same way its owner had. His room key let him into an elevator that would take him up to his floor, by-passing the front desk. Between his drive and that, he was fairly sure that Jim's problems wouldn't be visiting his door tonight, and he let himself into their room, ready to share only the good parts of the evening with Sam.

Though the lights were on in the sumptuous room, Sam was sprawled face down, fully dressed, on the king-sized bed, apparently too worn out to even snore. Holding down a sigh, Al scrubbed at his eyes with the fingers of one hand, then went to the bed and sank down cross-legged on the floor beside it. For long minutes he just studied his best friend, partner, and precious lover, drinking in his presence.

For all that Sam had to be completely done in after a day of going full-speed as a doctor in an emergency room, he looked as beautiful as a work of art done by the greatest master that ever lived. The lines of his face were pure and elegant, especially his lips, which were parted slightly in sleep, as if in need of a kiss. Most beguiling though, was the faint glow coming from him, as if he were lit from within, and Al knew that if he woke and opened his eyes, they would be radiant from that inner light until Sam was aware enough to shutter it.

Too appreciative of any kind of beauty to over look, even from the start, how handsome Sam was, Al still hadn't really ever thought about it when they'd been only friends. It had always been just part and parcel of his frighteningly brilliant, insistently moral, wonderfully devoted friend. Now, after all they had been through, after he had lived with the belief that Sam was lost to him forever, it was impossible to take it for granted. Sam's beauty, inner and outer, spoke to him on levels of his heart and mind that he hadn't ever really acknowledged existed before.

It also spoke to his body, far more powerfully than any other lover ever had. Al didn't just desire Sam, he needed him, going to aching readiness just from being alone with him if he gave himself half a chance to think about making love. Much as they both reveled in it, it also terrified Al sometimes; he didn't let himself dwell on why, not ever. He didn't want to know, didn't need to know. He just did what he did best and made the most of it.

Tracing the sweep of Sam's cheek with one knuckle, Al debated whether or not to wake him to make love, reluctantly deciding against it when the caress didn't so much as make him change his breathing. It worried him that Sam was so tired. Lately it seemed he made it through every Leap on little more than determination and the very hands-on attention Al poured over him. More disturbing was how that self-same weariness increased Sam's inner glow, almost as if his physical self were being eroded away, leaving behind only his spirit in a pure energy form.

That was the real reason he hadn't told Sam that he was being haunted, and the only fact about it that he had kept from Blair and Jim. To his mind, it was all too possible that his ghost was Sam himself, coming back to times and places when he could still touch what was his. Always, *always* at the back of Al's mind was the day he had held Sam as he died at Stallion's Gate in the only history that the world knew now for Dr. Samuel Beckett. Unlike Al, who hadn't left a corpse behind when he began Leaping, Sam had at one point. Al didn't know what difference that was going to make in the long run, but one thing he was sure of, Sam wasn't going on without him, ever again. No matter what Al had to change or who he had to fight, even Jim or Sam himself, to get it done.

Laughter, merry and with sexy overtones, rang through the hallway outside their room, getting louder for a moment as a man and woman walked by their door, sharing some joke. It roused Al from his thoughts, and he chanced one more gentle touch to Sam's lips before getting up and going into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Once under the pounding heat of the shower, he looked down at the part of him that didn't care how tired Sam was, tempted to slap it into submission.

He had been half aroused all night, ever since seeing Blair leap into Jim's arms as if the only joy for him in his entire life was waiting for him there. Not once in a long, lecherous life had he seen anything more erotic than the devouring kiss they had shared, or the way they had both been so caught up in it they had been ready to go at it right then and there. What should have been a disgusting and far too powerful a reminder of the worst times of his life had been gut-wrenchingly exciting, leaving him half-hoping that they wouldn't remember he was there.

Giving himself a hard squeeze, Al muttered sourly, "It's Sam's fault for teaching me how good it can be. All I could think of was if that's what it looks like when we're doing it."

The pain from the grip he had on his dick didn't cool him down at all. Instead it summoned memories of that moment when he breached Sam's body, just before the guardian muscle accepted the invasion. And that brought up the image of Sam rising over him, expression intent and ecstatic as he rode fast and hard.

Groaning, Al gave in and began stroking himself, shoving down the trace of Catholic shame and guilt the act always evoked on the rare occasion he did it. It never felt as good as when Sam did it for him, and that brought on another onslaught of memories that helped bring him closer to coming. Head thrown back away from the spray, one hand braced on the shower wall, he gave himself over to his own touch, murmuring Sam's name pleadingly.

Without warning the glass door to the shower slid open, and Sam stepped in, immediately falling to his knees in front of Al. Without a word or giving Al a chance to utter one, he covered the hand working Al's cock with his own, taking the crown into his mouth. The hot suction was instantly too much, and moaning over and over, Al thrust into it, barely holding back from using his full strength.

In the midst of the all-consuming pleasure, a soft whisper said, "Hold his head. He wants you to. It's as much a turn on for him as it's a gross out for you."

Too close to finishing to be able to do anything else, Al obeyed, fucking Sam's mouth as if he were a two-dollar whore. Sam did love it, snaking one hand down to his own hard-on to jack it as hard as Al was using him. Whimpering, he gave up moving his head on his own, letting Al control the action completely. Peering down at him, Al drank in the bliss on his face, still unable to believe that Sam would do this for him. That Sam loved sucking him, fucking him, and just about anything Al wanted to do with and to him.

"Sammy," Al muttered. "Gonna come now. Gotta cream in that fantastic mouth of yours. Gonna drink it down for me, aren't you? Suck…every…jeeze…yeah… oh, yeah!" Locking his knees, he plunged deep a last time, disintegrating under the weight of ecstasy and love.

When Al pulled himself back together, he gingerly drew free of Sam's nursing lips, and sank down, knees on either side of Sam's. "Your turn, Beautiful." Al kissed him, ignoring his own taste, then nibbled his way to Sam's ear. Whispering directly into it, he said, "Know what I was thinking of when you came in? You riding me, trying to get every inch of my cock as deep inside of you as you could."

"Oh…oh!" Sam's voice was a mixture of relief and love. "Al." He came, shaking with the force of it. Al held him, fingers of one hand dug deep into his wet hair at the back of his head, the other smoothing down the planes of his back.

Finally Sam recovered enough to say softly, "Wow."

Chuckling Al said, "You can say that again."

"Wow."

"Smart alec." Al reached out and snagged a towel to dry him off. "I didn't mean to wake you. You looked really bushed."

"MMMmmm," Sam murmured contentedly. "You didn't. Don't know exactly what did, but I'm glad. Would have been anyway, but especially now." He stirred himself enough to grab another towel to return the favor for Al. "How did things go with Dr. Weers?"

Al said smugly, "Without a hitch. I just let the air out of his tires, put a bottle of Jack Daniels where he could easily see it when he went inside to call for a ride, then paid the cab off when it arrived. Weston drank himself into a stupor waiting, and when he was out, I snuck in and turned off all his phones. He probably won't come out of it until late tomorrow. Good Leap from your end?"

"Pretty much." Sam yawned hugely, apologized, then yawned again. "Forgot how much I like practicing medicine."

Deciding they were dry enough, Al coaxed him to his feet, and guided him toward the bed. "Time for us to go?"

Stopping dead, Sam stared into eternity at something only he could see, a habit Al had despised from the first time it had happened. "We could, but there are a few people I want to check on at the hospital. I think I might be able to do a bit more for them besides save them from a drunk doctor."

To pull him back, Al gave him a playful little pinch on the backside, garnering himself a mock-glare. "Good. I want to hang around a while. Jim's gone undercover, leaving Blair on his own, and I just don't like the way Blair's handling it."

Sam lifted the covers, crawled under, then held them up for Al to join him. Through a stifled yawn, he asked, "Blair's not with Jim? That's not good."

Tucking a pillow under his head, then scooting close until they were nose-to-nose, Al said, "Not good? Because of how hard it is to be blind and alone? Or do you know something?" An unintelligible mumble was his answer, and he chuckled, reaching back to turn off the light on the nightstand. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tell Sam what was going on with their favorite couple.

Al woke the next morning with no memory of falling asleep, and staring into hazel green eyes that looked more like emeralds at the moment. "Hey, Beautiful."

"Good morning to you, too. Sorry I conked out on you so fast last night," Sam said. "Would you like me to make it up to you?"

Leaning in closer to nuzzle Sam's nose with his, Al said seductively, "You got something special in mind?"

Kissing him deeply and thoroughly, body all but melting into Al's, Sam finally drew away and said huskily, "As a matter of fact, I do."

Delighted because Sam so seldom took on the aggressor role, Al lifted his chin to mutely ask for love bites on his throat. "What exactly?"

Sam leaned on him until he was on his back, and he was on top. He gave one, long, hard sucking kiss to Al's neck, nibbled his ear, and whispered, "Pecan waffles, crisp bacon, and a gallon of Columbian roast coffee with real cream." He bounced off Al before he could swat, though his stomach gurgled so loudly at the suggestion of food that Sam couldn't possibly take his threats to do bodily harm seriously.

The teasing mood lasted all through their morning routine and breakfast, sobering only when it was time for them to walk to the hospital at the university. Al listened thoughtfully while Sam talked about several of the patients from the day before, offering what suggestions he could. Before long their conversation turned to Jim and Blair, and Al outlined his evening with them, ending on his concern that Jim was being watched so carefully.

"So you don't agree with Blair that it's just a healthy respect for a ex-cov-op Ranger and Cop of the Year?" Sam said at last.

Taking a puff of his cigar, Al thought it through and said, "Something just feels off. Maybe I'm being influenced by how miserable Blair is, but I'd feel better if we stuck around until Jim's back where he belongs." Suddenly remembering the last thing Sam had said the night before, Al stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and swung around to face him. "What did you mean when you said that it's not good that they're not together?"

Frowning, Sam asked, "I said that?" His frown deepened as he thought, and he said slowly. "There's something from when I knew them as Panther and Chief… I can't put my finger on what."

Before Al could ask him questions to coax the information from the depths of his still occasionally Swiss-cheesed memory, a dark sedan roared past them to come to a screeching halt just a few feet away. Two men, so obviously cops they could have had the word tattooed on their foreheads, jumped out and swaggered toward them. The taller, Weasel A, who looked like a marine with a fondness for weightlifting, flashed gold at them.

"Cascade Police, we'd like to have a word with you, gentlemen."

"Of course, officer," Sam said with ultra-polite tones that would have sent Al's alarm bells ringing if the nervous, calculating way the smaller cop was eyeing them hadn't already. "May I ask you to show me your badge again so that I can see the number clearly, and to identify yourself by name?"

Clearly taken aback and glancing at Al as if confused that he wasn't the one talking, the big cop did as asked, irritation growing. "Detective Ralph Baxter, and this is my partner, Detective Louis Trent. We just have a few questions; won't take long. If you'll come with us?"

"Do you have a warrant for either of us, Detective?" Sam asked.

Keeping Weasel B, Trent, in his sights, and letting Sam handle the questions since it was clearly not what was expected, Al unobtrusively went up on the balls of his feet. He was ready to do what ever was necessary to stay out of the clutches of these goons, absolutely certain that getting in a car with them would be a huge mistake.

"We just have a few questions," Baxter repeated very slowly, as if talking to a stupid person. "Won't take long."

"Are we suspects for a crime?" Sam persisted.

Weasel B was getting more nervous, shooting looks back and forth between his partner and Sam, and he inconspicuously inched behind Baxter. Coward, Al thought. Used to letting his buddy handle the physical stuff for him. He'll run if we take down the big guy.

Apparently realizing he was getting nowhere, Baxter changed tactics. "All I'm asking for here is a little cooperation. You want me to get tough, I can do that, no problem."

Utterly bland and polite, Sam said, "I'm perfectly willing to cooperate. As soon as you tell me what you want to question me about, and I contact my lawyer to let him know to meet us there, I'll be glad to go with you."

Brushing aside his suit jacket to show his gun, Baxter snapped, "How about obstruction of justice, for starters?"

"I may not be a lawyer," Sam answered calmly, "but I know that you can't charge with me with that since I've clearly stated I will cooperate. And I have a right to have a lawyer present, as anyone here can tell you."

For the first time Al took his eyes off his target and looked around, hiding a grin when he saw the audience their little drama had drawn. Most people were just curious; a few were suspicious, divided equally between mistrusting the cops and mistrusting Sam and Al. Then Al took a good look at where they were and who most of their spectators were, and played a wild card.

Winding an arm around Sam's waist, he said belligerently, "This is beginning to look like harassment to me." To his delight, there was a murmur of agreement from the crowd of predominantly college students surrounding them.

Hearing the noise, Baxter checked the situation out for himself, expression turning ugly when he realized that there were witnesses - lots of witnesses - and that they weren't necessarily on his side. "You're hindering an investigation!"

"Into *what*?" Sam shot back. "If I'm involved in any way, I have the right to know."

Baxter's patience suddenly snapped, and dramatically settling a hand on his gun grip, he roared, "That's enough! In the car, now!"

"Don't do it." A petite black woman with dreadlocks and granny glasses stepped out of the crowd, getting in Baxter's face. "Where did you get your training? Neo-nazi Academy for Stupid Cops? Yeah, that's right, go for your weapon on a public street against obviously unarmed men. You don't just want to lose your job, you want a civil suit against you personally. Did you transfer from LA because they were too high brow and liberal for you?"

The woman's mocking, haranguing tone, along with the general impression of a Chihuahua taking on a Rotweiller, won more than a few chuckles from the crowd, and Baxter's face took on the expression of man whose nuts were in a vise. With him and Trent totally distracted, Sam slipped sideways, pulling Al with him, behind a large man who gave them a grin as he shifted to cover their departure. A shopkeeper leaned into her door to silently open it wider, giving Sam and Al a thumbs up, then as silently let it close so that she was blocking it after they went through. A cashier, watching the whole thing through the display window, pointed toward the back, then gave a little wave goodbye.

Once on the other side of the back door, Al reached for Sam at the same time he reached for him, and they clung together for long seconds before Al made himself pull away. "Now I know something is hinky with Jim. Do we Leap or stay?"

Rubbing the outside of Al's arms, almost absently, Sam said, "I've already radically changed Time for them once, and then we did a lot of meddling when they were helping us save Sammy Jo. There's a good chance we won't be able to Leap back if we leave to help from Outside."

Nodding Al said, "We're here, now; let's see what we can do."

Abruptly focusing on him, Sam said, "We're going to have to split up. Their next target might be Blair, if they haven't gotten to him already, and one of us has to find Jim and warn him if we can."

Taking a deep breath, Al simply said, "I know." He stared into Sam's eyes, trying to reassure him and give all the promises he needed to have, getting the same ones in return. Finally turning away with an effort, he added, "I'll go to Blair to keep up the pretense that's my only connection to Jim, in case we can salvage the situation."

"I'll find Simon Banks and go through him to locate Jim." Sam ran his hand down Al's arm to tangle their fingers together, hanging on tightly. "It would make sense to anybody keeping tabs that I'd lodge a complaint at the department after our little run-in with Baxter and his partner, so turning up at his office shouldn't raise any alarms. Or at least, no more than must be sounding already." He took a harsh breath, but said evenly, "We meet at the square at the Harbor Front Park, five hours from now."

Neither of them moved, though they couldn’t look at each other, then Al took a single step away, still holding onto Sam's hand, then another, at last letting it slip from his fingertips. "Five hours." Without looking back, he walked at a fast clip toward the nearest taxi, tenaciously shifting mental gears, genuine fear for Blair's safety helping considerably.

Inwardly railing at how long it took, despite the cabbie driving like he was in New York City, Al finally arrived at Prospect Street, and quickly stepped into an alley to look the situation over. Cops, not Baxter and Trent, but probably cohorts of theirs, were already parked in front of 852, sipping coffee and watching the doorway to the building. Either Blair wasn't home, or they were only on stake-out to keep tabs on him; Al had no way of finding out which it was that wouldn't entail letting them see him. Wanting to save that as a last resort, he studied the immediate area, hoping to find inspiration for a plan.

Instead he found his haunt, standing at the back of the alley in plain view, though he was oddly out of focus, making it impossible to identify him. Swallowing hard, Al dithered for a split second between doing as Jim suggested and approaching the ghost, or staying focused on the matter at hand. In that instant, the haunt drifted to one side, light glinting off what appeared to be sunglasses, and gestured toward the opening at his end before blending away into the shadows.

His feet moved forward without any orders from him, and Al found himself on the next street over, hearing Blair laughingly tell someone that he appreciated the offer, but wasn't available any more. Relief as much as amusement made Al's grin realistic, and he pushed down all things weird to deal with the problem at hand. He strolled over, taking out a cigar. "Doesn't mean you're dead, kiddo, and you really should make an exception for this lovely lady." Despite Al's best efforts, Blair must have heard something in his tones or picked something up from his mind; he reached for his cell phone, unobtrusively taking a step back from his companion.

The lady in question planted her walker, leaned on it, and peered up at Al through her bifocals, gray eyes twinkling. "Introduce me to your charming friend, Blair."

All traces of amusement had vanished from his features, but Blair said lightly from behind her, "Mrs. Gail Daisendorf, Al Calavicci. Don't believe a thing he says, Mrs. D. When he went to Ireland, the Blarney Stone tried to kiss him."

"It did not. That earthquake had nothing to do with me being there," Al shot back. To provide a distraction while Blair called, he bent over the hand the elderly woman offered him as if to kiss the back of it. Straightening, he added, in his best flirtatious manner, "If this ingrate doesn't appreciate a good thing, I certainly do. I don't suppose I could persuade you to make me the same offer you made him?"

With a very girlish titter, Mrs. D swatted at him. "I don't know you that well, young man."

"Then we'll have to correct that." Al reached for the grocery bags at her feet, which she must have put down to rest for a moment. More were in front of Blair, telling Al that he had been helping her, and had probably been the one to claim to need a break. "May I play the gallant and take these for you?"

Behind her, Blair disconnected and tried another number, turning paler by the moment. Under the cover of fussing with the bags, Al kept an eye on him, worried when several more attempts to call apparently came up empty. Just when Al didn't think he could stall another moment, Blair snapped the cell shut, lips a thin, white line. From somewhere, though, he dredged up enough self-control to cover his fear, and cheerfully entered back into the conversation, keeping up a line of patter with Al until they had Mrs. D. safely home and ensconced in her favorite easy chair. They put up the groceries for her, giving Al a chance to bring Blair up to date under cover of the noise they made.

They extricated themselves from her company as quickly as they could after that, stopping in the foyer of her building to confer. Fist pounding on his upper thigh, almost absently, Blair said, "Jim and I have argued about what to do if he gets into trouble while he's on his own, more than once. If I can't go to Simon for help for whatever reason - and he's not answering his phone right now either - I'm supposed drop out of sight and stay there. Jim swears that knowing I'm safe is what he needs most from me, so that he can concentrate on saving his own ass."

"This time around," Al said slowly, "he's probably right. The only reason dirty cops would take him alive is to find out what he learned and who he told about it. With you stashed, they've got an unknown to worry about, since they obviously think you're closer to him than he's been letting on."

Recognizing the stubborn look slowly replacing Blair's worry, Al took another tack. "Not to mention, you've got me and Sam to bird dog for you. Soon as I connect up with him, we can turn the tables on the goons at your place. Follow them when they give up waiting for you. In fact…" Al grinned as a wicked thought hit him. "Sam can probably cobble up a tracking device and bug with what he can scrounge from Radio Shack. With some luck they'll blab big time to each other because they're ticked off about you getting away."

"I'd feel better about that working if we knew more," Blair muttered unhappily. "I don't understand why they went after you and Sam instead of just me and Jim. And taking you on the street wasn't smart either, which meant they were in a hurry to get you once they found you. Which, of course, begs the question of how did they find you in the first place?"

He sighed his resignation at not having any answers and folded up his cane to stash it in his backpack. Turning his jacket inside out to change its color, he took a baseball cap out of a pocket and hid his long hair under it. "You in your usual peacock colors?"

Looking down at his iridescent green slacks with complimentary pearly white shirt, Al said, "I wasn't expecting to be involved in covert operations this early in the day."

Blair turned to stare at him, really stare as if he could see him, a variety of emotions flitting over his face. Vaguely worried about what he was 'seeing' with his mind's eye, Al popped his cigar into his mouth and went as inscrutable as only a former POW used to dealing with Senate sub-committees could. Disturbingly, that didn't seem to make a difference, but Blair abruptly gave himself an all-over shake, and went back to business.

"They're looking for a blind man. Add that to the fact they may not expect to find us together, not just yet anyway, it might be a good idea if we don't give the impression that we're together while we're on the street. It could give one of us a chance to get away if the other is spotted. So I'm going to pretend that I can see and you're going to help me by walking a few steps in front, warning me about obstacles."

With the curls hidden and body slumped into a 'loser's slouch,' Blair was barely recognizable, Al realized. That made it a good bet that anyone casually surveying the area would easily overlook him. He looked down at himself again, trying to think of a way to make himself as inconspicuous, but Blair laid a hand on his arm. "Forget it. It's going to look like you're talking to yourself like a crazy man. Chances are that's what'll be noticed, despite the wardrobe, especially if you're using your hands the way you usually do. If you go for overkill with the gesturing and tone, even cops won't really see you because street loonies aren't worth looking at."

"Is that the anthropologist talking or the mercenary?" Al said, suspiciously.

"Would you believe I learned it at my mother's knee?" Blair shot back with a small smile, leading the way out, his hesitation as he negotiated the stoop barely visible, though Al was looking for it. It took more concentration than Al expected to look out for obstacles and communicate them to Blair without being obvious that was what he was doing. It was also fun, reminding Al of some of Sam's earliest Leaps, when all they were fixing was a broken heart or lost dream, and there was time for seeing the funny side of a hologram from the future playing oracle for a time-traveler.

Despite that, it was wearing, and Al wasn't surprised to see signs of strain in Blair before they reached the address he had given him. Still he was smiling, muttering his own commentary to Al's guidance, winning a few shouts of laughter that could only help with his 'crazy' act. He couldn't quite hide his relief, though, when Al announced they'd arrived. To Al's surprise, instead of going through the front door, Blair took out the keys for a deserted shop in the basement, and went in there. He slipped into a tight corner made by two racks of shelves, and through a sliding door hidden behind it, with barely enough room to spare.

The narrow stairs led up a few feet to a tiny alcove carved from the space between the basement ceiling and the stairwell to the level above. It was barely large enough to be called a room and not a closet, but it was warm and filled with soft cushions and pillows, with a few amenities on the wall closest to the entrance. Looking as exhausted as Al had ever seen him, Blair sank down onto the nearest pile, taking off the cap so his braid fell free. "See that little shelf there above the hot plate on top of the fridge? The coffee tin has a phone, cash, and keys to an old green Volvo that's parked in the monthly lot across the street. Speed dial one is Jim's cell, two is his beeper, three is Simon's phone, four is his beeper, five is the cell I'm carrying. Put in Sam's birth date to unlock it."

Al filled his pockets with the contents of the tin, leaving behind a portion of the cash in case Blair needed it. "Wish I could think of a convenient way for us to have cells when we Leap," he muttered, mind more on what to do next than his words.

Pulling a throw over himself, Blair curled up, half-heartedly pulling his hair out of its braid. "I promise you, they're never as useful as you think they're going to be. You're out of area, your battery is dead, the other guy's phone is turned off because he doesn't want the phone to ring in the middle of mad, passionate, sex."

With a snort of laughter, Al turned to tease him about being the one always turning off the phone, but the joke died unspoken. Blair looked terrible. Without the adrenaline rush of danger to fuel him, he was shivering violently with cold, clearly fighting to remain awake. Perching on the edge of the cushions, Al said, "Are you sure you're going to be okay until we get back?"

"Tired," Blair mumbled, giving up his attempt to undo his hair and angling toward Al in a silent request for him to do it for him. "Jim blocks so much of it out for me, without trying. And it's harder when my own emotions are running high; everybody else becomes a magnet, yanking me toward them and into confusion." He shifted, getting more comfortable, and added, barely intelligibly, "Flyer on seat of car. Put 'em up on the street corners around the loft, juss in case Jim goes there. Looks like a puppy lost sign, but tells 'im where I am and not to go home."

Reminded of his daughters, Al carefully undid the rest of the long braid, remembering the aborted conversation with Sam about the dangers of Jim and Blair being apart. For a moment he considered mentioning it to Blair, but he didn't have the details and it seemed pointless to add to the kid's worries. Before he could really make up his mind, Blair dropped into a sound sleep, not even stirring when Al added another afghan to the one over him.

Truly torn between staying to protect him, and meeting Sam, between what seemed right and what his heart needed him to do, Al hesitated at the door. Finally deciding that Blair was as safe as anyone right now and would probably sleep until he got back, Al gave into the growing urge to rush and left, barely keeping to a sedate, unnoticeable pace.

After following Blair's instructions about the flyers, he arrived at the meet point over an hour early, and forced himself to play tourist, aimlessly shopping at the kiosks and booths ringing the square and drinking in the Spring sunshine. It was mostly the work of artists and craftsmen, some of it good, but he couldn't appreciate it the way it deserved. Part of him scanned the area for heavies, part of him was troubled about Blair's condition, but most of him wanted Sam.

At best, Sam had missed Jim and his fate entirely when he rushed off to warn him; at worst, he was caught up in the middle of it. The only thing that Al could be sure of was that Jim was alive because Blair would have known otherwise, and that Sam hadn't Leaped. The last he was sure he could feel if it happened, and it was likely he would even be pulled along with Sam. Likely, but not guaranteed, and neither of them had been willing to test the theory.

There were a thousand possibilities in between the two extremes, though, and he had more than enough time to fret about the worst of them before he saw Sam weaving through the mid-day crowd to get to him. Taking his first easy breath since parting ways, Al worked his way toward him, still keeping an eye out for tails and thugs. When he got close enough to get a good look at Sam, he broke into a run, forgetting about anything but getting to him, now!

"It's okay, it's okay," Sam said hastily, hands coming up to catch Al by the upper arms. "Looks worse than it is."

Fingertips hovering over the bruise coming up on Sam's cheekbone, then over the split lip, Al snapped, "Which you would say if you had a gunshot wound to the gut! Where else are you hurt?"

"Probably more bruising on my back, maybe some scrapes," Sam said instantly, as if to pacify Al's anger with honesty. "Simon was in a private meeting with the mayor and other officials; I couldn't get any more than that out of his secretary. Probably to get the authority to temporarily shut down IA, but that's just a guess. But I ran into one of Blair's friends from Major Crimes, and she knew where Jim was supposed to be. I arrived in time to see him crumple; I don't know why. The two men we saw at dinner last night scooped him up and tossed him into a SUV. This is from trying to stop them."

"You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"So I was just supposed to let them take him? Besides…." Sam trailed off, confusion clear on his face. "It was like I wasn't really there to them. I mean, the building was dark, deserted, you would have thought they'd react to the sudden appearance of a witness shouting at them, but they didn't even glance my way. It wasn't until I tried to physically intervene that they responded, and that was by knocking me away like a yapping dog. Not that I'm complaining, but two cops caught kidnapping a civilian - why didn't they take more drastic actions against me?"

Not willing to be diverted by Sam's perplexity, Al tugged him toward a small bench set to one side of a stand of tall bushes where over-hanging branches and vines created a relatively private spot. Unceremoniously pushing Sam down onto it, Al went behind him and lifted Sam's shirt, wincing at the damage he saw. Sam let him, his private musings rapidly turning toward irritation, not that Al cared at the moment.

Finally Sam swatted away Al's hands as he tilted up Sam's chin for a better look at his hurt mouth. "Where's Blair?"

"Safely stashed; I got to him before the goons waiting for him did." Satisfied that Sam wasn't hiding more serious injuries from him, Al sat beside him on the bench.

"Does he know that Jim went down? As close as they are." Sam came to a full stop, mid-sentence, brain obviously working full speed. "That's right. They've been apart, for a couple of weeks at least, from what you said. That could make a difference."

Prompting him, Al said, "You said before that wasn't good."

"In their first history, as Panther and Chief," Sam said distractedly, "Chief was so dependent on Panther that he literally couldn't function without him; he'd fall into a coma or have screaming hysterics until rendered unconscious. Even toward the end, when he'd been rebuilding himself, it wasn't easy for them to be very far apart."

"That destruction didn't happen to our Blair; there's no reason for him to be as helpless." Seeing in his mind's eye how cold and pale he'd been, Al admitted, "But the separation is having an effect. He said himself that life in general was a lot harder without Jim to shield him."

Still deep in thought, Sam murmured, "I got the impression that there was more to it than that." Sighing, he made a tiny pushing away movement, as if to table the concern for the moment. "We need to decide what to do next."

"We should get back to Blair," Al said. "Jim's probably kept him up to date on the 'who' and 'why' of what he's been doing. Then we contact Simon Banks to get his help, if Blair hasn't beat us to it by now."

Nodding, Sam said, "I don't know if he can use the mental connection between them to track or find Jim, but it can't hurt to explore that possibility. It never came up with Panther and Chief, as far as I know."

"I've got a cell phone and wheels. Anything else we need before we roll?"

Gingerly standing, not hiding a wince at the discomfort it caused, Sam said, "Not that I can think of; let's go."

Al took a split second to think about it, looked around the area to make sure they were alone, then did what he'd wanted to do from the second he'd been sure Sam was safe. Taking care where he placed his hands on Sam's shoulders, he whispered his lips over Sam's mouth, not really touching. "I forgot; need to kiss this better first." He did the same to Sam's cheek, pulled away, and said playfully, "The rest will have to wait until we've got a bit more privacy."

Sam lifted a hand to his mouth to blot away blood from a smile. "Ow, ow, ow." He waited a heartbeat, and added, "Aren't you going to kiss it better again?"

He leaned back in, and Sam chuckled, wrapping him up for a fast, hard squeeze before stepping back, quickly getting serious again. During the short walk to the car Al gave him the details on his time with Blair, then they fell into an amiable silence. Despite the injuries on his back, Sam nodded off shortly after that, one hand stretched across the bucket seats to rest on Al's thigh. A light drizzle began to fall, slowing traffic down, and Al used it as an excuse to go even slower, making sure they hadn't picked up a tail.

It also gave him time to admire Sam's shining beauty. To his relief, he looked more real, more 'there' than he had the night before, and his sleep wasn't as much a drop into exhaustion as it was a light nap to help healing. Before long, Sam was dreaming, and Al couldn't help but wonder what images his mind was giving him that could cause such sadness in his expression.


Chapter 3


Beth Calavicci's home dissolved away in a white light so pure that I couldn't see blue around the edges, and I tried to brace myself for the bone and mind jarring instant when I would Leap into another person, another situation, another life. It was useless and always had been, but I had to try. A part of me still clung to the hope that this time, I would Leap home to stay.

Instead of another time and place, I found myself standing, well, nowhere. It felt as though a solid surface was under my feet, but I honestly couldn't say what I was standing on, because when I looked down, all I saw were my loafer-clad feet and more of the light that usually meant Leaping. It was the same on all sides, except when I blinked, trying to understand what I was seeing, the light resolved itself into separate ripples and flows. Some were mere threads, others were massive expanses, all of them subtly differentiated from each other by shades of brilliance and hints of opalescent hues.

Curious, I reached out to tap the closest, saw….

…and snatched my hand away. Scrubbing it on my pants, I automatically stepped back, but then froze, worried that moving around might cause whatever was supporting me to end or vanish or something, and I would drop. Vertigo hit, and I wobbled, one hand splashing through the nearest sheet of light.

Hurriedly recovering my balance, I yanked my hand back and shoved it into a pants pocket. "Lives," I said out loud without meaning to, and winced. My voice sounded odd: flat, like a recording with all background noise edited out, even though I could hear a soft hum of voices and music all around me. It made what was happening seem more real, though, so I deliberately muttered what I was thinking. "These are people; maybe their strings?"

Hesitantly at first, I turned in a small circle, growing more confident as nothing happened, and more accustomed to the shimmering, restlessly moving streams. They moved through and around and with each other, sometimes fleetingly, sometimes side-by-side as far as the eye could see, always accompanied by that melodic background murmur. Without thinking, I followed the twisting, turning path of one - the one I had just looked at, I thought - dodging around other life-flows. I noticed for the first time that they shifted dimensions depending on the angle I saw them from, often changing hue and intensity as well. When the one I was tracking suddenly dimmed, I stopped, studying it for a long moment before barely touching it.

Better prepared this time for the onslaught of images, I shook off their effect and put my hand back in my pocket. "These are the strings I've always theorized. Right here. In front of me. The sound I'm hearing must be from them, too." Frowning, I stared down at my shoes, not really seeing them now or the lack of support, and thought hard.

Oddly, the first thing that came to mind was that it was all familiar. I wasn't particularly shocked or astonished; in fact, I couldn’t even say I was mildly surprised by it all, though I certainly should have been. It was more like I'd seen this place a thousand times and had stopped noticing it because it was so well known to me. Like the road from the farm to town, or Dulles airport, which I've rushed through so many times, my memories of it are only blurs of ever-changing people. "I have to have been here before. Many times before," I murmured to myself, still needing to hear my voice to make this real. "Because I've passed through it to Leap from one string to another? That could be it."

Feeling more encouraged, I went back to following the same string as before, still going in the direction that apparently took me farther into that person's past. At times it seemed like I was rising higher; at others, it felt like I was walking downward, but the visual cues weren't there for me to be able to say for sure, and in the long run, it probably didn't matter. The farther into the past I went, the fewer strings were clustered around me, and I heard more music than voices. Gradually the radiance that made up this place became noticeably more intense, almost painfully so.

When I finally broke through a last cluster of lives, I jerked to a complete standstill, barely noticing the string I'd been following merged completely into the light, music and all. What was in front of me was… was… was…beyond words. Beyond belief. Beyond anything I could have possibly imagined, and a part of me wanted to go to my knees in worship, but even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it was wrong. This wasn't the All. This was simply the portion of Him or Her or It that tended this part of the universe.

And I was welcomed here, welcomed to come closer, if I wanted to; I could see the vague outlines of distant people in the blinding glory, coming toward me. They were all people I knew: Jesse Tyler, a black man who had started a minor revolution in his home town by sitting down at a lunch counter that was for whites only, Jimmy LaMotta, a Down's Syndrome person I had Leaped into twice, and Max Stoddard, who had given me my only glimpse of a real UFO. Most importantly, right in front was my dad, and despite the glare, I could see his broad, joyous smile and wide-open arms.

Tears stung at my eyes, and I took an uncertain step forward, my heart already rushing into that embrace. Before I could take another, though, I heard Dad say very clearly, as if right beside me, "Be sure, Samuel. Be sure you don't have chores waiting to be finished."

That stopped me as surely as a hand placed on my chest, and compelled by the same force that I had felt guiding me on so many Leaps, I turned to stare back the way I had come. There was something there that I had to see, and I reluctantly followed the string again, going forward, into that person's future. It seemed I moved faster, as though I'd learned the path, and the farther from the Source I went, the more entangled and entwined the strings became.

It became harder and harder to make any forward progress, until finally, I had to brace myself and push through a dense clump, blasted by fragments from a dozen different lives as I did. On the other side pure terror turned me to stone. In the distance, nowhere near far enough away, was the opposite of the light that I had wanted so badly to rush into. I couldn't say that it was a black emptiness, or the absence of light, or a consuming nothing. In fact, I couldn't look at it long enough to be able to get anything except an impression of oily, seething evil that made my stomach twist.

Worse, much worse was that many of the lives around me were ensnared in it. Even the one that had served as my guide was nearly dragged into the voracious thing, skimming away at the last possible second. Not letting myself think about the Enemy gobbling up all those lives, I cut 'across,' though that wasn't really what I did, to re-join that string and follow it once again. To my delight, it eddied and swirled back into the other strings, shining more vividly after its brush with the Other, sharing it with the lives around it. Eventually it returned to its beginning, but once I was sure of where it was headed, I didn't need to follow it any longer.

Deliberately turning my back on the Source, I sank down to my knees, sitting on my heels, studying evidence of the Other fouling the distance. "That's the Wrong that I've been putting right all along. It has to be. That's what we've been fighting, stealing away life after life from it so that each person can be free to go on, instead of trapped by it."

For a moment, sheer, unadulterated triumph rose up in me, making me practically drunk with it, and I tossed back my head to shout in pure exhilaration. How many men in their lives were confronted with the proof of the good they had done and the reason for their existence? I had always known intellectually that my Leaps changed people's lives, but seeing it like this, as symbolic as it probably was, was like the first time I won the Nobel Prize, or the rush of applause when I got when I performed at Carnegie Hall.

It was the dull, flattened sound of my shout that killed my joy. It reminded me that I was the only one to hear it; that I was alone in this place with no one to share in the accomplishment. Not that I had done it by myself in the first place. Gooshie, Tina, Beeks – all of the people in the Project deserved the credit as much as I did, but especially Al. Al had been the real driving force behind the project in the first place, keeping me sane and functioning, and he finally had the reward he deserved.

I looked at the seething mass of evil, saw that it was closer, as if pain had summoned it, and couldn't help but think of the many, many lives that still needed rescuing. Dad was right. There was work to be done, and, hard as it was, I was the one who was going to have to do it, now without any help.

Swallowing against the pain, I whispered, "Al."


end part 1
Part Two