NOTES:

One of the dangers a fanfic author runs into when writing for a show still filming episodes, is, that any given week, any story she's working on or those written to that point, can be blown out of the water by series canon. In fact, we're all pretty much doomed to have anything written those first years become AU, as the characters grow and the plots, so to speak, thicken.

For that reason, I pretty much abandoned my Final Exam series at the start of third season, though I still had several plot bunnies bouncing around. But with no way to reconcile the Jim and Blair of my universe with the ones on the screen, and with so many other, younger, equally attractive fits-the-canon bunnies vying for my attention, I let older ones retire gracefully to the back of my head.

Then I recently met Maig in person for the first time, and she persuaded? nagged? coaxed? me into finding them where they were lost in the morass of my mind, telling me that there were just so many more lessons left to be taught. I have to thank her for that; working on this new chapter has been a satisfying return to a wonderful place where Alex Barnes never got anywhere close to the guppy because he was already well and truly taken. I hereby cheerfully dedicate Advanced Studies to her, and hope she finds it as satisfying. Especially since I con… er, persuaded her to beta for me!

Hopefully, though this is part of a series, all you need to know to enjoy this story is that J/B share a low-level psychic bond, enough to let them be hyper aware of each other. It intensifies with proximity, to the point where if one is injured, the strength of both is used for healing, as long as they can touch. Oh, and it's Dr. Sandburg; Blair wrote a watered-down dissertation, hardly touching on Jim-as-a-sentinel at all, using him instead more as arch-type than as an example.

Addendum: For those of you who are interested in such things, Advanced Studies was inspired by the theme to an long defunct TV program called Twin Peaks, "Fire Walk With Me." It's an instrumental piece, but when I heard it again for the first time in some years, I could just *see* J/B making love with that music in the background. Don't ask me why; the muse didn't tell me!

ADVANCED STUDIES

There are parties and there are parties, and the one shaking down the house on a normally quiet suburban street was one that would go down in history as *the* party for that year's graduating high school seniors. In the lowest level of the split ranch where there was a rec room with a state-of-the-art sound system, teens gyrated and pulsed in time to music, taking an occasional detour to lighten the terrible burden of the snack tables at one side. Special strobe and black lighting had been provided for the occasion, giving the room a club feel that made walking up the stairs into the kitchen startling to anyone immersed in the jubilant mood of the party.

It was loud, happy, crowded, and the neighbors would have been calling the police to complain if it weren't for two simple things. First, the homeowner had foreseen something of the kind, and had invited everyone within potential earshot to the party. Second, most of the PD was already at the house in its upper level, celebrating the graduation of an honorary member of their own. The off-duty police officers put up with the racket below because they weren't being that quiet themselves. The main difference was the type of music, and the lighting. Cops, as a whole, prefer to be able to see well and made do with ordinary track lights. But they were making their own serious inroads to the huge amounts of food available and adding to the general noise level with conversation well mixed with laughter.

Jim watched Daryl Banks bounce back and forth between the two parts of the house dragging people from one to the other in gleeful disregard of whether the disparate groups wanted to mix. Snorting into his beer as Joel became his latest target, Jim drifted along the back wall of the living room, thinking that it was a tribute to how well-liked Simon's son was that he was getting away with it. And to Blair for how subtly he was making sure Daryl did.

Spotting his lover talking to a young officer who recently took the detective's test, Jim unabashedly eavesdropped, picking up, "...course Daryl wants to do the Academy now, but his dad wants him to do the college thing first. Which way is better do you think?"

Leaving Blair to his victim, Jim continued his circuit, his goal being the love chair tucked into the corner nearest the open patio doors. While the teens were being treated to frozen non-alcoholic daiquiris and margaritas, the adults were indulging in beer or wine, and he had had enough to be pleasantly buzzed. Not drunk, but not completely sober either, he wanted to slump someplace and enjoy not having tight shoulder and neck muscles. It was rare for him to be in that state and there was no reason not to enjoy it while he could.

Eventually, after stopping several times to exchange a word or two with various people, including a Simon who was positively glowing with pride for his offspring, he made it and plopped down sideways on one end as Blair plopped on the other. Grinning, Jim leaned his head on his hand, propping his arm on the back of the chair, and admired his mate.

Lit up by the party, Blair was dancing in his seat to some internal rhythm that just happened to match the beat of the music around him, making his curls fly around in a way that begged for Jim to catch and tame a few. Flushed a bit by the beer he'd been drinking and by the accumulated heat of the crowd, he looked wanton and willing, sapphire eyes bright with that very promise. The warmth of the room had coaxed him into taking off the majority of his layers, leaving only a blue T-shirt covering a well-made body, accenting the wide shoulders and sturdy chest.

Looking at him made Jim want to pull him close and kiss him until he was desperate to be loved.

But they had tacitly agreed on a 'don't tell unless asked nicely' policy at the department, so all Jim did was stare at his lover, knowing he was wearing a goofy-in-love expression and not giving a damn despite being more or less in the closet. Let them wonder. Daringly he did play with the gold bracelet on Blair's left arm where it stretched along the back of the couch, sensitive fingers finding the hidden catch that he had locked with a kiss the day he placed it. His matching chain was hidden by the cuff of his shirt, and his smile widened when Blair's eyes traced where it should be, smugness mixing delightfully with growing desire in his features.

His need rose to match it, and Jim had to lift a knee to the seat to give his growing erection room. Blair moved at the same time to do the same thing, and he licked his lips, his gaze finding Jim's by habit, or maybe by instinct, as he did. Everything about him - posture, scent, expression - proclaimed that he was eager for Jim, eager to be taken, used, loved. Time and place didn't matter; he would offer himself up here and now if that was what his lover wished.

For all that he wanted to take Blair and satisfy them both, Jim was in no hurry. The heat in him was languid, rolling loosely through his gut, not searing but melting. He wanted to touch first, take his time and savor the special textures that made up Blair. Throat to begin with, he decided. Fingers spread wide over the long column of neck, thumb traveling over jaw and cheek. Massage a little, make sure no tension lingered there. Up into the curls after that, to knead cautiously at the precious bone that sheltered that rare mind.

After that… He shifted restlessly in his seat, imagining no shirt to prevent his fingers from stroking bare skin, dimly aware of the party around them and trying to restrict himself to pure mental pleasures. It was a challenge; Blair's breath was coming faster, as was his heartbeat. Somehow he was following Jim's fantasy touch, responding to it as if it were real. Jim didn't know if it was being read from eyes caressing where hands longed to be, or if their connection put them so in tune that Blair could tell from experience alone.

Either way, Jim didn't hesitate to continue building his image of his mate standing in front of him naked and aroused, waiting for the next delicate sweep from his hands. Thinking of how wonderful it felt to have him close, Jim fitted them back to front, so that he could savor the slight tickle of hair on his bare chest while he slowly glided his palms over the swell of muscle and taut line of bone and tendon in arms, thighs, hips, wherever he could reach. That made Blair tremble, weakening his knees so that he put more of his weight on his lover, letting his head fall back onto the shoulder waiting for him. As a reward, Jim skimmed over the erection standing out so proudly from the pliant body, doing it barely enough to be felt. Such a fleeting touch made Blair chase after more, thrusting forward and sighing, and the movement brought Jim's hard-on snugly between the firm mounds of his mate's backside.

They cried out together softly at that, and Jim pressed into the welcoming flesh, suddenly longing to possess the opening hidden there. A nudge told his lover to bend over, and he adjusted his position, holding onto Blair's hips for leverage. Dropping a kiss on the back of the neck first, then nibbling at a shoulder blade, he probed with his erection, skating over the portal once, pulling a moan from them.

Focused intently on the body-heat holding him, hands tingling and humming from the life coursing under them, he shook off a persistent noise, literally moving his head to negate it. Then large palms captured both sides of his face, turning him forcibly, and Jim blinked into the worried face of Simon Banks.

"Dammit, Jim!" his friend and captain whispered frantically, "This is no place to zone. Come on, snap out of it!"

Jerking back, automatically checking to see if his state had been noticed, Jim was relieved to see that the party had gone on oblivious to the two men sitting in the corner. The angle of the love-seat had hidden them from the shoulders down, concealing their arousal, and the general shuffling and mingling of people had prevented anyone from becoming aware of how long he and Blair had sat staring into each other's eyes.

That done, he glanced back to his partner, intending to ask why he hadn't pulled him from the zone. But Blair was blank-faced, eyes fixed on some distant spot, unaware of either him or Simon standing next to them. Gently Jim cupped his lover's cheek and softly said, "Chief?"

"Since when does Sandburg zone with you?" Banks asked, the words a mixture of confusion and irritation.

"He's not zoning," Jim answered absently, and patted Blair's face, trying only to jar him a bit. Not wanting to explain that what they *had* been doing, he improvised, "Just too much to drink and not enough sleep, I think. Come on, time to go home, partner."

Blinking once languorously, Blair snapped back to the here and now, eyes and scent rich with desire. "Yes," he murmured. "It is."

"Call us a cab, Simon?" Jim asked, looking up at him.

"You can spend the night here," he offered so quickly Jim had to wonder if he thought his best team was drunk.

"No, we can't," Blair contradicted softly.

Looking ready to argue, Simon nodded reluctant agreement at their stubborn expressions and left to find the phone, looking back over his shoulder at them until he was out of sight. As soon as he was, Jim stood, grateful his shirt was long enough to cover his groin. Despite the abrupt return to reality, he was still rampant, aching for completion. Self-consciously he turned his back to the room to adjust himself in his pants, not surprised to see Blair do the same.

They quickly circulated through the party, making their good-byes, and trying not to be too obvious they were dying to get away. It seemed to take forever, and their urgency barely faded to tolerable levels during the task. But eventually they were in the back of the cab, on the way home, sitting close with Blair's head on Jim's shoulder, opinion of the cabbie be damned. Once they arrived, he threw some bills at the woman, pretending not to see her knowing smirk, and followed his lover into their home and up to their bed.

They had barely spoken to each other the entire time it had taken to get to the loft, not feeling the need to talk, but they had never been more than a molecule apart either. Once upstairs, they silently undressed, unable to watch for fear of being pushed over the edge before they had a chance to touch. As soon as he was naked, Blair turned and bent from the waist, bracing his hands on the bed.

It was precisely how Jim had envisioned it, and he was behind him in a heartbeat, entering the willing body with a single smooth thrust. Shouting at the instantaneous surge of pleasure, feeling Blair's rapidly approaching finish throbbing through where they were joined, he withdrew completely, then slammed back in as deeply as he could.

"Yes, yes, just like that, again, again, again," Blair groaned, his wide-legged stance preventing him from doing more than begging. "Again!"

There was no way Jim could refuse him, and he willingly did as demanded. As he hammered hard into Blair, he grunted, "Good, so good, gotta come, babe, gotta...."

With a keening wail, Blair shot, writhing as best he could into the serious pounding he was taking, pulling Jim along with him into ecstasy. Shoving in until he could feel bones digging into his groin, he surrendered his seed into his mate, wordlessly shouting and shaking from the release.

Somehow he managed to stay on his feet until the last drop had found its way home, then he slipped away to collapse on the mattress next to Blair. They tangled together, belly-to-belly and nose-to-nose, and fell asleep instantly with no thought but holding each other.

When they woke the next morning, all Jim really remembered about the night before was how needy and ready they had both been, and that he'd zoned on touch at Daryl's party. It wasn't until nearly a month later that Simon's comment about Blair zoning with him came back to haunt him.

On a quiet Saturday evening, he sat on the couch, watching a game on the tube while Blair worked on one of the many professional papers that seemed to flow endlessly from his fertile mind. To be truthful, Jim wasn't paying much attention to the game which was beginning its third quarter. Instead he was indulging in one of his favorite past times... admiring his lover.

It was very easy to do. Whether fully dressed or scurrying about in a towel, Blair was a feast for the eyes. Today he sat comfortably in his chair, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop, pausing occasionally to tug at the stray curls floating free of those pulled into a ponytail. Those same digits would tap at full lips thoughtfully, encouraging Jim to lick his own in fond remembrance of how tasty both were. Blair would pick up a pen and bite at the end, jotting comments on the notes he was using to write, then set it aside for another flurry of key strokes. At times, he would remove his glasses and nibble on them while re-reading what was on the screen or set them aside while he sipped on a cup of herbal tea, still staring at the laptop.

Blair, Jim had decided long ago, was very, very oral.

Stirring restlessly, his maleness giving him a pointed twinge to remind him of exactly *how* oral he was, Jim wondered if maybe it wasn't time to divert his lover into something a bit more... recreational. Erection growing to full length at the thought of what he wanted, he turned so that he was half laying on the couch, one foot on the floor and the other tucked up against his bottom. This not only gave the weight between his thighs room, but drew the fabric of his sweats tight over it, blatantly calling attention to his state.

It would take more than that to lure Blair out of his writing, but it was a good start, and he added to the bait by touching his hard-on lightly through his clothes. Sighing in pleasure, his eyelids drifted halfway down so that he could watch his lover's reaction from under lowered lashes. Blair heard that soft sound, at least on some level. He squirmed in his chair, and Jim caught a whiff of desire on the slight air current caused by it.

That inspired him to fondle himself more firmly, using both hands to heighten his response. It was good, very good, and he sighed again, louder this time. Blair definitely heard that; he gave a sidelong glance that turned into a take that would have been comical if Jim hadn't been so caught up in the sensuality of what he was doing. Gaze flicking back and forth between busy hands and his lover's expression, Blair unthinkingly covered his own erection with a hand, giving himself a little squeeze.

With a breathy 'oh', Jim pressed up hard into his grip, then frantically shoved his pants out of the way to be able to jack himself properly. Hips lifting involuntarily into the motion of his hand, he caught Blair's eyes with his own, head reeling under the sexual charge that burned from them into his. It sizzled over his nerves, like a tangible touch from his lover's knowledgeable hands, increasing his pleasure and turning his hold on himself nearly brutal. Blair liked that, liked it a lot, and Jim's hard-on jumped hungrily, as if it wanted to cross the space between the lovers and find its counterpart.

That too reverberated between them, sending them higher into their shared pleasure, taking them closer to the culmination their bodies demanded.

Then a burst of angry voices, shrill and promising violence, pricked Jim's dazed mind, and warrior instincts made him jerk his head toward the source, breaking his union with his mate. On the TV, a fight was breaking out between the players of both teams, despite the best efforts of the referees. He was about to dismiss it and go back to finish what he had started, but the time clock in the lower corner flashed, catching his attention.

The game was in overtime; he had lost nearly the entire half to the foreplay he had been sharing with Blair. It hadn't felt like it had been that long; in fact, his body was insisting that they had just started. Stomach sinking, he recognized the signs of a major zone, though for the life of him the only thing that he could think of that he could have been lost in was sexual arousal. Worse still, it seemed Blair it had been lost in it with him.

Carefully he peeked over at his lover. Blair had gone back to working on his paper, apparently not noticing that he'd been interrupted for more than a minute. Only the hand in his lap, absently massaging the diminishing bulge there, gave any sign of the arousal that had been burning moments earlier.

Apparently Jim had been the only one really turned on and he had dragged Blair along with him, using their connection to do so.

That made him uneasy for reasons he couldn't put his finger on. Usually he was the one who effortlessly dealt with the strange twists and turns that came from their unique bond, mostly because Jim associated it with his senses. To him, one was part of the other, and if he accepted either, he accepted both. It had had always been Blair who had balked, though not even he could explain precisely why. That had struck Jim as strange more than once, given that his partner was the one who believed such things as psychic abilities were possible.

Arousal totally gone, he put both feet on the floor and thought fast and furiously about what had just happened. Today wasn't the first time, he realized. Remembering the intense fantasy he had spun at Daryl's party, he recognized it for the shared zone it was, though at the time he had blamed it on drink and an exceptionally good mood. And he didn't think Blair had been aware of their mutual zone out then, either. A defense mechanism to allow him to cope with the mental invasion? Denial?

With another sickening lurch in his gut, Jim pushed that idea away. It sounded as if he had given his lover no choice but to participate. They had both simply been caught off guard by a new facet of their relationship. Now that he knew it could happen, he'd watch out for it. He didn't even need to bother Blair with it and give him a new reason to freak out. Blair had enough on his mind between the university and the department, not to mention the various other projects he was always volunteering for.

Matter resolved in his own head, Jim pushed the whole thing away, dismissing his uneasiness as leftover horniness.

***

Cruising slowly down the street of the Tarryton Family Complex, Jim peered through the sun-glazed glass of his truck, not sure what he was looking for but certain he would know it if he saw it. There wasn't much to see, yet. This early on a summer day there weren't that many people around, though he was sure that would change later. The Complex was a favored place for young people and families since its shops and businesses were all geared toward fun and recreation.

Pausing in an alley between the paintball arena and far end of the batting cages, he listened for a minute, scanning through what he heard. here was nothing out of the ordinary that might indicate the vandals harrying the stores were around. Normally destruction of property wasn't a Major Crimes kind of case, but an unusual lull in the workload in that department had made Simon willing to shake loose one of his detectives when his friend Captain Carter had asked.

Jim had volunteered, partly out of boredom and partly because it gave him an excuse to be out. Though Blair hated it when Jim went on calls without him, this one seemed harmless enough, unlikely to turn into anything that would call for their special partnership. Besides, he would be able to run over to the university after he was done for a quick visit.

Blair was teaching two summer classes, building up administrative goodwill for those times the demands of the police department interfered with his school responsibilities. Since he wouldn't do expeditions right now, he had to have some way to build up his cache, and he took on half the unwanted jobs in the Anthropology department because of it. Jim missed having him ride with him, especially lately when he couldn't seem to get enough of his lover's presence.

Noting the limo pulling up behind the paintball store, Jim put aside personal issues, and watched as it parked near the back door. A limo in a family oriented recreation center was odd enough; the rider sneaking in the back way was worth paying attention to. The moment the bodyguard stepped out to open the door for the passenger, Jim knew who was in the car: Elliot Tarryton, owner of the Complex proper. Gregor Haurer, his bodyguard and corporate security chief, had been known to Jim by reputation before he went into the personal security business. He had been one of the few CIA spooks that Rangers spoke of with respect, and the ex-military personnel grapevine had been eager share the news that he'd retired to Cascade.

Haurer scanned up and down the alleyway before opening the door, probably not seeing him because of where Jim had parked and because of the morning light in his eyes. Satisfied that no trouble was waiting, he let Tarryton out, but neither of them made a move to enter the building. Instead a tall, beefy man with fair hair badly in need of a wash stepped out, looking sour and argumentative.

Interest piqued, Jim concentrated on the meeting, piggybacking sight and sound so that it seemed he stood right beside the others.

"...contract says by midnight on the first of the month, and by damn, you won't get it a minute sooner," the blond said. To Jim he sounded snotty, ready to fight.

"So you insist on keeping my staff waiting for you every month because of the legal technilese in your lease," Tarryton said mildly. "You're keeping hard working men and women from their home and dinner because you begrudge me - and I'm not even the one being inconvenienced."

His tone implied that the shopkeeper was the worst kind of insensitive asshole there was and the other man flushed angrily. "I'm sure you pay them well enough."

"True, but this isn't the kind of business relationship that is conducive to success for either of us, Mr. Hayes. If you have some sort of personal vendetta with me, I wish you would simply be up front with it and stop the petty grievances you're always throwing in my path."

The tone stayed reasonable, but Hayes grew angrier. "Maybe I just hate having to do business with your kind at all!"

Haurer stiffened, and Jim reflexively put his hand on his gun. But all Tarryton did was shrug with both hands. "In that case, when your lease comes due, I won't be looking for a renewal from you. I'm sure you'll find plenty of buildings with as much square footage and acreage as this one, and in an equally ideal location. Possibly even for the same rent that I charge."

Yeah, right, Jim thought to himself. Paintball games took *lots* of room, and anywhere but in this patch of property between suburbia, the city proper, and the industrial sections, the rent would be premium.

"It's not right," Hayes blurted out. "Decent man having to scrape to get by when *you* have money, power, influence. Tell me, how much of your shoddy empire did you earn on your knees in filthy bathrooms or dark doorways?"

A discrete shift backwards that Jim wasn't sure he saw at first held Haurer in place, and Tarryton lost his reasonable stance. "And how far has your blind prejudice taken you, Mr. Hayes? Has hatred made your life any easier at all?" With an air of dismissal he turned to his car. "I'll instruct the night watchman to take your check or cash from now on out. As he is a legitimate member of my staff, and therefore my representative, legally he is as good as my personal secretary. If you refuse to do so, you will be in violation, and I will have you evicted, sir."

Without looking back, Tarryton got in his limo, Haurer hovering protectively between him and the shopkeeper. Letting his eyes speak for him all the while, he walked around to get in on the other side, telling Hayes exactly what he thought of him.

Once the door was shut, Jim switched his attention completely to the blond, not particularly surprised at the hatred he saw there. He knew the type far too well, and had had his share of run-ins with them since he and Blair had become a couple. Hayes didn't look defeated, however. Only more determined and Jim leaned forward as if that would let him see what alternative plan the man had to deal with his landlord.

In the half-opened doorway next to Hayes, Jim saw a flash of movement and focused on it. A man was just inside the threshold, the darkness hiding most of his features. Saying something to Hayes, he gestured with his hands, which were holding... holding what? Trying to bring the object into focus, Jim zoned on the hint of metal and shine, trying futilely to resolve it into something recognizable.

"Jim!" Blair's voice, sounding strong and worried in his ear, jarred him back to normal just as click of a rifle's trigger being pulled hit his awareness. Without thinking he slammed the truck into reverse, backing it out of the alleyway, tires squealing. For one second he thought about roaring around the perimeter of the building, in hopes of locating the weapon and shooter, but he put the Ford in gear and sped off for the University.

There was no question in his mind that he had to get there, now!

Lights and siren going, he pulled up to Hargrove Building a record time later, his hearing searching out the distinctive mélange of sounds that made up Blair's aural signature. Using that to guide him, noting that heartbeat was slow and breathing was ragged, Jim charged through the hallways until he came to the lecture hall, bursting through the doors to find his lover collapsed next to the lectern and surrounded by students.

Pushing his way none too gently through the crowd, he barked, "What happened?" Kneeling beside Blair, he eased his limp form onto his lap, tilting his head a little to keep the blood flowing from his nose from going down his throat instead. Fingers sure and capable, he checked the pulse, surprised to find it steady but not surprised at the surge of sensation through their connection at the contact. Blair's breathing steadied as well, the fact that he wasn't half choking on blood any longer helping considerably.

Several voices whispered to each other that he was the cop Dr. Sandburg worked with sometimes, and one of those volunteered. "Man, I don't know. One minute he's talking about standards of observation, the next he's staring into space like he's stoned on something. That lasts long enough for everybody to start wondering if he's going to start babblin' about seeing god or aliens or something, then he kinda just, well, crumples. No bones, you know?"

"Anybody call an ambulance?" Jim brushed aside the hair that had fallen over Blair's face, then took out his handkerchief to hold against a seeping nostril.

"911 said it should be on its way," a new voice spoke up. "Is he going to be okay?"

She sounded genuinely worried, and Jim said honestly, "I don't know. Vitals are good, though." Bending closer, he whispered, "Chief? Hey, you're scaring me here." Though he used a joking tone, it cracked around the edges, despite his best effort at control. "Blair?"

With a jerk, Blair's eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up, hands going up to grab Jim's shirt at the collar. "Jim!"

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay." A bustle behind him told him that the paramedics had arrived and he tightened his hold on his partner to prevent them from taking Blair away. "Relax, take it easy a minute. You passed out and the EMT's want to check you out, okay?"

Wide-eyed, clearly confused, Blair nodded his agreement, sinking into Jim's arms as if he feared being removed from them, as well. He didn't fight the oxygen mask placed over his face, and answered the questions the medics shot at him as best he could, all the while protesting he felt fine.

Despite that, it was decided to take him to the hospital, mostly because the bleeding didn't stop and Jim was worried about it. Blair spent the trip there bitching at him at sentinel level for excessive caution. Taking advantage of the paramedic's obliviousness, he got more and more creative with his complaints, wringing grins and even the occasional snort of laughter from Jim, earning them both weird looks from the attendants.

At the hospital, though, all traces of humor died, and Jim stood by the windows at the entrance, staring blindly out them. He'd relinquished his grip on his partner only because he didn't want to start a fight with the staff unless it was necessary, and because he knew he could keep tabs on him with his hearing. Then, too, recovered fully from his scare, Blair was fighting against being hovered over, preferring to deal with the doctors on his own, as usual.

There was no one thing in particular on Jim's mind as he waited; too many sensory impressions and half-formed thoughts chased through his head to allow coherent thought. But the times Blair had collapsed because *Jim* had been injured or ill, blood flowing freely each occasion, came to the forefront over and over. Blairhad brushed it off each time, blaming it on the newness of their connection. But the bond wasn't that new, any more, and the reaction was getting worse. Add to that the shared zones, and Jim was more uncertain about his senses and the consequences of having them than he had been since just before Incacha's death.

A whirl of scent and sensation touched his awareness. Without moving he asked dryly, "Simon, do you tip the E.R. registration clerks to call you when one of us comes in or do you have a crystal ball?"

Cigar not burning, but still in hand, Banks answered, "I think they do it out of self-defense, to keep you or Sandburg from being too much trouble. What is it this time? One of your cases popping up unexpectedly, or his knack for finding trouble?"

"Actually, I think I might be the problem," Jim said honestly, startling himself. A moment later he mentally shrugged. Simon was the one person besides his partner who knew about the sentinel thing and who might be able to help him understand what was happening. "I was checking out the Complex, like you asked me to, and zoned trying to see something. Then Blair's voice yanked me out of it just in time to avoid getting shot." Lowering his head, he admitted, "I didn't hang around to find who was pulling the trigger; knew I had to get to Blair."

"God, Jim," Banks said tiredly, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses.

Arms crossed over his chest, he finally turned to face him. "He was out cold, bleeding from the nose. Doctors are saying things like seizure and tumor where he can't hear them, but *I* can. Not that they're close to right; I think it happened because he knew I was in danger and warned me."

Sitting heavily, Simon confessed, "I've wondered more than once what price the two of you pay for your closeness."

"Why is Blair carrying the burden of it?"Jim snapped. "I don't black out or anything; I just know that I have to go to him."

Consideringly Banks said, "From what Sandburg tells me, your senses are a genetic thing. You're literally made to do the things you do. But Blair is just another man who happened to find a sentinel and start working with him. Maybe for a normal person the, uh, thing, the two of you share is harder, less natural."

That hit Jim hard. Clenching his teeth until his jaw throbbed, he managed to hide the pain and say blandly, "Then because of me he's being pushed into being something he's not?"

"Jim," Simon said very gently, "Until the two of you got together, Blair was the straightest man I knew. If he could make the huge change to being your lover, is it really such a reach that he could be changed in other ways?"

Feeling the color drain from his face, Jim asked quietly, "He doesn't love me because I'm a sentinel, Simon."

"I didn't say that he does!" he denied hastily. "You have to know me better than to think I'd insult the both of you like that. I'm just saying that the senses are part and parcel of who you are, and like being a cop, it makes a difference *in* the people closest to you."

It made sense, too much sense for Jim's taste, and he sat tiredly next to Simon, putting his face in his hands. "So what do I do? It's too late to go back to being the way I was; I'm not sure I could without driving myself insane."

Simon didn't have anything to say to that, and Jim sorted through everything he'd learned about his gifts, trying to find an answer for himself. Finally his captain offered doubtfully, "You learned to control the sentinel thing. Couldn't you, I don't know, treat the connection like another kind of sense to be controlled? They call psychic abilities the sixth sense. It doesn't seem like much a stretch that you could handle one the same way you handle the other."

Desperate for a solution that would allow him to protect Blair, Jim considered what was being suggested, trying the idea on and looking at it from differing angles. In the distance he could hear his partner outrageously bullshitting a doctor with a tale of not eating for several days, getting dizzy, and trying to use a method taught to him by a shaman in Indonesia to control it. Convincing the man against his better judgment it seemed, the doctor allowed Blair go without any further testing, and Jim had no doubt the same tale would be used later to pacify the authorities at the University, as well. The conversation was accompanied by the sounds of clothes being pulled over skin, and he stood.

"Blair's on the way out. Look, I'll think about it, maybe see what I can do. But don't mention it to him, okay? At the very least we'd have a world class fight over me cutting off something he considers damned useful, if not absolutely essential to the upkeep and maintenance of a sentinel."

"Not to mention he'd see it as about the same as gouging out your eyes," Simon agreed, standing as well. "And I'm not so sure he wouldn't be right. Jim, this might have been my idea, but don't do anything without talking to him."

"Better blind than hurting Blair," Jim muttered, the hastily changed subjects since his partner was nearly on them. "About the Tarryton Complex.... I'd like to stay in the loop on that. No matter how hard I try I can't pinpoint what I saw, and it doesn't make sense that someone would try to shoot me when all I was doing was sitting there. Unless he made me as someone he has a personal grudge against, but from that distance he shouldn't have been able to tell who I was."

"No problem, as long as it doesn't interfere with your other cases," Simon agreed.

Crashing through the double doors that separated the waiting area from the exam room, Blair said cheerfully, "Get me out of here before they find another reason to stick me with a needle! I'm a pint short already! Hey, Simon! What're you doing here? Visiting Wayne?"

Simon smiled at the mention of his friend, Wayne Chen, who was on the physician's staff at Cascade General, and who he met thanks to Jim and Blair. "He says hello, as a matter of fact. And since I'm here, need a ride?"

"Thanks. I've got just enough time to get to my next class." Blair led the way out, pulling at his bloodstained shirt. "And change. I think I've got a T-shirt I can pull on until I get home."

"Don't you think you should go home and rest?" Jim asked sharply.

"Why? Like I told the doctor, I feel great! Energized!" Pausing, he spun in place and grinned at the two men with him. "So what happened, man? What kind of trouble were you in that I picked up on?"

Grimacing, Jim filled him in on his trip to Tarryton's, shoving the rest of it away until later.

That night, holding his sleeping lover close and nosing gently through the curls spilling over his shoulder and chest, Jim replayed his conversation with Simon, giving what he said careful thought. Much as he hated to admit it, his friend had a point. If the connection was linked to his senses - and in his own mind, at least, they were - then he should be able to 'dial it down' to a level that didn't endanger Blair. Make it one-way, maybe, so that he could still keep tabs on his partner.

He tried envisioning a dial labeled 'Blair' but couldn't; what they shared was too all encompassing for the limited up/down range of any dial. Besides, his awareness of Blair included all his senses; it always had, and they constantly fed him input about his lover. That gave Jim an idea, and he idly skimmed a hand over Blair's back while he thought.

From the first he had been more 'aware' of Blair than he ever had been of any person. He had learned his scent and all its variations before they had become friends, really. Sound was the same way; he only noticed 'blairnoise' when it was missing now, it was such a part of him. And he had always touched him far, far more than he ever had anyone, including his ex-wife.

If the bond was in part because of the senses, then withdrawing them, limiting the sensory knowledge he had of his partner, might curtail the connection as well. It seemed very possible, and, more importantly, he was fairly sure he could confine what he picked up to what any other person would know about another. After all, he knew what 'normal' felt like even if it was a thing of the past.

As if hearing Jim's troubled thoughts, Blair wiggled restlessly, mumbling indistinctly.

That made Jim ask himself what Blair would do when he found out what he was attempting. Hit the roof, probably. Simon had hit the nail on the head when he compared it to blinding himself; Blair wouldn't be that nice about it. He'd be horrified that Jim would ever consider voluntarily stifling or hiding part of himself, especially for his sake. And he'd be insulted and angry that Jim would want to make a choice like that for him. It didn't take sentinel hearing to imagine him saying scathingly, "If I don't have a problem with an occasional nose bleed, who the hell are you to bitch?"

Though he could marshal his arguments, rehearse them in his head until he could rattle them off as fast as Blair could argue, Jim knew he didn't have a chance of convincing his lover that blocking their connection was the right thing to do. It had been too hard, too traumatic for Blair to accept it in the first place. Beside, he hated fighting with him. It left him feeling as if he were caught in an earthquake; the whole world was uncertain underfoot.

He would have to just do it, and do it carefully enough that Blair wouldn't pick up on what was going on until was a done deal. That meant making damned sure that whatever side effects that came up stayed hidden, completely. If he got irritable from lack of Blair, he couldn't show it, or five minutes after he snapped at someone, his lover would find out and be quizzing him about what was wrong. Or if the senses misbehaved - and by now he was too experienced with how they could mess with him not to think it wouldn't happen - Jim would have to either hide it or come up with an alternative cause.

For a moment the idea of cutting his mate out of his life in any way ripped at Jim, making him tighten his loose hold on the lax form. Responding with a sleepy squeeze of his own, Blair snuggled closer, trying to comfort even while deeply under. That hardened Jim's resolve, and he pressed his lips to the broad forehead, closing his eyes to better cherish the taste/smell/feel. Then he carefully rolled away, turning his back to him, and set about fighting with his senses.

Long hours later he finally succeeded in caging them, at least where Blair was concerned. Though he could hear the driver of a car on his street cursing drunkenly about getting a ticket, the only thing he heard from his bed mate was a plainly audible breathy snore. No heartbeat, no bodily noises. It was the same for all his senses, so that there was sort of a blind spot where Blair should be, and Jim *hated* it. Being blindfolded, gagged, and wrapped in plastic wrap couldn't possibly be more miserable than being closed away from the source of his life.

Exhausted with his internal battle, he dropped off, only to dream of a panther trapped in a glass cage, snarling and scrabbling to get out, while a wolf howled mournfully in the distance.

***

Heart in his throat, lungs working over time, Blair sat bolt upright in the bed, sleep gone but night blanketing his vision so that for a moment he didn't know where he was. Then the faint light from the skylight created the familiar shadows of their bedroom, and he swiped his hair away from his face, wondering what had awakened him. Automatically he sought out his lover, forehead wrinkling in confusion when he found Jim laying on the very edge of the bed, facing away.

Must have gotten too warm for him, he thought muzzily, his own cooling sweat making him shiver. Blankly he looked around again, wondering what could possibly kick him out of sleep but leave his sentinel undisturbed. Finding nothing, he tried to remember what he'd been dreaming, but all he could find was a vague impression of terror with no specific images to go with it.

At last, shrugging to himself, he crept over to huddle up against the broad back of his lover, throwing an arm over Jim's waist as he did. Thankfully sleep was, for once, close enough that with luck he could drop back off and save himself from sitting in the darkness, unable to rest and revisiting old nightmares until dawn came. But even as he slipped into the comfort of both slumber and the presence of his mate, a feeling of dread lingered at the edge of his mind.

It was still with him when the alarm went off the next morning, but it was quickly buried under the rush to have breakfast, get ready for work, and the million other details that ate up the hours. At odd times throughout the day, though, it would dart through his mind, unsettling him and making him check and double check everything around him in a futile search for a source. It grew so annoying that he called up Jim, just to ask what was going on at the station, but he only succeeded in worrying his partner.

Finally he threw his office work into his pack, determined to go home and meditate, at least until he had the freewheeling anxiety cornered, if not defined. A knock on the door to his office didn't so much as put a pause in his stuffing of papers; whoever or whatever could talk to him on the fly. When the dean of Anthropology, Scott Latham, and Dr. Eli Stoddard walked in at his cheery 'come in,' Jim trailing after them, laughing at some remark, his hand stopped mid-flight.

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it, it wasn't my fault, I wasn't even there," he said facetiously, eyeing the three men suspiciously.

"Relax, Sandburg," Jim grinned. "We're not ganging up on you; I happened to run into these gentlemen on the way."

"Why does that not reassure me?" Blair mock-grumbled. He waved at the chairs in front of his desk, then perched on the edge of it.

"Want me to make myself scarce?" Jim asked Dr. Stoddard politely.

"Actually, detective, since our proposal would affect Dr. Sandburg's performance at the police department, perhaps you wouldn't mind sitting in? It would also give him a good sounding board for later, when he makes his decision." Dr. Latham looked very pleased with himself, and he settled his not inconsiderable girth comfortably in his chair.

Blair and Jim traded mystified looks, but Jim obligingly wandered to the rear of the office, and poured himself a cup of sludge, making the offer to serve the two older gentlemen with a lift of a cup. They nodded him an approval and he poured, using the spare mugs Blair kept on hand.

Acutely aware of his partner, but more concerned with his guests for the moment, Blair focused on them, and smiled. "Hey, if I'm not in trouble, then to what do I owe the honor?"

Exchanging a shrug, the two men regarded each other, then Stoddard spoke up. "I don't know if you're aware of this, Blair, but you're beginning to get an excellent reputation in our field for your work with Cascade Police Department. The papers that have been the resulting from your consulting are varied in content, extremely insightful, and have been providing a fascinating new look at the whole concept of the 'American melting pot.' If this keeps up you may become an acknowledged expert on American subcultures."

More confused than ever, Blair took his glasses off for an excuse for something to do with his hands. "I didn't know that; in fact, it surprises me. I would think that studying the cultural changes that are happening due to immigration would be common. More sociological than anthropological perhaps, but surely…."

"That may well be the case," Latham interrupted, "But few have the perspective that you have been fortunate enough to acquire. Nothing reveals the strata of human society faster than stress, and police works sees a great deal of the results of that stress up close and personal. At any rate, your studies have been attracting very positive attention."

Holding his distress down to a level where only Jim could sense it, Blair was appalled at the attitude being projected by the other two anthropologists. They seemed to regard the good work he did at the department only as a convenient means for him to further his career in anthropology. Fighting the niggle of conscience that reminded him that he'd been the same once upon a time, he asked with an edge showing in his assumed good humor, "I'm really flattered to learn that, Dr. Stoddard, but I know you didn't come down here into the pits of un-tenured teachers to tell me."

Jim came around the desk to hand out coffee, not incidentally walking close enough to Blair to give him a reassuring hand on the small of his back on the way back to the coffee pot. It let him wait out the slightly startled silence from his colleagues while they assimilated the abrupt way he had derailed the carefully planned speeches they had in mind to coax/bully him into whatever it was they wanted. And they clearly wanted something they thought he was going to refuse.

Irritation showing only as sitting up straighter and leaning forward authoritatively, Latham said, "I merely wanted you to understand why you were chosen among all the other possible candidates for this really rather unique and potentially prestigious project."

"Project?" Blair protested immediately. "Dr. Latham, I'm already…."

"Hear me out, first, young man!" Latham snapped.

With an effort Blair closed his mouth over the rest, but retreated to his own seat behind the desk to emphasize his unwillingness to co-operate.

Obviously wishing to play conciliator between the other two, Stoddard stood himself and wandered around the room for a moment, looking with apparent interest at some of the artifacts and sipping at his coffee. About the time Blair's patience was ready to give out, he said conversationally, "Do you know who Jason Swett is?"

With a snort, Blair answered, "The only billionaire who gives Donald Trump a running for the title of World's Most Conspicuous Consumer."

That earned him a chuckle, and the tension in the room lessened considerably. "For all his flamboyance," Stoddard said, "He's done good charitable works. Granted, he does milk them for all the publicity they're worth, but he *does* give, and give generously."

Going back to his chair, he seated himself again, then went on. "His current personal crusade is education. More specifically, multicultural education designed to give young people a better understanding of the differences they might encounter among their peers. Social and ethic tolerance, that sort of thing.

"He's funding a mobile classroom toward that end, funding it very generously, and he personally asked me to assemble the best possible team from around the country to design it, money no object." Stoddard couldn't help preening a bit, but Blair didn't begrudge it to him. A high profile project like this was a professional coupe of the highest order, guaranteeing the participants professional stature for quite a while.

"Congratulations," he said sincerely. "Is he giving you a free hand?" The question was more than idle curiosity. A patron who insisted on over-seeing every detail of how his money was spent was a nightmare all researchers lived in fear of placating.

"Completely." Satisfaction oozed, but again, Blair couldn't blame Stoddard. The whole proposition was sounding more and more like an academic wet dream. "We've already discussed some of the parameters - elementary to middle school level, multi-media, hands-on, adaptable, and, of course, highest priority, mobile. The plan is to have the prototype tour several major cities first, and if the public approval is high enough, duplicate it to be able to reach a larger audience. I think he envisions a fleet of them, but frankly, I'll be happy to have just the one making the rounds. It would still be more than many elementary and middle students are exposed to, and might serve to rejuvenate general awareness of Anthropology."

Against his will, interest seriously piqued, Blair asked curiously, "What disciplines are you planning for the team? At the very least, you'll need an elementary education expert."

"And a child psychologist, a sociologist, a media expert, computer software designer, technical expert for the nuts and bolts of making the whole thing road-worthy, and, of course, an anthropologist to oversee it all," Latham spoke up.

Surprised, Blair asked, "Dr. Stoddard, you're not handling that end?"

"No, I'll be doing the more practical side; budgeting, grants, coordinating the team."

In other words, doing none of the hard work while reaping all the benefits and making all the final decisions, Blair thought to himself. The perennial grudge that all new post-docs had about being the bottom man on the research ladder surfaced, but he shoved it away with long practice. It was, after all, an academic tradition older than the caps and gowns used for graduation. Then the shoe dropped for Blair. "Oh, no!" he said, jumping to his feet. "I can't possibly..." he stuttered. "Head it? I'm up to my.... thought you needed a research assistant... lots and lots of more qualified... no time! You know how much I've got on my plate right now!"

"Come now, Blair," Latham said. "It's early in summer session, which is precisely why we're beginning now. Most of the people needed have reduced workloads, or are looking for this sort of endeavor to beef up their credentials and pad their summer salary. The majority of what you're doing for us can be shuffled off to TA's or to teachers in more need of, ah, the academic experience than you are. Surely it won't take until the beginning of fall semester to have the first proposal ready."

About to reel off the dozen or so of good reasons that he could legitimately give for not getting involved in such a demanding project, Blair was startled when Jim spoke up suddenly. "Would you gentlemen mind if I have a word with Sandburg before you continue this discussion?"

The other two men shot equally startled looks at his partner; they had forgotten he was in the room. "Really, Detective Ellison," Latham started.

"I promise it will only take a moment," Jim said silkily.

Both Stoddard and Latham looked sour, but Jim ignored them and latched a strong hand around Blair's upper arm. "He'll be *right* with you," Jim added, practically dragging the smaller man out of the room.

Once they were in the hallway with the door safely closed, Jim pushed Blair gently into the wall and whispered, lips nearly in Blair's ear. "Do it, Chief," he unexpectedly urged. "We'll find a way to make the logistics work."

Astounded, mouth open, Blair stared at his lover for a moment, then whispered back, "You *want* me to commit myself to a job that will eat damn near every minute I can wring out of a day? Or don't you get how *massive* the scope is on what they want me to do?"

The near-pained look chased over Jim's eyes quickly, telling Blair that his choice of words could have been better. Before he could apologize for implying that Jim was the all brawn stereotype people often treated him as, his partner shot back without a trace of the defensive sarcasm that should have been present, "Look, hear me out, first, okay?" At Blair's willing nod, Jim said, "The job at the department - that's pretty dead end, isn't it? I mean, unless you're thinking of using it to wrangle some political appointment, there's nowhere for you to go as a consultant. Right?"

"Yeah, but that's not the point of what I'm doing and you know it."

"Hang on, you said you'd listen," Jim said seriously. "Career wise, this," and he waved at the hallway, implying not just Hargrove Hall, but academic anthropology itself, "Is what you want to do, make your name in, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he rushed on. "Then you should do what you have to in order to make your mark, Chief. I mean, I'm doing what I want to do, I've got my rep already, know where I could be in ten or twenty years. But you're just starting, really, and you've got a long way to go to get where you want to go. You shouldn't miss a chance like this because of me."

Blair didn't know what to say to that, though his mind spun with a dozen different things he *should* say. The thing of it was, Jim was right. He really couldn't afford to turn down an offer like Stoddard's, unless he was willing to never be treated seriously by the profession again. Especially since it was the second time the elderly anthropologist had approached him. The years of labor that he had put into his academic life rose in front of him, and he protested weakly, "I don't want you riding alone, Jim. It could get you killed."

"We both know I'm dealing with the zone out factor pretty well, and there are things I can do to minimize the risk, like doing the leg work only when you're around. I'll even take time off if I have to; god knows I have enough vacation time saved up. Point is, we *can* work around it; it's not like the project is going to be forever."

With an attempt at dodging the bullet he was beginning to realize he didn't want to miss him, Blair said, "Travel. You heard him; team from all over the country. I'll have to travel for meetings."

That struck a nerve, he could tell, but Jim went on stubbornly. "With teleconferencing and the internet, you could probably cut that down to a minimum and get points for cutting costs. But, like I said, I'll take time off if I have to. I really think you should do this."

Knowing his willpower was going down for the third time, Blair feebly tried, "I won't be able to do my share, you'll have to carry me, possibly at the department and definitely around the loft."

"Call it payback for the times you've had to carry me for whatever reason," Jim shot back, totally disregarding the fact that both were in the habit of picking up the slack whenever either was swamped for whatever reason. "At least go in there and listen to them map it out, get an idea of the scope and their expectations. Then if you honestly think we can't do it, fine. But give it a chance."

It was the 'we' that did Blair in. Jim's assumption that it would be 'their' work, even if all he did was provide back up, told him that his partner truly thought this was a good move. Grinning, he surrendered. "You're just trying to find a way to sneak Wonder burgers, aren't you?"

"No, never," Jim denied instantly, eyes dancing with relieved humor. "What makes you think I'm so desperate for Wonder burgers that I would shove you onto a plane and wave goodbye while dialing their take-out?" He pressed in close, his body saying something entirely different from his words. "For a nice, big, thick rare steak smothered in saute'ed onions and mushrooms, yes. For a mere burger... you're worth more to me than *that.*"

"Wow, a whole steak," Blair chuckled. "I have serious market value then."

"With baked potato, butter and sour cream," Jim admitted. "But you're worth it."

Blair tossed his arms around his lover's waist and gave him a hard hug. "How'd we get off onto food anyway?" he laughed.

On cue Jim's stomach gurgled at them, and he chuckled, "Let me guess; you came over to have dinner with me. Got to go back to the station this evening?"

Reluctantly pulling away, Jim looked at his watch. "No, but I do need to be in early tomorrow. Since I want to go back over to Tarryton's Family Complex and have another look around, why don't we meet at Michaelangelo's in, say, an hour and a half, and celebrate the newest feather in your cap. You can even pay for it to show off your new solvency."

"More like my newest headache," Blair disagreed. "*Providing* I say yes."

Wrapping long fingers around his wrist and giving it a gentle tug, Jim smiled, then left, tossing back over his shoulder, "You will, Chief."

***

He did. And, much as he was loath to admit it, even to himself, he loved the unexpected turn his life took. True to his word, Latham dropped most of Blair's workload onto other shoulders, most of whom accepted the burden with a wry grin and congratulations for Blair. It allowed him, at first, to keep things steady at the station, hardly changing his work there with Jim at all.

The biggest change initially was his sleeping habits. As Jim had predicted, teleconferencing, e-mail, and a shared web site proved the most effective way to communicate during the first weeks of the mobile classroom team coming together, getting acquainted and brainstorming. But since he was the only one on the west coast, the others scattered up and down the east coast with two in mid-America, he adjusted his schedule to make himself available to them first thing in the morning, *their* time.

It meant he got up at 3 or 4am, did the team conferencing work, had breakfast with Jim, went to the university to do research or teach, have lunch if there was time, go the police department to take care of things there, home if no stake out, then crash about 9pm or so. It played hell with his social life, but at least he worked with his lover, so there was little impact there, he believed.

They found ways to keep their relationship strong. Jim would always come upstairs and hold him until he fell asleep, and Blair would always bring a cup of coffee up when Jim's alarm went off in the morning. Those private moments went a long way toward making him feel loved and cherished, even if all they shared was a sleepy kiss and cuddling. But frequently enough to keep Blair quietly smug, they made love, slow and sensual or hot and heavy, depending on mood, just like always.

It made it easy to ignore the increasingly frequent silences from his mate, and even easier to dismiss the occasional crankiness. After all, there had to be *some* reaction to the change in their lives.

The only serious blot was the night terrors that would jolt him awake, shaking and close to panic, several times a week. But since they never disturbed his sleeping sentinel, and he always was able to go back to sleep almost immediately, Blair brushed them off, chalking them up to as an alternative to the nightmares some of the cases Major Crimes handled gave him.

That didn't stop him from being nervous to the point of nausea when it came time three weeks later for the first real meeting with the rest of the Mobile Anthropology Classroom team. Though he was comfortable enough with them as people not to have any worries about how well they would work together in the flesh, so to speak, he did *not* want to leave Jim. No amount of rationalization or reassurances that the ex-soldier/cop/sentinel could certainly take care of himself lifted the heavy rock in his middle that grew as take off time approached.

The conference had been deliberately scheduled over a weekend, to minimize the impact it would have on those team members working other jobs. Not incidentally Jim had a court day on the Friday and Monday off, so there was no reason to think that his partner would be in any more danger than usual. But he grew more and more agitated, until it precipitated a rousing fight between the two of them as he finished packing. Jim did not appreciate the appearance that his partner didn't trust him to be able to take care of himself, and Blair couldn't give a good explanation for his extreme worry.

The ride to the airport was tense, though they managed to make up after a fashion before it was actually time to leave. It was Jim who tried to make things better between them while they waited for the flight to be called, clumsy and awkward though the effort was. All Blair could do was cling to him, whispering apologies over and over, fighting the fear trying to swamp him.

Amazingly he was able to channel it into a flurry of productiveness that inspired the others at the meeting, to the point they had the first rough draft of their proposal ready by the time he left Monday evening. It didn't last past boarding the flight home. Once he was confined to the aircraft it rose up stronger than ever, taking all his will keep from overwhelming him.

As luck would have it, he sat near the back of the plane, and a woman traveling with an infant and toddler was in front of him. Helping her with the children kept him occupied, but also kept him from disembarking until nearly the last moment. On his way down the ramp, fumbling with his carry on with shaking and sweating hands, he uselessly craned his neck to see over the small group in front of him, desperate for the sight of his lover.

When he was through the gate at last, Blair stood to one side, anxiously scanning through the crowd, heart in throat. Jim was nowhere to be seen. Fire ants scrambled through his mind: his lover couldn't find a parking spot or was delayed by traffic, he'd gotten mixed up on arrival times, an important call came up and Jim had to go into the field, the Mayor was being a pain in the ass and not letting the detectives leave early. As reassuring as all that was supposed to be, none of it did more than crank up his fear.

Jim was too anal to be held up by traffic or misread an arrival time, and if anything else had come up, his lover would have delegated a friend to let Blair know. That left only two possibilities, each totally terrifying. Either Jim was angrier than their parting and daily phone calls had indicated, and was avoiding picking him up on some flimsy excuse or another, or he was hurt, injured in the line of duty and no one *knew* to pick Blair up.

About the time Blair thought he would simply sit down where he stood and have a full-blown panic attack, the last of the passengers melted away and he saw Jim sitting on one of the chairs at the very edge of the seating area. The sentinel had his head bowed into his hands, his own body tense with what Blair knew was pain. Abandoning his luggage without a thought, he raced over to him, calling his name.

At the first sound, Jim's head jerked up, and the most beautiful, heart-breaking smile Blair had ever seen bloomed over his features. Instantly he stood, which was a good thing, because Blair couldn't stop running, couldn't stop himself from slamming into his mate and hanging on for dear life. Too breathless from his rapidly dissolving terror to talk, he could only tremble and hide his face in Jim's shirt while strong arms folded around him.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, holding on painfully tight and slightly swaying with each other, but an odd motion from Jim finally made Blair pull back just in time to catch his partner glaring at someone belligerently. A quick glance showed him the gate attendant was studiously avoiding looking at them, her mouth twisted in distaste.

And even that wasn't enough to make him let go. Somehow Jim got them in motion, retrieved his bags, got them into truck, all without once removing the arm snug around Blair's shoulders. Even after he started the engine, they stayed tucked together, uncaring about the lack of seatbelts. It wasn't until they were nearly home that Blair was able to find his voice, and then it came out shaky and uncertain. "There is no way in hell I'm doing this again," he swore. "I've been going out of my mind, and *don't* blow up at me again telling me I'm over reacting, and that you were taking care of yourself for decades before you met me. I *know* that, but I can't help how I feel."

Jaw so tight Blair didn't understand why it didn't shred from the stress, Jim gave him a small squeeze, then said quietly, "Chief, it's impossible for two people to be together all the time, not even in primitive cultures. There has to be a way for a sentinel to be without his guide. What if one is injured during a war or becomes ill when the hunting is scarce? It doesn't make sense; they *both* could die if one doesn't go on as necessary."

"I know, I know!" Pulling at the hair on the side of his head, Blair thought furiously. "Maybe I should listen to you on this; you seem to be handling it okay." Suspiciously he peeked at his partner. "Right?"

There was a pause, then Jim admitted slowly, "I've had a headache almost from the time your plane took off. Not enough to slow me down, but it bothers me."

"Senses okay?"

Again, a wait before Jim reluctantly answered, "Touch has been... odd."

"Odd? Spiking, off line, odd how?" Blair asked gently, hiding his fond exasperation.

Pretending to be busy with driving, Jim delayed answering until they were parked in front of 852. "Know how your skin feels after a really, really deep massage? Not exactly good, not exactly bad, just more *there* than normal?"

Blair couldn't help wincing. "Must be distracting as hell."

"Missing you was worse."

The unexpected declaration, softly spoken in the darkness of the truck cab, drove a spike of pure love and need through Blair from the top of his head all the way into his maleness. Trembling again, this time from a rush of desire as intoxicating as a drug, he twisted in his seat and stretched up, thinking only of finding Jim's mouth with his own. Answering the need either by instinct or because his own was as demanding, Jim met him halfway, lips already open. The kiss was rough, urgent, as raw in its lust and passion as the first time they had kissed.

Groaning deep in his chest, Jim backed out of the truck, taking Blair with him, trying to quiet both of them with nuzzles and hugs enough to at least get inside. It sufficed, barely, though they stumbled up the stairs alternating between fast, deep thrusts of tongue and tearing away to go a few more steps. Somehow Jim got the door open and both of them through it, but Blair was barely aware of anything but the necessity of getting naked, now!

He went for the buttons on Jim's shirt before the door was completely shut, and helped his lover wrestle off his coat a moment later. Shirts were gone by the bottom of the stairs, shoes kicked off as they rubbed against each other on the way up. Pants were tangled around ankles at the top step, and they hurtled toward their bed, bare and furiously erect, lips never losing contact.

There was no chance of slowing things down or making it last, and Blair threw himself into the loss of control, grinding against Jim with a complete lack of self-restraint or caution, knowing that any bruises raised would be cherished by both of them. For his part, Jim was all over him, hands skimming lightly one moment, and grappling painfully to bring him closer the next. Hips rocking into Blair convulsively, he hardly seemed to care what his cock was bumping against, as long as they were *touching.* Blair sympathized completely. Much as he knew the climax roaring toward them would be mind-numbingly blissful, it was the act of holding and caressing his lover that mattered. *Nothing* mattered but getting as close to Jim as humanly possible, and then just a bit closer still.

But the body has its own needs, and his finish seared through him with bone destroying force, sending an incredible shock wave of pleasure through his mind that allowed nothing but its own existence. He didn't even feel his back arch and heels dig into Jim to try to answer the imperative of being one with his mate. When the shivers of release finally faded enough to allow thought, he was flat on his back in the middle of their bed, cradling Jim's head to the center of his chest while his lover languidly, dreamily licked and kissed the bare flesh. Hands tenderly petting, Jim was sprawled between Blair's wide-flung legs, reflexively humping the bedding while he cherished him through the afterglow.

Feeling wonderfully, thankfully, calmed and centered for the first time in a week, Blair drifted through the moment, content to be exactly where he was, doing exactly what he was doing. Jim seemed as happy; there wasn't any urgency in his caresses, only a relaxed savoring of the body he held. He was almost detached in his attentions, as if what he was doing didn't matter, as long as it involved Blair.

There was something familiar about that, eerily so, and it nudged Blair's conscience, making him try to focus on why Jim's focus was slightly diluted. Before he could ask or frame the question properly, even to himself, the phone rang, startling them both.

"Leave it," Jim muttered. "We're off duty. We're so off duty we're not in the same country as that phone."

Tempted to go along with him, Blair pointed out anyway, "At least listen to the message, so we'll know why Simon is tearing us a new one."

The answering machine picked up, and in the silence of the loft, Blair had no trouble hearing for himself who was on the other end. True to his expectations, it was Simon, and, surprisingly, he sounded apologetic. "Jim, I know Sandburg just got back, and that there's a good chance this machine is about to die a violent death by a pissed off, frustrated lover, but the Tarryton thing has been a burr under your saddle for a while. You've said all along it was going to escalate until somebody died, and it seems you were right. Hoo's Hobby Shop has burned down, arson it looks like, and there was someone in the building when it happened. If you want to be the primary on the case, you'd better get down here."

By the time Simon was through speaking, Jim was sitting up on his heels, indecision plain on his face. Body sated, feeling secure and well-loved, Blair murmured, "We should go. I know you can always check out the scene later, but by the time forensics has gone over things and the coroners have moved the remains, everything will be all messed up sense wise."

"I don't want to go back to work," Jim answered, but they both knew he was already mentally back on the job.

"Hey, the bed will be here when we get done. Or do you think a quickie is going to do more than take the edge off here?"

Bending down to take a quick, hard kiss, Jim said, "At times I wonder if either of us will ever get enough."

"God, I hope not," Blair said sincerely.

With a chuckle at that, Jim got up and got dressed, taking clothes from the drawers rather than try to track them down where they had been flung. Blair did the same, for once only needing a single short-sleeved layer because of the sultry summer air, pausing briefly once in a while as he did to touch Jim lightly in some way. That went on all the way to Tarryton's Family Center - both of them stealing small pats and squeezes which were a poor substitute for being home and wrapped around each other. Surprisingly, Jim didn't retreat all the way back into his cop mindset until they were nearly at the scene, unusual for him, but Blair thought he understood it perfectly.

He was having trouble getting back into work mode himself.

The hobby shop was at the farthest edge from the main entrance to the Complex, and long before they had navigated the smaller streets they could see the confusion of people and fire engines surrounding the building. It had obviously been a major fire, but contained quickly enough that it hadn't spread to any of the other stores. This late at night the expected gathering of spectators was small; mostly owners of other businesses and the night clean up crews. In the midst of fire trucks, police cars, rescue units, and unmarked cruisers, the limo stood out glaringly, drawing Blair's eye to the two men standing near it long before Jim had parked the truck.

They both automatically got out, and he could see that the sentinel already had his senses on high, so he stepped to Jim's side in case he was needed. He was studying the two men standing near the limo a few yards away; the occupants Blair guessed. "Do you know them?" he asked quietly.

"The dark-haired, walking cover for Gentleman's' Quarterly, is Elliot Tarryton," Jim answered. "He owns the complex, along with half of Cascade, I sometimes think. He rents to the businesses here, and has backed loans for several of them. You should read the leases; he really meant it when he named it 'Family Complex. A shopkeeper can lose his lease for allowing children on the premises during a school day, unaccompanied by an adult, for instance."

"And the security patrols don't hassle them when they are loose on their own; they just call their parents!" Blair volunteered, remembering the chagrin of Rainier's resident kid genius when he got busted for 'playing hooky.' "Place has a good reputation; half the yuppies in Cascade bring their kids here to play."

Jim nodded; that apparently wasn't new information to him, and for a split second Blair wondered when he had become so knowledgeable about the premises. And why he hadn't been the one to provide the information. Before he could ask, his partner went on, "The ice blond next to him is Gregor Haurer, professional body guard, and, rumor has it, Tarryton's lover." Jim took a deep breath and unexpectedly grinned. "Cancel that. Definitely not a rumor. We weren't the only ones rudely interrupted this evening, Chief."

"You can tell from here? Scent?"

"Mmm," Jim answered, going back to business and beginning to scan their immediate surroundings with both a cop's and sentinel's eye. Nevertheless he finished briefing Blair. Haurer is a 'Nam vet, marital arts expert, and former CIA operative. But one of the rare good ones; Kelso likes him. Tarryton had a shaky reputation - not exactly shady or crooked, but it was hinted that he didn't mind taking advantage or pushing his weight around to get what he wanted. Then Haurer came to work for him and that kind of speculation faded. Haurer's been getting the credit for that."

A nudge got them walking forward, and Blair sneaked a last peek at the pair over his shoulder, admiring the supportive way the bodyguard hovered near the businessman. When he turned his attention back to the front, Simon was coming to join them, his ever-present cigar sketching abstracts in the air.

"Pretty simple-minded arson," he said immediately. "It's obvious the idea was more of the same kind of destruction and vandalism that's been plaguing this place for a while. My guess is whoever's behind it didn't have a clue the old man was in the back. According to security, Johnston Carter was pretty regular in his habits and almost always locked up the place at 9 pm sharp. The exception is when he's doing inventory, and then he had a habit of letting them know he was going to be in late. Didn't call this time, though."

"Any witnesses?" Jim asked automatically, heading for the shop. "For when it started, or the last person known to have talked to the victim?"

With that the conversation fell into the routine that Blair knew by heart, and he only listened with half an ear, giving more of his attention to the way Jim was sorting through his impressions while he walked. By the time they reached the carcass of the burned out building, he was positive that the sentinel hadn't found anything suspicious about any of the bystanders. The vandals hadn't hung around then to admire their work, then. That was odd. Given that they could blend in with whoever showed up for gawking at the fire, most would have come back to get cheap thrills from the gossip in the crowd.

Picking their way carefully through the waterlogged debris, Simon led them to where Forensics was working. They gagged at the smell, then Jim murmured, "Brace yourself, Chief," and squatted down to lift the sheet covering the corpse. Blair didn't prepare himself, but he didn't look, either. Burn victims were the hardest for him. They barely looked human any more, and what was left was an obscene parody of the human form in his eyes.

After a minute Jim said thoughtfully, "We might want to look at other motives besides vandalism, Captain. This man was probably dead before the fire started."

Simon gave a little jump, but from behind them Serene Chang agreed. "More than likely; the autopsy will show whether or not there was smoke in the lungs. But to guess from the relaxed posture of the limbs, as opposed to the defensive crouch fire causes in living victims, I would guess it had been at least an hour before the flames did their damage."

"The fire was to cover a murder?" Blair hazarded.

"Could be. Or he could have already been dead of natural causes in the back of the shop, and the arsonists didn't know when they started the fire. We'll check out the murder angle, anyway."

Expression distant, Jim rose to survey the wreckage, occasionally picking up pieces to examine more closely. Chang slanted a long look at him once, but most of the department was used to his odd working habits. Since it gave him the best record any of them had heard of, no one gave him a hard time about what methods he used to get his 'hunches.'

For his part, Blair spoke with Simon, getting an update on the case. He kept a weather eye on his partner, but they were practiced enough that he didn't need to use the softly spoken, 'heads-up, man,' that would pull Jim back from the brink of a zone.

"From the start none of this has made sense," Banks said thoughtfully. "Kids out for trouble, playing pranks, destroy out of thoughtlessness and pick targets at random. Usually they travel en masse, are easy to spot, and as easy to deflect. The security teams roaming this place are good at what they do. High spirits are okay in the right place, and any one getting out of hand is pointed either to the exit or the right place to burn that kind of energy off.

"There's never been any warning, and never anyone around that admits to seeing anything. A rock thrown through a plate glass window, spray paint on signs or doors, fixtures torn down, equipment damaged - you know the kind of thing I'm talking about, Sandburg. It *looks* random, but *feels* premeditated, if you get my drift."

"Didn't the uniforms think at one point maybe rival gangs were working themselves up to claiming the Complex as part of their territory?" Blair asked, details from Jim's last conversation about the trouble here floating up to the front of his mind.

"It was a good theory," Banks agreed. "But it didn't pan out. For one thing, it's too far out for most. And, like I said, the security here is good. Gang colors are *not* allowed, and neither are gang grievances. Word on the street is that most are happy with the Complex being neutral ground. Guess even bangers need a place to play once in a while."

Thinking about what Jim told him about the owner, Blair said slowly, "Could it be, uh, more personal than you think? Could the real target be Tarryton himself, and since they can't get to the man, they're targeting his property? Someone with a grievance or grudge?"

Coming up beside them, Jim answered, "Tried that on for size already, Chief. Man owns real estate all over Washington, let alone Cascade, and some of it more publicly visible, like his corporate headquarters. None of it is having any unusual problems with vandalism."

"Security's better there?" Banks asked.

"Haurer's in charge of it all, and it's all good."

The only other thing that came to mind for Blair was that it could be a hate crime, gay bashing as it were. But hate crimes don't hide. The words 'fag' and 'queer' were generally tossed about in abandon. Of course, the 'fag' in question was one hell of a wealthy and influential man. Maybe the bashers were being uncommonly circumspect to be able to keep up their activities as long as possible.

Wondering if Jim had had the same thought, he started to ask, but Jim took him in a loose grip at one bare elbow and guided him out of the burned and charred structure. "Time to go straight to the source," he announced calmly. "Let's see what Mr. Tarryton thinks about all this."

They made their way carefully, justifying Jim's possessive hold, but he didn't drop it once they were clear of the building. Instead, as if he thought Blair would be reluctant to speak to a rich man, he urged him forward, staying slightly behind until they were nearly within polite speaking distance of the other two. It wasn't until Haurer dropped a fast glance at the bracelet on Blair's left wrist, immediately flicking another up to the identical one Jim wore, that he caught onto what his partner had in mind.

As soon as the bodyguard did that and returned his eyes front and forward like a proper subservient guard, Jim let go, with a last gentle tug. "Smooth, Ellison, smooth," Blair sub vocalized. "Let him know that we're a couple so he won't go too ballistic when you poke into their private life."

A barely audible snort told him that his sentinel had heard. Aloud he said, hefting his badge up for inspection, "Mr. Tarryton? Detective Ellison, Major Crimes, and this is my partner, Dr. Sandburg, a consultant with the department. I apologize for bothering you, but would you be available to answer a few questions?"

"Certainly, Detective, though I don't know how helpful I can be." Tarryton sounded genteelly concerned, a bare step above politely disinterested. "I heard about the fire from the night staff and came down in case I could be of assistance to the shop owners. At the time I didn't know about Mr. Carter, or that the flames had been successfully contained."

"Well, for starters, do you know who we should notify? So far no one has had any idea about family," Jim said with professional briskness.

"No, though I do know he lived alone. If you like, I'll have my assistant pull the file we have on the business. It's possible the lease has co-signers or what have you." As detached as the man was trying to be, Blair thought that he picked up on an underlying emotion - dread maybe.

"That would be appreciated," Blair said, unconsciously making his voice friendlier than Jim's had been. "I'll be notifying the Victim Advocates unit so they can start proceedings if necessary to enter Mr. Carter's home, but if it he does have family, your assistance could speed the notification considerably."

"Would it be possible for us to drop by for the information in person?" Jim inserted. "There are one or two other questions that I'd prefer to tackle when we're all fresh."

Blair barely bit down a smirk at Jim's choice of words, and the fleeting look of disconcertment on both Tarryton's and Haurer's made it harder. He had the impression that the businessman was about to deny Jim's request when his bodyguard subtly shifted. If he hadn't been on the giving end of such 'hints' a thousand times himself, he might have missed it. As it was Tarryton smiled a bit wryly and said, "Of course. Shall we say 10, then? I'm sure whatever else I have on my agenda can be moved or delayed."

Not paying the slightest attention to the implied tone of being inconvenienced, Jim said smoothly, "Sounds good. Tomorrow morning, or should I say this morning?" With that he turned on his heel and left, striding away as if he'd already discarded them as being of any other use to his case.

Feeling awkward as always when he did that, Blair made do with a fast nod of farewell and trotted after him, not able to get mad. Once they were in the truck, he asked with mix of irritation and admiration in his voice, "How do you do that, anyway?"

"Do what, Chief?" Jim asked distractedly, starting the engine.

"Manage to give the impression that you've got far better things to be doing than talking to whoever the hell you're questioning, while being totally polite when you do it?"

Jim turned to grin at him, laying a caressing hand in a good place. "I *do* have better things to be doing."

"Then why are we sitting here?" Blair asked cheekily.

"I'm drawing out the anticipation," Jim said dryly, but he put the truck in gear and started driving one-handed.

"Anticipation, my ass. You're trying to torture me," Blair shot back, bucking up into the fingers touching him.

"As a matter of fact, it *is* your ass I'm anticipating, and since I can't do much more than that, why should I be the only one to suffer?" Jim asked practically.

"Suffer? You don't even know the meaning of the word. Yet!" Blair promised direly, the words offset by the slightly breathless way they came out.

"You'd be surprised, Chief," Jim said, unexpectedly serious. "You'd be surprised." Then he found the sensitive spot just where cock met balls and pressed just right, nearly sending Blair through the roof in shocked pleasure. Both the tone and words were lost in the increasingly heated love-play between them, and Blair didn't remember them again until he was nearly asleep later that night, too exhausted and replete to wonder what Jim had meant.

***

Waking with a pounding headache the next morning was an unpleasant surprise to Jim. He'd been half expecting it to vanish completely when Blair arrived, since it had made its first appearance as soon as his lover had winged out of sight. And somewhere between Blair throwing himself into his arms and finally getting to their bed, it had vanished without him noticing. He supposed he'd attributed it to the absence of his guide all along, just as Blair had done when told about it.

Obviously they were both wrong.

Carefully opening his eyes, he couldn't help but smile, pain and all. Blair was lying on the other side of the bed where Jim had unwillingly left him the night before, after he'd fallen asleep. Curls a wild mass of confusion, skin rosy and beard burned in half a dozen places, not to mention decorated with a profusion of love-bites, his mate looked as if he'd been loved to within an inch of his life. The utterly replete and sated smile lingering on the full lips only added to the impression, and it was all Jim could do not to wake him up and do it all over again.

He didn't dare. At the airport, torn between loosening the death grip he had over his senses to finally locate his lover and keeping his vow to himself to choke off the connection, he'd had the choice snatched away by Blair's impetuous greeting. His senses had spun out to his mate, snaring them both completely, and it had taken all Jim had had not to glut himself there in the airport.

At the deepest level of himself, he'd been incredibly relieved that Blair had been content with dry humping the first time. His hard-on had been forced to take a back seat to what his senses demanded, sometimes fading completely. Thankfully Simon's call had come in, and the deeply ingrained control the job required allowed him to rein his errant senses back in again.

By the time they'd returned home, he was able to make love the way Blair deserved, though there had been very little satisfaction in it for him. It was hard to get off when you felt like you were shrouded in a dozen layers of latex. All that had mattered, though, was that he could get hard and stay that way as long as Blair needed him to be.

When his lover had dropped off into contented exhaustion, Jim reinforced his tethers on his senses where Blair was concerned, as he did periodically to make sure that he wasn't accidentally-on-purpose slipping. So far he had no idea if it was actually working to dampen the bond. Short of becoming injured or ill, he couldn't think of a way to test it. The small signs of it, the sort of thing that had allowed Simon to realize what had happened before either he or Blair had had a clue, had always been done unconsciously. If either of them were missing those, neither had noticed.

He supposed the headache could be a result, though. In that case, he could live with it.

After letting his eyes feast a few more minutes - after all, Jim seldom had reason to use sentinel sight where Blair was concerned - he slipped out of bed, letting his partner sleep. Between jet lag and last night, he needed the rest.

It took willpower, not only to *not* keep track of Blair while he went through morning routines, but not to crawl back upstairs and re-join him. It would hardly surprise Simon if he did call in. But his innate sense of duty was strong, and his reasons for giving Blair space more so. He went to work and had most of the paper work sitting on his desk cleared up by the time he needed to go to Tarryton's headquarters.

Once there, he showed his badge to the receptionist in the main lobby. "Detective Ellison; Mr. Tarryton is expecting me."

With smooth professional grace, she nodded, handing him a folder. "I've unlocked the elevator that goes straight up to his floor. You'll be met at the top. Straight down this hall, last elevator on the left."

Putting on his own professional air, he nodded and went the way she'd indicated, hiding his amusement. So Tarryton is getting back a little of his own for last night by emphasizing his power and position,Jim thought while the elevator ascended. Good move if I hadn't seen better before I'd left home. He scrubbed at his forehead in the privacy of the elevator. I am *not* in the mood for power games. Hope this satisfies his ego.

The door slid open silently for anybody but a sentinel, and he winced at the scrape of metal over metal. To his surprise, Haurer was on the other side waiting for him, and for a moment the two of them sized each other up. Fast,Jim decided. Much faster than you'd think for his slenderness, and age. Bet it's all wiry muscle. If we danced, who won would probably depend on the terrain - and the reason for the fight.

Haurer came to his own conclusions; like Jim, they didn't show on his face. Impassively he asked, "Alone, Detective?"

"My partner had other responsibilities today," Jim said blandly, walking out of the elevator and automatically falling into step with him.

"At the university?" The question was posed for the pure reason of telling Jim that he, too, had been researched, and Haurer didn't consider him an unknown quantity.

"Among others." Then because he wanted the man to know that they weren't antagonists, he added, "Sandburg manages to get himself involved in more ad hoc activities than any one I've ever known. You'd think between the department and Rainier he'd have enough on his plate."

"I know the type," Haurer said dryly. The grin they exchanged was the universal one of men complaining happily about beloved spouse, and they entered Tarryton's office comfortable with each other's unspoken agenda.

Taking his cue from his bodyguard apparently, Tarryton offered coffee and sat in one the chairs positioned to one side for informal conversation. Genuinely grateful for it, Jim joined him and took a drink of the strong brew, then set his cup down and got right to business. "According to the M.E., Johnston Carter died of a massive coronary before the arsonists torched his shop."

Relief visible on his face, Tarryton sat back in his chair, looking up at his companion as Haurer came to stand behind him. With a fleeting touch to the barely visible hand on his shoulder, he gave his attention back to Jim. "Thank you for telling me that. I didn't like the man, but I can't think of a worse way to die."

"For his sake and his families', I'm grateful," Jim agreed. "As far as the case is concerned, the exact cause of death makes no difference. Though they're not, for a time the perpetrators *will* think they were the cause of Carter's death. They might always, if they don't buy the official press release. As far as they're concerned, they're in all the way now. The incidents have been increasing in frequency and damage all along; you can expect violence to be added now, as well, directed toward both customers and owners."

Both men nodded, as if his news wasn't unexpected; Haurer had probably anticipated it. "We'll be beefing up security, both the number of men on duty and the number of patrols," Tarryton said, confirming Jim's guess.

Hesitantly, beginning to like the man despite the inauspicious start, Jim told him, "That might not do any good; the evidence is strong that an insider at the Complex is involved. Either in security or an owner."

"Not one of my people," Haurer said firmly. "Every last one is checked out before they're hired, and you probably have a very good idea of how thorough I can be." He began to pace in agitation. "The whole idea behind the Complex was for it to be a safe place for play, for family time. From the start it's gotten the best of my people, and there are pay bonuses for working shifts there to keep them. It is not one of mine."

Eyes following his bodyguard, Tarryton said, "We have considered that possibility ourselves, Detective, obviously. After all, in one incident the high intensity night-lights for the go-cart field were shot out. Security noticed it getting darker in that section, drove over, didn't find a soul after an exhaustive search, and called in the initial report of six lights out. By the time the police arrived, there were eleven. Arrogant bastards hid, then went back to what they were doing; they knew the patrol would go back to its rounds after the call. I assure you, we *have* checked our personnel very carefully."

With a shrug of his hands, Jim conceded the point. "That leaves the owners or their employees." He thought for a moment, then decided to be totally honest. "And they think *you're* behind it; trying to drive them out to sell the land to a developer for a huge sum of money."

Stiffening, Tarryton jerked his eyes back to Jim, face going expressionless. Behind him, Haurer stopped pacing and immediately came to stand behind him again, hand in what Jim was realizing was its customary place. They were both obviously ready to do battle, and do it together.

The part of Jim that never stopped thinking about Blair wondered if that was how other people saw the two of them. More than a team, more than partners even. *More* in some indefinable way that could be recognized, but not described. For a heart-rending moment, head thumping noisily, he missed Blair, missed him far more than when he'd been physically gone. Discipline rose to help him before his pain reached his eyes or his silence was noticeable.

He went on speaking with barely a pause. "It's only a rumor, one that I couldn't trace to its source. And even the ones passing it to me didn't really believe it; money as a motive for you didn't make sense to them. Not to me, either, by the way. Most were forthcoming about how much they paid for rent, and you're part owner in more than one, a co-signer for the business loan in others. It's plain that profit isn't what you have in mind for the Complex."

"No, it's not about money," Tarryton said shortly. Jim kept quiet, letting his body express his interest, and waited patiently. After a squeeze from his companion that only a sentinel would have seen, the businessman added, "It's about payback. You've probably heard all the publicity about me; poor kid makes good, rises to wealth and power through hard work."

"The Living American Dream," Jim quoted Business Weekly.

Tarryton snorted in disgust. "My dream wasn't to be rich and wealthy; it was to never have to be hungry or cold again. And it did happen through hard work, but I'm not stupid enough to believe my own press. Luck and a damned good friend played a big part. My first job was working as a cashier for a specialty shop; model trains and airplanes. I loved it! Busted my ass, became friends with the owner who was one surly son of a bitch, but he bankrolled me on *my* first shop."

Taking another drink of his coffee, Jim nodded. "More than one person told me that you encourage them to hire the same kids who frequent the shops. Pays off, too, most of them think. For every one that doesn't have a work ethic, there's another that loves what he's doing so much, he busts *his* ass. Which is the other part of where you were going with the Complex, besides being a safe playground." It wasn't a question; it was a simple statement of fact.

"Payback," Haurer confirmed for both of them.

That left only one question, the Jim had really come to ask. "Mr. Tarryton, we have to stop this now before someone gets hurt. I don't have to tell you that. But we're operating with too little information, which forces us to use the old stand by. Method, motive, and opportunity. Method and opportunity are obvious if revenge or hate is the motive. Is there someone who has a *personal* reason for wanting to see the Family Complex fail, or see *you* fail to succeed with it?"

Tarryton tilted back his head to exchange a long look with Haurer, and Jim was struck by such a strong feeling of deja vu that he nearly choked with it. Mentally fumbling to identify why such a common, simple gesture would seem emotionally charged, he remembered Blair tilting up his head in almost the exact same way under a dozen different circumstances. For the two of them to share information, to trade a smile, to say with eyes what couldn't be said aloud, to reaffirm with a look what they were to each other.

Shock hit him hard, and he hastily buried it deeply, not letting himself look or think about it. Not here. Not now. But his study of the pair in front took on sharp intensity, his senses and instincts dissecting every bit they could pick up.

Either it never showed or the other two men were so wrapped in each other, they missed the brief flurry of emotion in Jim. With a fraction of a smile, Haurer gave a last pat to his companion, then came around the chair to sit on the floor beside Tarryton, knees up and hands crossed over them. "Keeping your private life *private,* he said, meeting Jim's eyes frankly, "is damn near impossible when you live in the spotlight of the press. Still, we do the best we can. People reach their own conclusions despite what you say or don't say, do or don't do. And people have reached their conclusions about us."

"For the most part," Tarryton said next, "We don't confirm or deny, and just deal with the fallout. At the complex, there are three people you could classify as 'fallout.' Chastity White of the Doll Hospital, Eric Hayes of Premier Paintball, and...." He hesitated, then added, "And Johnston Carter of Hoo's Hobby."

That made Jim sit up and take notice, figuratively speaking. "If he wasn't happy with you personally, why did you come out last night to the fire? For any landlord that's a bit above and beyond, but when there's a problem already, it looks damned suspicious."

Again Haurer and Tarryton said a lot to each other with a single look, then Haurer said, "I told him that at the time. But with all that's been happening at the Complex, he thought that it would upset the other owners if he *didn't* show. There have already been some rumblings from a few of them about pulling out, trying elsewhere when their leases run out. At the moment it's only rumblings. As you've learned, the rent is damned reasonable and business in the Complex is *good,* even for the more esoteric specialty shops, because they get impulse overflow from the more popular business."

"So it was intended as a show of support to the others, though it would have been Carter directly benefiting," Jim said thoughtfully.

"Exactly," Tarryton said firmly, giving Jim the impression he was getting the last word in a fight he'd had with his companion the night before. "If it made me a target, so be it. It is more important to keep the other business owners on as even a keel as possible."

"I see." Though a canny businessman had to be a good liar, not to mention an ex-CIA operative, Jim was nearly positive that he was being told the truth. And, to his cop instincts, it didn't feel right that Tarryton would use violence to remove problems. It was too easy to use money and influence to accomplish the same thing, if that was what he wanted. Right or wrong, he had the impression that both men considered people like Carter and Hayes as minor blemishes in their existence.

But to a bigot, neither of them would be considered minor. Tarryton and Haurer would be an offense to everything they believed in. Recalling the confrontation between them and Hayes during his first visit to the Complex, Jim said slowly, "You as the target; get *you* out... What would you do if the majority of businesses wanted out because of all the trouble? If they lost confidence in you? Sell the whole thing? Maybe sell them *their* piece of it, at less than market?"

It was Tarryton's turn to sit up and take notice, though he didn't bother to hide his reaction. "I hadn't thought. Greg?"

"Yes," he answered thoughtfully, obviously hearing the wealth of questions behind Tarryton's use of his name in that tone. And answering them with the one word.

The shock Jim had shoved down reared up against its walls, but he held firm, not letting this new show of how connected the two were break his resolve. Later. He'd deal... *later.*

The couple gave him their full attention, but Haurer spoke for both. "The Complex is important enough to both of us that we would give it up before being the cause of it closing. It's likely that we would have tried to arrange for an employee buy-out of a sorts. If all of the owners came together as a cooperative, each buying as much of a share as they could. Or we might float loans for those who couldn't buy in right away.

"Don't know how we'd handle the security. Subcontract?" Haurer was practically talking to himself. "Having guards on hand and highly visible is too important to keeping the place running smoothly. Makes parents feel secure and encourages trouble-making kids to take it elsewhere."

Getting them back on topic, Tarryton asked, "Is there any way to test or prove this theory, Detective Ellison?"

"Since it's only a theory, there's little I can do, officially," Jim answered, thinking it through. "I'll run a background check on both of them, and check with my sources about any extra-curricular activities they might have. Since your security has more carte blanche - would it be possible for you to keep track of Hayes and White's movements through the complex? When they leave their shops, where they go, that sort of thing?"

"That's tricky; we could get sued for harassment or invasion of privacy," Tarryton said. "But since we're stepping up patrols anyway, we could offer, ah, escort services to employees and owners staying after closing. That gives us an excuse to at least know if they're on the grounds or not. And our people are discreet; it shouldn't be obvious that they're watching unless the person under scrutiny is paranoid about it already. A hint in and of itself, if you ask me."

"Agreed." Seeing that they had accomplished all they could, Jim stood and offered his hand to Tarryton. "I need to bring my captain up to speed on this and start those background checks." He grinned at Haurer as he finished with Tarryton and turned to him. "And you'll let me know if *yours* turns up anything interesting?"

With a snort of amusement, Haurer gave a healthy shake. "My sneaking around days are over, Detective. Thank God. I'm sure I'll be speaking with you later."

"I'll count on it, then." Jim left without looking back, unable to bear seeing them standing side by side with what they felt for each other as tangible as body heat to Jim's awareness.

He held down his riotous feelings until he reached his truck in the parking garage, then, taking advantage of the relative isolation of his parking spot and lack of foot traffic, he dropped his face in his hands and let go. Outwardly, all that showed was the frenetic pulse of his jaw muscle and a brittle tension in his body. Inwardly he quaked under an onslaught of confusion that was as bad as when his senses woke up in Peru.

Astonishment and jealousy seemed to be the strongest contenders for dominance. Intellectually he knew it was possible for other couples, other lovers to be as close as he and Blair were. Emotionally, it had always felt so unique, so wonderfully, incredibly impossible that his heart had always believed such a close union was theirs and theirs alone. Ridiculously it made him angry that Tarryton and Haurer were blessed with their version of it. And because they came by theirs naturally; it hadn't been forced on one of them by a freak of genetics.

That brought his head up, and he reached for his keys without thinking to put them in the ignition. Had he been making a false assumption; *was* the bond he'd been trying to choke off because of his senses? Or was it a natural part of what he and Blair shared? Very, very carefully he reviewed what he had seen of Haurer and Tarryton.

Their connection had seemed to be due to an *awareness* of each other that wasn't unlike how he was with Blair. Whether consciously or not, because of their feelings, they paid close attention to each other with some part of their mind, no matter what they were doing. With practice, that could lead to being able to read another person as if they an extension of you. And he hadn't seen any evidence at all that it went deeper than that; deep enough to reach across distance to tell one of them that something was seriously wrong with their lover.

Thoughts sifting and ordering methodically, carefully, he put the truck in gear and began to drive, not worried that his distraction would put him in danger. Having something for his body to do always made it easier to think, and he trusted his reflexes to be able to cope if the road threw the unexpected at him.

If a connection could arise from the level of attention paid to your partner, then it was logical that a sentinel/shaman pair would create a more powerful one. After all, he couldn't help but be more aware of Blair than was normally possible for partners. On top of that, as open and giving as his guide was, he responded to the level of attention with equal intensity. It also meant that when Jim cut it off cold the way he had, that on some level Blair knew the difference. That would explain why his lover had been so panicked about a short separation. He wasn't afraid of being apart; he was afraid of what he sensed was happening and was blaming it on the obvious.

Pulling into the station parking garage without remembering the drive there, Jim stopped the truck and made his decision. If he wanted what Tarryton and Haurer had without the burden the senses put on Blair, he was going to have to substitute plain, old everyday tender loving care for the input he had depended on his abilities for. He could do that. Hell, he wanted to do that. Blair deserved it. After all, his partner had built his part of their life together with nothing more than that and a shit-load of stubborn.

That made Jim smile, and he got out, rubbing at his temple where the pain was winding itself up tighter again. It bothered him for a moment, then he told himself that he'd better just get used to it and deliberately began plotting what he could do to show Blair what he meant to him. That kept him occupied until he reached the bullpen, and he pulled up short at the sight of his partner sitting at his usual place, already elbows deep into the paperwork that accumulated during his absence. Hating that he hadn't *known* Blair was there, telling himself to suck that up, too, Jim crossed to his side, calling out to Henri on the way to alert Blair that he was there.

At the sound of his voice, his mate looked up, eyes beaming and beautiful, and Jim knew he was doing the right thing. After giving with a smile the gentle tug on Blair's wrist for a 'hello, I love you,' he sat and started on his report for Simon about his conversation with Tarryton. When it was done, he gingerly slipped out a folder from Blair's pile when he wasn't looking, and started in on it, sure that his partner wouldn't remember that he hadn't gotten to that one yet when he found it in the done stack.

It was a good start; and doing the shopping before Blair got home that evening to make a list for tomorrow was a great next step.

***

Blair disembarked from his plane, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and unable to believe he'd actually nodded off on the flight back to Cascade. The anxiety that had kept him on edge last time had been much reduced, for which he was grateful. He didn't know how he could have handled it along with his current reality of running like the Red Queen from "Alice Through The Looking Glass" - going at top speed just to stay in one place.

Once Swett had approved of the initial plans for MAC, he had set the nearly impossible deadline of having the mock up ready by the end of the next meeting, six weeks later. Somehow he and the others had met it, too, though Blair couldn't honestly figure out just *how* they had. Shifting his bag to the other hand, he snorted. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep had a lot to do with it, he admitted to himself. No wonder I crashed. Odd, though I haven't really *felt* tired. In fact, I've worked through two nights in a row and honestly didn't remember I hadn't slept. If it weren't for Jim... His thoughts trailed off, becoming diffused and glowing in the warmth of the incredible memories of the last weeks.

True to his word, Jim had picked up the slack around the apartment and Major Crimes, and had done it so effortlessly Blair had to think about it to see where he had. If that hadn't made him feel cherished and special, the way Jim had been especially loving and attentive would. Not that his partner made passes. With the kind of schedule Blair was keeping it was impossible for him to know when it would be welcomed and when it would be a nuisance. But if Blair so much as smiled sexily, Jim would prowl over to him and onto him and into him and.... and he was going to have to stop thinking along those terms if he was going to be able to walk.

Already anticipating getting home, Blair patiently picked his way to the main hallway of the airport, looking up and down the seating area for Jim. To his dismay, it was Joel Taggart he spotted waiting to one side, and he hurried toward the captain, questions flowing to the tip of his tongue.

"He's all right," Joel said smugly the instant Blair got into earshot. "But there was a nasty incident at the Tarryton's and he couldn't get away from the special meeting the mayor called."

"Oh, my, God. Joel, please tell me no one was hurt for real this time," Blair said, automatically putting one of his bags into his friend's outstretched hand.

"Only because the security guards were on their toes." Joel started down the corridor, talking as he went. "The go-carts were sabotaged. Luckily it was an adult driving when the first one went haywire. He didn't panic, just took his foot off the accelerator and tumbled off when the speed was low enough. Security made the owner check them all, though, and sure enough, over half had been tampered with."

"If no one was hurt, why did the mayor get involved?" Blair asked, following Joel toward the main exit of the airport. "And how did you get out of it?"

The dark face lit up with wry humor. "Money. It's an election year and since Tarryton is working closely with the force on this, His Honor apparently thought he should, too. Me, I used the move from the Bomb Squad as an excuse: haven't been working in Major Crimes long enough to be familiar enough with the cases or the proper procedures on them."

"Yeah, right, like you weren't spending half your time there already. How's the ride with Jim working out anyway? I gotta tell you, I'm glad you've been there to watch his back while I've been out of town." Blair nimbly dodged an over-burdened man coming through the wrong doors then broke out in a grin at the sight of Taggart's unmarked cruiser sitting, bubble lights on, in the tow away zone in the unloading area. "Simon will not like it if he finds out about that, man."

"Simon's idea." Joel tossed the bag he held in the back and waited for Blair to get in. "Riding with Jim has been an eye-opener. The man's instincts are so sharp, they should be registered as a deadly weapon. Walks into a crime scene, stalks around like he's looking at the whole thing through a microscope, then asks questions about things it wouldn't even occur to me to think about! Like he has this image built about what happened that's so real, he can run it like a movie in his head."

You have no idea, Joel,Blair thought happily. You have no idea. Aloud he said, "Now you know why the rest of the department puts up with his less than cheerful attitude. Speaking of which, he must have been worse than a bear with a sore ass if Simon's willing to abuse the regs to get me back to the job as fast as possible."

"Actually, Jim's been pretty quiet," Joel said absently, concentrating on pulling into traffic. "To the point you can almost forget he's around, especially during a stake-out. Sometimes he just sort of sits there, staring into space, looking kind of, well, *lost.* Then he snaps out of it and goes back to work, or gets up and takes a walk." His tone turned confidential and a bit shy. "Frankly, Blair, I think he's missing you."

Blair hardly heard him; the news that Jim was zoning, and doing it often enough that it had been noticed had both his heart and brain in overdrive. "Bet the rest of the guys, specially Rafe, give him a hard time about the spacing thing," he joked weakly, trying to get more information from Joel.

He shot him an odd look, and Blair belatedly played back the last line. Inwardly groaning, he stood his ground. It was too late to back-pedal now and he *really* needed to know more about the zones. Obligingly, Joel said, "I've been spending a lot of time with him, otherwise I wouldn't have noticed. It's not like he does it a lot or for long." A moment later he added. "I think Banks noticed, though. I've seen him watching Jim while he's woolgathering, then go back to whatever he's doing the minute Jim shakes it off. Once he called him in and they talked quite a while, but it wasn't to dress him down, I don't think. At least, Jim wasn't scowling when he came back out."

"I'm sure that if Simon has a problem with it, he'd let Jim know loud enough for the entire bullpen to hear," Blair said, forcing himself to sound amused, and not completely relieved at the information. If Simon hadn't called him to let him know, the zones couldn't be that bad or worrying. "So why the hurry if I'm not needed to keep Jim from snarling at the mayor?"

"Because the press is beginning to notice all the trouble at the Family Complex, and both Tarryton and the mayor are desperate to play it right." Joel slanted a glance at Blair, smiling gently. "Banks wants to be able to say that he not only has his best team on it, but he has the services of an expert. The advanced publicity Swett is giving the mobile classroom gives your name a lot of impact, and apparently having an anthropologist on staff is becoming a corporate fad."

Groaning theatrically, Blair put his head back on the seat. "Nothing like a little pressure to perform. As far as the classroom is concerned, right now it's only a bunch of cardboard with pretty pictures glued on it!"

Grinning, Joel shook his head. "It'll be great, and you know it." He sent another look Blair's way, and this time Blair was able to meet it easily. "You're really loving it, just like Jim said, aren't you? You're practically shining here."

"Yeah," Blair admitted, popping up and waving his hands with the speed of his thoughts. "It's hard to explain why, especially when all that an outsider can see is the amount of work I'm putting into it. It's like, the best of all possible worlds, you know? It's creative, building something from scratch, but it's anthro, and, man, people have *always* been a fascination to me, and I'm getting to share it with kids, kids who might never see anyone who *isn't* just like them on the surface, outside of the movies or the tube. And we're trying to let them know that it's okay to be different, even *under* the surface, so we're doing good on a lot of different levels. You wouldn't *believe* how neatly all the different disciplines are coming together into this. I never realized how much education, anthro, psychiatry...."

"Whoa, whoa, I get the picture, I get the picture!" Joel laughed. "Police work must be boring as hell compare to that."

Blair chuckled and said, "With Jim as a partner? Get real." Nevertheless he sat back again, and asked, "Want to bring me up to speed on what is going on around Major Crimes? And not just the cases, either. I want the gossip, alllll the nice, juicy stuff."

Taggart happily did just that, filling Blair in as he drove them to the station. By the time they arrived, he'd covered the basics, and, as requested, had started in on the stories currently making the rounds at the bullpen. He led the way to one of the conference rooms as he talked, both of them nodding 'hello' to people they knew on the way.

Blair was only listening with half an ear to Joel; most of him was fighting down an incipient hard-on that a mule would be proud to claim. It was going to be agony standing there next to Jim while the meeting wore its endless through what was left of the evening. All he wanted was to do exactly what he had done when he got home last time. Throw himself onto Jim and stay there!

He followed Joel into the conference room, and pulled up short, a horrible spike of pain impaling him to the soul.

The room was empty except for Jim and Haurer, side by side and bending over a map spread on the table, close enough to each other to kiss if either should turn his head. The white blond hair and pale complexion beside Jim's dark hair and honey-toned skin was a beautiful contrast, and for a minute the two warriors looked so natural together, an insane part of Blair wondered why he'd ever had the nerve to think he belonged where Haurer stood. Jim was wearing the half smile he used when he was pleased about something, and a soft, somehow intimate sounding, laugh from Haurer told Blair the other man was why he smiled.

To add to his shock, though he'd been in the room long enough for Joel to have reached the table, Jim hadn't looked up at Blair. Hadn't been aware of his presence at all, though he should have known he was in the building, let alone less than ten feet away. It was as if he were totally absorbed by the man beside him.

Shock quickly turned into anger, and without thinking Blair strode across the room. "Hey, Jim! Mayor must have let Major Crimes off easy if he's gone already." To his relief - and to the awakening guilt following hard on the heels of his irrational reaction - his lover jerked his head up and broke into the delighted grin that did much to put Blair's rocketing emotions back on an even keel.

But he didn't move from his spot, and all he said was, "Good flight home, Chief?"

Okay, so officially they were in the closet, and Joel was in the room. And Blair had done his own form of 'don't tell' on the way home from the airport. But damn it, he wanted more than a tepid, 'hey, chief.' "Smooth enough for me to doze, if you can believe it," Blair said, concealing his irritation. He went around the table and deftly inserted himself between the two men, all but rubbing along his partner as he did.

Jim swayed into the touch, eyes glazing slightly as he stared down into Blair's face though his expression didn't change. That did more to improve Blair's mood, and he asked seriously, fingers encircling the strong wrist of his lover for a gentle tug, "We didn't get anything on our two suspects?"

It was Haurer who answered when it became obvious that all Jim was going to do was stand there, smiling into Blair's eyes. "Ms. White's whereabouts have been accounted for, as in the other incidents since we began keeping track. This time Mr. Hayes was not. We're fairly sure that she's not involved, or that if she is, it is merely a case of not interfering with the other's plans. If Hayes is involved, he must be working with partner or partners."

Blair hardly heard him; like Jim, he was caught up in the spell they were weaving with a barely tangible touch and loving looks. There was a minute of silence, long enough to seep into his seriously muddled head, and he started to pull away, get some distance between him and his lover so they could work. "Uh, others? Any leads on that?" he stuttered, making himself drop his gaze.

"We'll be keeping tabs on the regulars to the paintball arena." Haurer said. "Some with that hobby might make good recruits for the sort of hate that Hayes spews."

There was a touch of sardonic good humor in his voice, and that seemed to prick at Jim's lack of composure. Jaw tightening, he shifted enough to put a measurable distance between himself and his partner, though he stayed close enough that Blair could feel the heat roaring off of him. "That won't do us much good," Jim said in astonishingly normal tones. "If he's bringing in someone from outside the Complex to help. So far, though, we haven't found any ties to the sort of groups that actively encourage violence toward minorities."

"Not that he has to belong to the KKK to find help," Joel spoke up sourly.

"True," Haurer agreed. "It could just be his drinking buddies for all we know."

"Do we have enough to stake him out?" Blair asked, bludgeoning his brain cells to get them back online - and get other parts of him offline.

Before they could answer, Simon came into the room, rubbing at his forehead. "Haurer, Mr. Tarryton is waiting for you in my office. Believe me, he's more than ready to leave. Sorry to drag you all the way down here for nothing, Sandburg."

"No problem," Blair said honestly, "I'm just glad I missed being put on display."

"You have something in common with Elliot, then. His patience with politicians has never been very strong," Greg said dryly, reaching for the pins holding down the blueprints.

"Then I need to find a way to let him know I appreciate him pulling the mayor off our backs so we could get something done," Jim said easily, catching the end as it came up and rolling them into a cylinder.

"What am I? Stale donuts?" Banks asked irritably. "Jim, you got an aspirin? After an hour with His Honor, my head is ready to explode from the smell of bull manure." "Sure." Jim handed off the prints to Joel, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small bottle of Advil. "To answer your question, Chief, no, not yet. Greg is going to tread some very unstable legal ground and see if anyone is frequenting the arena to the point of ridiculousness. Unlikely that Hayes will be careless enough to let that happen; he's been pretty slick so far."

"You're sure he is behind it," Blair said, frowning, following the bottle from Jim's hand to Simon's and back. It was obvious from the way it sounded that it was nearly empty. Jim had said he was having trouble with headaches; he hadn't said it was bad enough that he was chugging chemicals to help.

"No evidence," Jim agreed absently, leading the way toward the door. "But, yeah."

"I think we're in agreement on that," Simon muttered. "For all the good it does us. Hunches and being 'a good judge of character' will *not* persuade a DA that we have a case."

"So we keep working," Joel shrugged. "Like always."

That brought various snorts and moans of agreement, and everyone went their separate ways, leaving Jim and Blair to go down to the parking garage. They didn't look at each other, both of them trying to maintain a professional front on things, Blair knew, but with passion denied to him, the mishmash of emotion rolling around in his gut fired back up. Growing angrier, trying to fight it off because there was no *reason* for it, he maintained an uncomfortable distance all the way to the truck, thankful that he'd taken the time to toss his bags in it before going up with Joel.

Once they were on the way home, Jim reached for his hand, and Blair pointedly pull it out of range, killing his pang of guilt at the flash of hurt on his lover's face. "How long have you been eating Advil like candy? Don't bother to deny you don't. Simon expected you to have a bottle on you, and that doesn't happen over night."

Looking thoroughly confused at the attack, Jim said shortly, "I'm not taking any more than I should. And I've hardly been hiding that I do, from you or anybody else."

A more sane part of Blair knew that it wasn't an intentional dig at how busy he'd been lately, but the anger snatched up the words as an excuse to burn hotter. "You told me you had a headache; you didn't say a word about it being bad enough to poison yourself with that shit. I'm not a mind-reader; if you'd said something I would have helped."

Expression going blank, Jim ground out, "I tried the other things you keep on hand. They didn't help, the Advil does. Just because it's manufactured instead of being produced by some holistic, do-it-the-natural-way, refugee from the sixties doesn't mean it's automatically garbage. And why should I run to you for a lousy headache anyway?"

"Oh, here we go again with the big, strong silent act," Blair said derisively. "Badass cop Jim Ellison doesn't need anybody to watch out for him, doesn't need any help, doesn't have anything wrong even though his fucking head has been fucking hurting for *weeks!*" He was shouting by the time he got to the last words, though he didn't have a clue why.

There was a surge of nasty satisfaction when Jim gave him a look of pure rage, but it died into putrid sorrow when all he did was lock his jaw tight and shut down. There was no point in trying to argue - or anything else - at that point. For all practical intents and purposes, no one was home in Jim's body except the trained automaton created by the army and sustained by the department. It was Jim's way of sealing off the dangerous parts of him that could sneak out in the guise of anger, a way of protecting those he loved from himself.

Blair hadn't seen that part of him since they first met. It had taken him years to realize how close to the edge Jim must have been that first day in his office not to have been able to leash his training completely.

Seeing his lover do so now grated on his conscience, and Blair countered it by going over his own grievances. Just how well did Jim know Haurer, anyway, to be comfortable with him in his personal space? Not even his *dad* stood that close to him normally! How long had it been going on? Was that why he'd been so willing for Blair to get involved in the Mobile Classroom project? Get him out of the way so he could court a new lover? Was that why all the special attention recently? Jim's guilty conscience?

Preoccupied with hurtful, miserable questions, he didn't notice that they'd made the trip home until the truck stopped moving and Jim got out without saying a word. Blair glared balefully at his retreating back for moment, then followed, reaching into the back to get his luggage. Once inside he could hear the pound of footsteps up the building stairs; he took the elevator, nastily hoping that he'd make it to the top first so he could open the door, then close and lock it in Jim's face.

But the stupid thing moved too slowly, and he when it opened to their floor, he could see the box of light on the wall from the door standing open waiting for him.

Why that simple gesture deflated most of his anger, frustration and suspicion, he didn't know. Maybe it was because it was the opposite of what he would have done, petty and small though it was. Maybe because it was so completely Jim that no matter how mad he was, he still thought of Blair in the small things. After all, it wasn't as if the sentinel needed the light to see in the loft. Or it could have been the simple smell and sight of home, and that it *was* home to Blair. Home because Jim was there.

Feeling foolish and confused, he went in, not surprised to hear the shower running. Part of him urged that he strip off his own clothes and get in with his lover, reminding him persuasively that a loving touch would probably be all it took to end the fight. But he pushed that aside; he didn't want to make up, yet. There were too many questions that he didn't dare ask, too many mixed up emotions that would turn love making into a travesty of what it should be.

Defiantly dropping his bags by the door, he stomped into his old room, sure Jim was tracking his movements through the loft. Hoping it bothered him that Blair didn't join him, hoping more that he'd understand that he was still upset, he threw himself into his desk chair, powering up his computer to check his email.

The routine was a familiar one for him, and he willingly sank into it, wanting to put everything out of his mind except work. It lasted until he ran across an address he wanted to jot down to put into his address book later. He fumbled in a drawer for a pen, found one, and pulled it out tangled in a long strip of something. Eyes still on the screen he tried to free it, then, with an exasperated mutter, tore his eyes away to see what it was snared in.

It was the light blue suede leash and collar that he had jokingly worn the night they had made their vows. The one Jim had tenderly, lovingly removed before just before asking Blair to marry him, saying that he wanted an equal by his side. All the while hard as steel and dripping with need.

The man who had done that was not a man who would be unfaithful. Period.

He would want Blair to succeed at Rainier because it was important for Blair. He would willingly pick up the slack both at the job and the house to help do it. And he would be extra loving and attentive to say as clearly as possible he didn't have a problem with the either the added work or the lack of time spent together. That was who Jim was.

Ashamed, Blair honestly looked at the jealousy and anger that had been fueling him, and saw that it was just the same old anxiety that had been plaguing him for months now, but in a different guise. Head bent over the soft leather in his hands, he tried to calm himself, tried to see past the maelstrom of his emotions, but couldn't seem to center himself. Couldn't find the peace that used to be such a natural part of himself. He sat motionlessly for a long time, lost in the effort, not really hearing as Jim locked down the loft for the night.

The chime of e-mail dropping into his box finally broke his stasis, and he blindly reached out to shut the computer off. As small as the action was, it got him in motion. Tenderly winding the suede into small coil, he put it back where he had found it, and went to shower up himself. There was no way he was going to be able to solve his internal mystery while hurting from the fight with Jim. That had to be fixed first. Now.

Once clean, he climbed the stairs up to their bed, heart pounding painfully and not sure at all what he would find at the top.

It could have been any other night that he worked past Jim going to bed. The room was dark except for the small lamp on Blair's nightstand. His lover was turned with his back to both the stairs and the light, a sheet draped over his hips despite the late August heat. It was only the unnaturally still line of the big body, the hardness in the length of the spine that told Blair that Jim not only wasn't asleep, but that he was still angry.

Or hurt.

He crept onto his own side and lay there a moment, flat on his back, muscles as stiff as Jim's attitude. The first move was going to have to come from him, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of what it should be. As last, tired of acting as if nothing was wrong, he did what his body had wanted all along and rolled over, plastering himself onto Jim, one arm snaking over his waist. "I'm an asshole, know that?" he murmured.

There was no give in the solid mass; only warmth even indicated it was alive. "I mean," he went on conversationally, "Everyone is an asshole once in while, that's a given. Fact of nature, man. But tonight I think I used up a year's worth. Don't even have an excuse to hide behind either. How pathetic is that?"

Jim didn't response to that, either, but Blair only snuggled in closer, nuzzled at the shoulder blade nearest his nose. "I don't suppose you'd consider forgiving me long enough to get laid? I promise, you can go back to the ignoring thing as soon as we're through," he asked innocently. That got him a snort of amusement mixed with irritation and a minute softening that anyone less versed in Jim's body language would have missed. Taking it as a go ahead, he leaned up enough to burrow his nose into the short hair at the back of one ear, murmuring in pleasure at the feel and scent.

"Want you so bad,” he whispered. "Always do, but right now, God, I could eat you up and drink you down and still be hungry for more." He pressed his erection into the cleft of Jim's backside, not trying to enter, but letting him know what he wanted. "Please?"

With a sigh, most of the stiffness evaporated from Jim's body, but he murmured, "Don't know if I can, babe. Too tense to open enough, I think."

"I can help with that," Blair said eagerly. He lapped delicately at the muscle running along the juncture of neck and shoulder. "Let me, please?"

Not waiting for an answer, he did the same at the nape of Jim's neck, feeling the shiver that ran from the touch. It echoed in him, much more strongly, putting a quiver in his middle that threatened to over ride the necessity of preparing his lover. Reining that in, he devoted himself to using lips and tongue to banish the knots from the lean lines of Jim's back, taking his time to cover every inch.

Sliding down the hand he had draped over the taut belly, Blair gently cupped the lax genitals, holding them in place and using his palm to rhythmically press the head of Jim's dick into his tummy. It stretched lazily, growing by slow increments until all he could hold was the very head of it. By then he was in the small of Jim's back, laving the dimples and swells where it melded into solid ass, hardly hearing his own moans for the breathy cries escaping from his lover.

Despite all his care, both cheeks were clenched in a solid barrier between him and the opening he craved. Halfway expecting that, all Blair did was continue his lingual massage over the pale globes, not touching the crease between them for the moment. It had been a while, much too long a while, since he had taken time to savor his mate, and he found himself caught up in the sweetness of it, content to reacquaint himself with the acres of lovely flesh. His unintentional patience paid off; Jim raised one knee, opening himself in silent invitation.

Blair didn't take him up on it, at first. Gingerly he tasted the heavy sacs hanging between the spread thighs, thinking, not for the first time, how vulnerable a man looks with that part of him revealed. The show of trust was almost as erotic as the sight, and he gave it the respect it deserved with the gentlest of licks at the very center of the shadowed cleft.

With a hoarse cry, Jim reared back, mutely begging for more, and it took all Blair had not to simply climb on top of him and drive home with a single shove. Instead he gave a stronger lick, broad and wet over the entire area, then homed in with a darting stab to the small portal. Keeping time to the careful pulsing of his palm over the crown of the silky wet cock, he plundered the tiny aperture, sometimes with strong, pointed dabs, sometimes with wide, powerful thrusts. Lost in the pleasure of giving pleasure, he didn't understand the warning, "Blair!" from his lover, or pay attention to the sudden swelling in the maleness he held.

The hard shaking of Jim's release took him by surprise, as did the hot stream of seed into his palm. Groaning deep inside himself, he held onto his control through the last few spurts, then Blair scrambled up to spoon behind Jim, coating his aching hardness with the cream liberally covering his hand. The last stirrings of his lover's climax fluttered through the tight channel, doing incredible, indescribable things to his cock, and with shout of surprise, he shot, digging into to Jim's hips with cruel fingers to get in as deep as he could.

He hardly needed the minor flexing of internal muscles to milk him dry; it felt gloriously as if he were giving up every vital thing in him into Jim's keeping, leaving him softly pooled into the contours of the strong man in front of him. It's the best thing about making love,he thought muzzily. These few moments where all you are is the ecstasy you created together.

Letting himself drift, not toward slumber, but in the moment itself, he roused only when he heard Jim's breathing begin to even out into sleep. "I think I'm going to quit the project," he murmured.

A groping hand found its way back to his thigh and Jim patted him. "This close to being done?"

"That's just it; it *is* close to done. They're going to be doing the physical stuff now. Building the prototype, editing and printing up the curriculum guides, the signs, the texts, creating the media programs. The anthro portion is over, except to spot check for errors in the written material."

"Then why not hang on until the end? Why lose credit for everything you've put into it up until now?" There was no condemnation in Jim's voice, only honest curiosity.

He met it with frankness of his own. "Because as much as I'm loving it professionally, I'm hating it personally. I feel out of the loop at Major Crimes, out of sync with you, hell, out of touch with my own life."

Jim was silent for so long that Blair thought he wasn't going to comment, then he said thoughtfully, "You do what you have to do, babe. I hate to see you give it up after the hard part is done, when the finish line is in sight. It's like, why run the race at all, you know? Everything you've gone through would be for nothing."

That was too true to argue with, and Blair groaned in agreement. "But I'm worried about you," he said anyway. "I *know* the headaches are because of my absence, and I'm pretty damn sure that my lousy temper lately is, too."

"We're strong enough to deal with both," Jim said reassuringly. "You kept your promise and came up tonight, instead of sleeping downstairs, and don't tell me you didn't think about it." Blair jumped guiltily, but his lover only kept talking. "I didn't make the fight worse by taking my turn at being an asshole. As long as we know what's going on, we can do this. Besides, Chief, Dean Latham will have a cow if he misses out on all the publicity. Or should I say if the *university* misses out on it," he corrected himself, and Blair could see in his mind's eye his partner's sardonic grin.

"There is that," Blair agreed unhappily. "And the next meeting is being held on campus, *with* Swett's PR man, too." Suddenly he grinned himself. "Which means, of course, that Latham will step in and cover that angle, which frees me up totally." Coming to a decision, he burrowed in closer to Jim and murmured, "You're right. The hard part is over; we can practically coast to the finish."

"Things will ease up," Jim whispered sleepily, capturing one of Blair's hands to pull to his chest to hold. "You'll see."

****

Things didn't slow down; they got worse. To the point that Blair felt as if he were trapped on the roller coaster he'd once claimed to prefer. Though the curriculum writing and follow up lesson booklet was supposed to be the domain of the teacher, Cindy Romaine, it turned out to be more than she was able to do. Her writing, though technically correct, was so dry that the other members of the team hated it. So in the midst of new semester craziness, Blair was forced find time to do a re-write, consulting with her practically nightly to make sure he was keeping her content intact. As the company who won the bid for the prototype was based in Cascade, he became the defacto go-between for it, the team, and Swett's PR man, which ate more hours than he had to spare.

If Jim hadn't stepped in, tactfully taking over the nuts and bolts of scheduling product development meetings, materials shipments, and the contractors work, Blair would have fallen on his face. And he had to add to his load to do it. A high-profile embezzling case with the suspect and his company both standing toe-to-toe accusing each other, had Major Crimes hopping, along with the usual assortment of weapons shipments, drug ring investigations, and raving lunatics trying to blow up Cascade. In the midst of all that, Jim made time to do patrols at Tarryton's Family Complex, constantly looking for evidence to stop Hayes' maliciousness and working with Haurer to tighten security even more.

By the time the last meeting with the team took place in mid-September, Blair honestly couldn't say when he'd had time to do anything besides work and sleep, though miraculously he and Jim always seemed able to find a spare few minutes for love-making every few days. But he was so far in the red on sleep that if he slept in every day for the rest of his life, he'd still be in deficit. Oddly, he wasn't particularly tired; just short tempered and impatient.

Not a good state to be in while dealing with an idiot like Matt Bingham, Swett's publicity drone. For someone who was supposed to making his living cajoling and persuading other people into thinking what he wanted them to, he was amazingly irritating. His idea of humor was to personally attack the team members, and each took their turn at being the brunt of his so-called wit.

Blair knew it was his turn when Bingham asked, "So, Blair, when are we going to meet Jim? I'm sure I'm not the only one who's anxious to get a look at the little wife at the police department we're always hearing about."

"I wouldn't let Jim hear you call him 'the little wife,'" Blair said mildly, eyes on the shipment schedule they'd been hassling out.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Not politically correct enough for you?" Matt put one hand on his hip and let his other droop limply at the wrist. "Would you prefer *partner?*"

Surprised at the venom in the tone, Blair still didn't look up. Keeping his own level through practice at the department and sheer necessity, he said, "That's normally what cops call the person who rides with them, yes. Though usually I call him 'Jim' and he calls me 'Sandburg.' He is the senior partner."

"Now that's a new one on me. I thought the choices were 'top' and 'bottom.' Any other PC words I should know, for when I meet him, I mean?" The venom hadn't abated and Blair considered fighting back, but wasn't willing to turn an already tiring day into a disaster. Before the other man could aim another dart or he could answer the one already flung, there was an emphatic knock on the door to the conference room. At the chorus of "Come in," from the occupants, it flew open and Jim came through it, burdened with a large deli tray, a basket hanging off one hand, and a shopping bag hanging off the other.

"Sandburg, you owe me for this," he growled in his best cop voice. Despite the awkward bundles, he prowled gracefully to the table, ignoring the open-mouthed stares from the committee as he put the tray down. The meats and cheeses on it looked delicious: Jim looked better.

The shirt he was wearing was tight enough to be able to see the veins bulging in his pecs from the weight they were helping to support. Light gray, it was perfect for making his eyes more startlingly blue than usual, and it vanished into a pair of jeans faded to nearly the same shade by time and much use. Butter soft and perfectly molded to long, powerful legs, the pants made Jim's gender blatantly obvious, as if it had ever been in any doubt, along with giving a pretty good hint that a person wouldn't be disappointed if they were fond of well-endowed lovers.

As if that weren't enough to convince the world in general that one hell of a man was walking the earth, Jim had chosen to wear his gun in a shoulder harness today, and without a jacket for concealment, it emphasized his status as alpha male in a way only a blind man would miss. And Blair was fairly sure that even the visually impaired would pick up on the vibes his partner was giving off: yeah, I'm a cop and a fucking handsome guy, got a problem with that?

Hiding his amusement, knowing full well Jim had to have overheard Matt starting up and had paused to take off the corduroy jacket he had been wearing, Blair went along with the opening line he'd been provided with. As if he'd been expecting the arrival, he reached for his wallet and said, "Thanks man. Did you get a receipt so I can use this as a business expense?"

Waving him off and unpacking the bag of plastic dinnerware, Jim replied, "Save the money until after the game tonight, then we can settle the bill when you pay off your bet. What you owe me for is going in to pick this up. Place was packed; I had to stand in line almost twenty minutes, hungry for dinner, surrounded by all that food, including dessert. The smell alone was torture."

"Can't believe you took the Niner's over Cowboys; you're going to be the one shelling out cash. You're welcome to stay and have a sandwich with us for payback for the delivery service, though." Standing, Blair took bread out of the basket, nodding approval at the selection.

"You don't honestly think I stood there that long and didn't get one of Nick's specials? It's in the truck waiting for me, along with Taggart; that tip on the embezzling case turned out to be legit."

"*Another* double?" Blair asked, eyes flying up, genuinely distressed.

Not meeting his gaze, Jim said blandly, "Yeah, another. Beginning to think I should just put a cot behind my desk and save Banks the trouble of calling the loft to get me."

"Do not mention that idea to him," Blair replied, automatically going along with the banter, the unhappily familiar feeling of being left out rising. "Or he'll be requisitioning one before you leave his office."

Snagging an olive from the container he'd just opened, Jim said, "If he did that, then the price of the cot would have to come out of the department budget. He'd make me buy it." He popped the olive in his mouth, chewed, then came around to Blair's side of the table and leaned down to place his lips close to an ear. "How 'bout giving me one of those 'I'm about to get laid' grins of yours, Chief, and really fry that ass's miniscule brain?"

He couldn't help it; he broke into the smile Jim wanted, eyebrows climbing for his hairline in delight. There was a nearly intangible press of a kiss against his hair, then Jim was striding away, looking for all the world as if he were going to single-handedly rid Cascade of crime. Shaking his head at the way his lover's odd sense of humor could surface sometimes, Blair went back to laying out the picnic meal, trying not to laugh at the shocked silence lingering in the room.

Finally Cindy said bemusedly, a hint of longing coloring her voice, "Please tell me he has a straight, available brother."

Chuckling, Blair admitted, "Yes, but Steven isn't anything like him." Then he grinned widely. "But he is rich."

Blatantly shaking herself, she perked up, giving Blair a pointed look. "Rich is good; I could overlook a lot for rich."

"Rich?" Matt said thoughtfully. "Please tell me he's generous and you're planning on hitting him for donations."

"Top of my list, as a matter of fact," Blair said cheerfully.

That got them back on topic, and they went back to work, making their sandwiches absent-mindedly as they did.

Hours later, after the others had gone back to their hotel for the night, Blair cleaned up the remnants of the meal, reliving Jim's performance. It had been a while since he'd had a chance to improv with his partner like that, and it surprised him how much he missed it. Sinking into a chair, hand half-lifted with an empty coleslaw container, he suddenly realized just how much he *did* miss it, and how long it'd been since they *had* worked together.

Frantically digging through his memories, he looked for the last time he and Jim had gone out on a case together, whether to question witnesses, look at a crime scene, or simply put in the legwork that so often put a 'solved' on a folder. Stomach beginning to fill with rocks, Blair couldn't think of a single instance in weeks. When he was at the station, he was either desperately trying to clear his own interminable paper work or consulting with other detectives in other departments.

At home... throwing down the coleslaw, he pulled his hair with both hands, putting his elbows on the table. At home he was nearly always in his office or on the phone. Forget going to a game or going camping or just watching the tube. They weren't so much as sharing chores, let alone finding free time to spend together.

Another rock added to his middle as Blair suddenly realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd cooked or shopped or done the laundry or taken care of any of the details of having a life. He'd always had a tendency to let things like that slide until he was forced to make time for it. Jim must have taken those tasks over completely, and he'd not even noticed. Let alone said thank you or let him know it was appreciated.

Why? he asked himself painfully. Why is he letting me get away with all that? No bitching, no blow ups over it, not so much as a pointed reminder. For a moment the specter of Greg Haurer rose, and he pummeled the jealousy down, recognizing it for the nameless fear that had been with him for so long now. Stubbornly he turned back to the puzzle of Jim's behavior, picking up his thoughts where they left off.

Okay, when we went into this, he said he'd pick up the slack, but this is more like being the 'little wife' Bingham accused him of. In the back of his mind, an example of social isolation that he used in his basic Anthropology class popped up: the 50's housewife who called her marriage 'two trains running on parallel tracks. Going the same place but never touching, never together.'

Jim was letting him get away with it because that was what he had been trained to do by both his father and the army. Success was everything, and if you got ignored because of it, you sucked it up and beamed proudly, never mind how lonely and cold you were. You were less important than the job.

Suddenly disgusted with himself for not *noticing* how far apart they were drifting, Blair abandoned the mess in the room and took off, barely taking time to scoop up his jacket and pack. It wasn't that late; he could join Jim at the station, do some of Jim's paper work for a change, like he used to. A cell call on the way down told him that his partner had gone home; the embezzler was behind bars and still screaming that it was a set up. Home then; they could watch whatever game was on, or maybe go out for a movie and pizza. Or climb up stairs and just cuddle and talk a while.

Turning over the possibilities, deciding that it would be whatever Jim wanted, Blair drove home, barely keeping to the speed limit. Eagerly he charged upstairs, let himself in, and stood in the middle of the locked down loft, coldly disappointed not to find Jim waiting for him. As if he doesn't have anything else he could be doing. As if he has to play the housewife role to the hilt and stay at home, pathetically waiting for his lord and master to walk through the door.

Dispiritedly he hung up his coat, and looked around the room for a hint as to where Jim might be. Truck was here, so he probably went out with Joel or Simon. Automatically he went into the kitchen looking for the note he would have left for him. Oddly, there wasn't one, and, forehead wrinkled in frowning thought, Blair wandered upstairs with the vague thought of getting ready for bed.

Abruptly he came to a stop at the top step; the bed was occupied. Stupidly Blair looked at his watch. 9:30pm wasn't that late, but there was Jim laying on his back in the middle of the bed, one hand on his chest and the other curled by his head. Why didn't I know he was home? Blair wondered in confused worry. On the heels of that came a more troubling thought. Why didn't *he* know *I* was home?

"Jim?" he asked in a normal voice, more concerned with getting an answer than with letting him sleep. "Hey, wake up." There wasn't so much as a change in breathing, and Blair went around to his lover's side of the bed and sat, fitting his fingers into the open curl of palm. "Jim?"

His hand was loosely clasped for a second, and Jim turned toward the sound, but his eyes didn't open. At a loss for what to do next, Blair pushed his hair back from his face with his free hand, and by chance glanced down at the top of the nightstand. Seeing a prescription bottle, he picked it up as if expecting it to be bobby trapped. It was for pain relief and dated for yesterday. A bright yellow label on the side warned that it would cause excessive drowsiness and shouldn't be taken with alcohol or if planning on operating heavy machinery.

For a moment rage colored his entire being, and he fought against it, seeing it for the useless thing it was. When it was banished, if only temporarily, he racked his brain, vaguely pulling up a memory of the appointment calendar Jim kept for both of them, with the words 'Doctor's Appointment' tidily printed in one corner of yesterday's date. That prompted the recall of Jim telling him that Simon was insisting that he do something about the chronic headache drawing creases of pain around his eyes.

Ashamed for not even thinking to ask Jim what the doctor had said, Blair tenderly traced one of those lines, and bent to kiss it. Lips soft and caring, he dusted a touch over the shut eyelids, moving down to the end of the nose when he felt them quiver. "Hi," he whispered.

"Hi," Jim whispered back. Sleepily he wrapped both arms around Blair, hugging him close. "Wha's wrong?"

"Missing you," Blair said honestly. "Missing you so much."

"'M here," Jim murmured. "Not good for much. But 'm here."

"When did you take the meds?" Blair asked worriedly, thinking he was far too groggy.

That prompted Jim to struggle more completely awake, and he tried to sit up. "It's okay; it's the same stuff they gave me when I had that chemical burn that time. No reaction, remember? And I'll be seeing the dentist for the TMJ thing in a couple of days and probably won't need it after that."

Blair's reaction to that was mixed, even for the bizarre ups and downs of emotion that he'd been suffering through. TMJ made perfect sense, given the way that Jim clenched his jaw all the time. At the same time, he'd been so *sure* that the headache was because of their forced separation. And the sentinel had reluctantly admitted that he was still having trouble with touch, not able to really describe what was wrong.

Seeing that his lover was waiting for a response, Blair curled beside him, encouraging him to lie back down. "Dosage is way higher, looks like."

Suspiciously, Jim agreed easily. "Yeah, and not helping that much either, Chief." He yawned. "You coming to bed already?" For a moment all the work on his desk downstairs, all the responsibilities from Rainier, from the police department, from his own sense of what had to be done, called to him. Resolutely reminding himself that it would never be finished, anyway, Blair nuzzled into the chest next to his nose. "Need to wash up first. Think you can stay awake that long?" he teased.

"For you, anything," Jim half-yawned. "But it'd be better if you hurry."

He did, and they spooned up to each other in the quiet darkness, desultorily talking about nothing much at all until Blair fell asleep, only to bolt awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding in terror and pain, and find Jim on the other side of the bed.

***

"You have to admit," Joel said, chuckling a little, "That it was a unique twist. Set yourself up to look like you were being framed for the very crime you were committing."

Fighting his way through the narcotic hangover from the medicine he'd been taking to sleep for the past few nights and his eternal headache, Jim mumbled an agreement and tried to focus on not getting into a wreck. Thankfully, he'd spent so much time at Tarryton's Family Complex in the past few months, the truck seemed to know the way by itself. At the moment, he wasn't sure he could have navigated his way out of his own bedroom.

"Would have gotten away with it, if his wife hadn't found out that he only had his name on the Cayman Island accounts," Joel went on, apparently used to not getting much in the way of response from Jim. "Can't decide if he was careless or assumed she trusted him that much."

Making a sound that he hoped the other man would take as an agreement of some sorts, Jim pulled into the right lane on the interstate, unthinkingly bringing up his sight to make the maneuver as safely as possible. The increased light stabbed straight into the agony tearing at his temples, and he couldn't completely stifle a grunt of pain. Fiercely blinking to get both sight and head under control, he was startled by a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Jim," Joel began, obviously searching for words. "When is Blair going to ride with you again?"

Of all the things he could have said to him, that was the one thing Jim didn't expect, and he slanted a long glance at the soulful face, seeing only worry and compassion. "The project is almost done," he answered obliquely. "The prototype is going to be unveiled at Halloween at some big fund-raising dinner with all the big money people that Swett and his PR man can pull in. An idea which Sandburg and the rest of the committee hates, because it's so contrary to the very idea behind the classroom. What's the point of a classroom without kids to teach?"

"I can go along with that, but you're not answering my question," Joel said stubbornly, not letting the conversation be sidetracked the way Jim wanted. "The whole point of me moving to Major Crimes was to take over the back shift and take some of the pressure off Simon, and I should have already started. Which doesn't mean I haven't appreciated being your temporary partner, but we both know who really belongs in this seat."

There wasn't much Jim could say to that, and he shook his head, swallowing back the urge to bite out a command for Taggart to mind his own business. He and Simon knew that sooner or later Joel was going to question why he was taking Blair's place. Since telling Taggart that Jim was deliberately keeping his partner at a distance at work was not an option, he said carefully, holding down his ire, "Sandburg has a life beyond me or the department and has the right to do his best in it. Just because we've gotten used to him doesn't mean we get to keep him."

The sound Joel made in reply to that was a weird mix of disappointment and anger. "Gotten used to him!" he snapped.

Holding back answering anger, Jim started to reply, but a car several vehicles ahead of them suddenly switched lanes, forcing the minivan immediately in front to slam on the brakes. Amidst the squeal of brakes and surprised curses, he heard a woman's terrified voice pleading in Spanish. A passenger in the car swerving across the lanes, she clung to her shoulder belt, tears rolling freely down her cheeks. The expression on the face of the male driver was several shades past insanely furious, and with a shouted curse, he backhanded her.

"Trouble," Jim said flatly, hitting the gas so that he could smoothly begin to pull even with them. "Call in and run a check on license plate Charles Alpha Tango Four Four Niner."

With a fast scan, Taggart spotted the gray Chevy Impala as it accelerated and jumped lanes yet again. "Drunk driver?"

"Maybe, but he has a woman with him that's scared out of her mind, and I don't think it's his driving," Jim answered grimly.

"How do you...." At that moment Jim drew close enough that Joel could see for himself as the man hit his passenger yet again, drawing blood from the corner of her mouth. Since the truck was higher on its wheels than the car, they could both see down into it, getting a clear view of both people. "Oh, damn. She's pregnant."

"And he's armed," Jim told him. "Look at the hand on the steering wheel. You speak some Spanish, don't you?"

"Not enough to be a talker if that's what you're thinking," Joel said worriedly, studying the two carefully.

"No, but can you tell me what..." he trailed off to listen to the woman's frantic pleas, pushing away the worry about how to explain this to Joel. Enunciating carefully, he repeated what she was saying over and over, then looked at him expectantly.

"Oh, dear, God," Joel breathed. "She's begging him to take her to the hospital for the baby to be born, not to hurt her baby."

Jim nodded in understanding. Though he didn't know the language, the word 'hospital' was clear enough, and though he couldn't pinpoint the why, there was something about the way she protectively curled over her distended belly that told him she was in labor. "To me he looks wound up so tight that if we put on the lights, he'll go over the edge. Probably shoot her. And I don't think we should tail them until he gets wherever he's going. Chances are he's paranoid enough to spot us if it's very far, and, to be truthful, I don't think she's got the time."

As Jim spoke, the woman screwed up her face and screeched, both hands on her swollen abdomen, knees pulled up to it protectively. Though Joel couldn't hear the sound, he could plainly see her, and it didn't take years of experience to get the idea that she was in the middle of a heavy contraction. "I'm open to suggestions," he started, then all hell broke loose as the driver of the Chevy pointed a gun out the window and fired at them.

Seeing the flash of motion as it started, Jim jammed on the brakes, and yanked the truck over in behind it, both to avoid being rear-ended by another car and to make it harder for the man to shoot again. Other cars on the road, oblivious to what was happening, sped past, one with of the driver expressing his opinion of Jim's driving with a single finger. Without thinking, Jim slammed the gas pedal to the floor and hit the back of the Impala, controlling the impact as best he could.

"Damn it," Joel shouted.

The shooter tried to twist in his seat to fire out the back window at them, all the while doing seventy-five down the highway. His attention split between road and the truck behind him, he didn't notice when his hostage's face changed, becoming wildly determined. He fired another round, apparently decided that it would be better to shoot out his open window, and started to turn. Midway through it, the woman kicked out with one of the bare feet she had braced on the seat for her contraction, nailing him squarely on the side of the head with her heel.

Jerking, he lost control of the car and it slid sideways across all three lanes of traffic and jumped the median, leaving behind it at least four vehicles wildly braking and spinning, most hitting each other in the rear or side. Somehow Jim managed to cross as well, and without clipping a single one, following the Chevy as it headed straight across the other half of the highway. The motorists on that side at least had some warning there was trouble; most were able to brake without too much trouble, not that it stopped them from being hit by those *not* paying attention.

On some level Jim was aware of the many-car pileups following in the wake of the Chevy, but most of him was concentrating on not crashing his truck and staying on the car's ass. Out of the corner of one eye he could see Taggart futilely trying to brace himself for the many jolts, talking frantically into his cell phone, reporting what was happening. Good; back up and ambulances would be on the way. With a tooth-cracking jar, he went over the curb on the far side of the interstate, barely keeping the truck from tipping on the steep embankment on the other side of the guardrail.

The Chevy had no such luck. Almost in slow motion, it went up on two side wheels, toppling gracelessly to the driver's side, and skidding along for ten yards or so before completing its roll to the roof of the car. It scooted along another few yards before fetching up against one of the scrub trees growing in the gully. Stopping, turning off the engine, and unbuckling his seat belt almost in the same motion, Jim leaped out of his Ford and raced for the overturned vehicle, weapon out, listening for heartbeats inside.

It only took him a second to determine that the one heartbeat was the woman's. The driver's head hung oddly from his upside down body, telling Jim that he had broken his neck sometime during the roll. A quick visual sweep located his gun jammed between the dashboard and windshield; Jim left it where it was because the passenger roused from her shock and began fighting her seatbelt, screaming in pain and fear.

Scrambling over to her side as quickly as possible, holstering his piece, Jim got to her just as she got out of the belt and tried to crawl through the open window. She dragged her left leg, and he could see that it was broken, but she was too hysterical to understand that he wanted to help. Batting away his hands, she hauled herself the rest of the way out of the car, then clutched her stomach and screamed louder. Hurriedly fishing out his badge, hoping that it wouldn't scare her worse, Jim shoved it where she could see it as soon as the contraction released her. "Help!" he said clearly. "Let me help." Cautiously he reached toward her belly. "Baby, help the baby."

Either his tone or his words got through to her; she stared at him wide-eyed but didn't fight when he touched her gingerly. At that sign of cooperation, he whipped off his belt and gathered two sturdy sticks from the growth around them to splint her leg, talking to her in low, reassuring tones all the while As he was buckling his belt in place, Joel skidded down the embankment, carrying the police issue first aid box from the truck. "No serious injuries, got good Samaritans directing traffic as best they can until back up gets here. Where's the driver and how is she?"

"Give me your belt, now!" Jim could clearly see another contraction beginning despite the fabric pulled taut over her stomach. He had to immobilize the break before she began to tense up from it, or she would hurt her leg worse. "He's dead." Taking the belt, he ordered, "Get behind her, help her sit up."

Doing as he was told while Jim finished splinting, Joel leaned back into the rear door of the wrecked car, and supported the woman against his chest. Jim could hear him murmuring questions to her, and he blocked that out to lean down and place his head on her belly, gently feeling out the contours of the child within it. "Tell her I don't think her baby's hurt; I can hear his heartbeat loud and clear." Thinking back to when he had helped Incacha deliver a Chopec child and comparing it to what he felt, he added, "And I think he's coming soon. I'm going to have to lift her good leg to check; let her know what I'm doing."

Before he did, Joel said tensely, "Please tell me you've done this before. Please."

"Twice," Jim answered absently. "Has she?"

The contraction hit the mother full bore, and she started to struggle, screaming hoarsely, and the two of them held onto her as best as possible, Joel reassuring her firmly in fractured Spanish. When she calmed, panting heavily, Jim lifted the hem of her dress, tore away the soaked panties, then hoisted her right leg over his shoulder. "Ask if her water broke." It was hard to tell from the scent arising from her, but there was a certain pungency about it that indicated it could have.

"Theresa says yes, just before Edwardo broke into her mother's home, *and* that this is her first. They were getting ready to leave for the hospital when it happened, I think," Joel reported back a moment later.

"Did you get an ETA on an ambulance?" Eyes on where he could see a bulge from the child pressing down in the birth canal, Jim flipped open the first aid box to find the bottle of alcohol in it.

"Ten minutes but they're going to have to cope with the jam, so make it closer to twenty. She's not going to be able to wait that long, is she?"

Hands dripping with the disinfectant, Jim slipped two fingers into her, and almost immediately felt the baby's head. "Joel, I don't think she's going to last five more minutes. Take off your jacket and drape it over her torso for warmth... wait, wait. Hang on, here comes another one."

"How can you tell?" Joel asked, then murmured to the mother. She nodded, and he said something to her that made her begin to pant lightly, high in her chest.

"She took birthing classes? Good! At least she has some idea of what to expect." Jim massaged lightly around the bulge the child made, hoping to help stretch the tissue to prevent tearing. "Last time I did this, it was with a fifteen year old prostitute who somehow or another thought she wasn't going to feel anything when the baby came. It was just going to wind up in her arms, miraculously clean and ready to love. Fought me like an animal, blaming the pain on me."

"Shit! Maybe I should stay on the bomb squad," Joel muttered. Abruptly Theresa stiffened, arching her back and scrabbling at the hand Jim had on her thigh to hold it on his shoulder.

Enduring the clawing, he said shortly, "Crowning. Does she want to push?" Joel asked and received a spat of what could only be curses, but Jim got the general idea that she was ready to push. "Okay, we're going to have to lift the bad leg, too, and I'm going to push her up onto your lap so her bottom isn't on the ground," he told both of them. "At the end of the next contraction. Ready, ready... okay, up we go."

Between the three of them they got Theresa positioned, and she stifled her shrieks from moving the broken limb, laughingly saying something weakly to Joel when done. "She said it wasn't as bad as the labor," he smiled, brushing her dark, sweaty hair away from her eyes.

"From what I've seen, I'd rather have the broken leg, myself. Next time she wants to push, tell her to go for it." In the far distance Jim could hear the sirens from patrol units and ambulances, but they weren't moving very fast, and the baby was.

It only took three hard pushes to bring him out into the world, and Jim did as he'd been taught, carefully turning the small head to sweep mucus out of the mouth with a forefinger. "Almost done, one more, one more.... yes! Yes! It's a boy, bright eyed and beautiful." Quickly he laid the newborn on his mother's bare tummy, tugging down the jacket Joel had put over her. A fast twist with an alcohol soaked string, and the umbilical was tied off, while the new mother ran her fingers over and over the perfect little body, praying softly.

"She's shaking," Joel said quietly to Jim, not wanting to disturb her.

"Shock." With a fast shrug he was out of his jacket, adding it to Joel's for warmth, and opening his shirt. "Body heat. Gotta keep both of them as warm as we can 'til the ambulance can get here with a neonatal unit."

Gingerly he scooted up beside her under the jackets, sandwiching the baby between them, skin-to-skin. Leaving Joel to tend to the mother because he was in the better position for it, he concentrated on the infant, putting a gentle hand over its tiny body to monitor its warmth.

Taking the tail of his shirt, he cleaned off the baby as best he could, not worrying about what the blood and other fluids were doing to the cloth. It squirmed under his touch, not making any sound, then turned its head so that Jim was eye to eye with it. Same color as Blair's, he thought, staring at it in wonder. And soft, so soft. Like that special place behind his ear that's so sensitive. The child wiggled in closer, and blinked sleepily, its fragile chest rising and falling under Jim's palm.

That trusting, instinctive bid for touch shattered Jim, each shard of him shouting its own need to be held, to be loved, to be skin-to-skin and heart-to0heart with the best and truest part of himself. And not just to touch, but to taste, to hear, to scent - the way *he* was supposed to, the way that was natural for *him.* He was dying, truly withering away, from the lack, and the diluted, insulated fragments he allowed himself were only delaying the process, not stopping it.

Gasping silently, Jim tried to re-assert his control over the sentinel portion of himself, tried to stuff it back down behind the logic and reasoning of a civilized man. But it had always been the sentinel that had fueled the survivor in him, that had made it possible for him to do what needed done to stay alive and sane. While Blair lived, Jim would as well, and for Jim to live, he had to satisfy the primitive that lived at the soul of every living human being. Whether reason wanted him to or not.

Trapped by the two impossibilities - betraying Blair by allowing their bond to harm him or betraying himself by denying his imperative need to sate his senses on his mate - Jim could only twist and writhe internally from the pain, though he held his body perfectly still and silent. From far, far away he could hear the paramedics coming down the slope of the embankment, hear Joel cheerfully telling them they were a bit too late. A fast conversation went on around him, then hard, uncaring hands lifted away mother and child.

Dazedly he watched them covered warmly and strapped into a rescue basket, hardly noticing the small crowd that had gathered. When both were safely on their way, he turned and walked into the scrub and trees that edged the highway.

***

It wasn't just that he wanted the meeting over with, Blair decided. Or even the day. He wanted the whole damn thing to be finished, completed, done with, gone forever and ever amen. At the moment he heartily wished that he'd never heard about the Mobile Anthropology Classroom project, or failing that, that he had run like hell in the opposite direction when Stoddard and Latham had come into his office that day.

But he hadn't, and now here he sat after months of hard work and excitement, admitting sourly to himself that the whole thing was going to be nothing more than a trophy for some rich man to prove he was generous and civic minded. To guess by the expressions on the faces of the other members of the team, they were slowly but surely reaching the same conclusion. The publicity campaign that Bingham had revealed at this last formal meeting of the team, when supposedly their part in the creation of the classroom was over, made it very, very clear.

With a last look at them, hoping he'd have a chance later to tell them how much he'd enjoyed working with them, he butted into Latham's verbal run down of their itinerary and said calmly, "That sounds great, Matt, except that you forgot one thing."

Plainly annoyed, Latham said shortly, "What, *Dr.* Sandburg?"

The emphasis on the title was intended to remind him of his priorities, Blair knew, but he also knew where those priorities really lay. "Asking me if I wanted to go along for the ride on this. I don't."

"I beg your pardon," the other man said coldly, drawing himself up to his meager 5'5" at the soft hiss of agreement from the others.

"I can't spend the next six months doing the talk show circuit, fund raising dinner/luncheon thing. Since it would mean being on the road almost continuously, I wouldn't be able to keep my position at Rainier or at the police department," Blair explained reasonably, only his tone showing that he thought he was addressed someone exceptionally slow on the uptake.

"Oh, come now. You're well paid for your contributions to MAC; you can easily arrange leave of absence," Bingham shot back, using almost exactly the same tone.

"Which was very nice for beating down my student loans to something less than the national debt," Blair agreed readily. "Thank you very much. But my contract ends at the unveiling and so does my involvement with the project. Period."

"Come on, the contract is renewable, and if you're holding out for a bonus, well, I'm sure a nice one can be negotiated." Bingham moderated his voice considerably; it was becoming very clear to him that Blair was dead serious. And the others were echoing the sentiment.

"No. If you feel you still have to have a bona-fide anthropologist on the team, use Dr. Stoddard. After all, he is chairman, supposedly." Matt looked so sour at the suggestion that Blair intuitively knew that he didn't want to work with the stodgy elderly man; not photogenic enough, probably.

"Very well then," the PR man said shortly. "Attend the unveiling with an appropriate escort on your arm and we'll call your participation finished, though I'm sure you'll live to regret it."

Blair didn't hear anything past the 'appropriate escort' part, and he echoed the words with a sort of dull blankness as he processed the meaning behind them.

"Well, you must have a mother or sister or good friend that you use for a stand in when you can't bring your, ah, *partner* with you to a social function. I don't care who she is, though pretty would be nice if you can manage it," Matt said dismissively. Turning to the others, either unaware or uncaring at the various levels of angry and upset leveled at him, he went on. "You should all keep in mind that there will be photographers, maybe even live cameras at the unveiling, and dress accordingly. If you or your date need help, I have a fashion consultant that my firm uses who knows how to make the best out of anyone's assets."

"*Mr.* Bingham," Blair said flatly, borrowing Jim's best 'I am deadly' demeanor, "I will bring whoever the hell I wish to bring to your overly extravagant, tastelessly nouveau riche' gala. My contract does not give you, your firm, or Jason Swett, the right to tell me what to do with my personal life."

Without looking back up from the agenda he had in hand, Bingham said a trifle smugly, "Standard morals and ethics clause, Blair. There's a reason those are put in, you know."

Blair said icily, "And what moral lack, *precisely* will you be accusing me of if I attend with *Detective* Ellison? After all, this," and he picked up the latest revised schedule for finishing the prototype, "was very much his doing. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the, ah, accommodations the contractors made for us were due to some of his family connections in the local business community. He has a right to be there, if he - or I - wish."

As he spoke, Blair stood slowly, leaning over the tabletop, fists clenched on top of it. Either the anger in his stance or the key word 'detective' finally penetrated Bingham's attitude, and he paled. Before he had a chance to say anything, either to back-pedal or dig himself in deeper, and at the moment a very heated part of Blair hoped it was the later to give him an excuse to really blow up, the door banged open without any ceremony.

One look at Joel Taggart's face was all it took for Blair to forget that Bingham or anything else existed. "Jim?" he blurted, the instantaneous switch from anger to fear making him sway dizzily.

If anything, the police captain looked grimmer, and he waved Blair toward him. "We need to go, now!"

That put his feet in motion, thankfully without a command from him, because all Blair could do was hold in the shout of denial that he could feel bubbling around the edges of lips he didn't remember pinching shut. Racing out the door, he grabbed Joel's upper arm, not needing to urge his friend to hurry, or to tell him what had happened. As quickly and precisely as he could, Taggart described Jim spotting a kidnapping in progress and all that followed, leading the way as he talked. "When I turned back to him, he was just gone. Jacket lying on the ground where it fell, first aid box beside it, but no Jim. We've been trying to locate him since, and that was over three hours ago."

Taking a deep breath, forcing away his panic, Blair asked quickly, "Was there anything unusual at the site of the accident? A smell or sound or anything out of the ordinary? How was he before it happened? Was he...?"

Stopping dead in front of the exit to the street, Joel interrupted, "Why didn't you *know,* Blair? Why didn't you know that he's in trouble, that he needs you? And don't bullshit me, please! It's plain to any one who knows the both of you that you share something special, something unique. What's *wrong*?"

"I don't know!" Blair shouted, surprising himself. Tugging the other man toward the truck that he could see parked in front of the building, he repeated more calmly. "I don't know. Things have been off for a while, but, but, oh, god, oh, god, oh, god...." Blair threw himself into the Ford, and put his face in his hands, fighting off the tears gnawing at the back of his throat and eyes.

Joel left him alone to get control of himself for a few minutes then asked softly, "Where is he? Where do we go?"

He raised his head, the words tumbling off his tongue without prompting. "Home. He'd go to ground if he's hurt in some way, and that means home."

"We sent a unit there to check," Joel said doubtfully.

"He would have hid from them," he said with certainty, it coming as much from his intuitive understanding of how his partner worked as from anything else. "Unless it was family, like you or Simon, he'd avoid other people because he can't deal with them right now."

"I hope to God you're right," Joel muttered and put the truck in gear.

The ride to the loft was a nightmare for Blair, and though he derided himself for the melodrama of thinking about it that way, there simply wasn't any other word that worked. Joel didn't make small talk which was a blessing, and he drove as fast as humanly possible, for which Blair was grateful. But it wasn't anywhere fast enough to keep him from floundering helplessly in fear, guilt, and worry.

All he could think of was that the headaches had to have been worse than he had thought, much, much worse, and that the pain had driven Jim's senses over the edge for some reason. Driven *Jim* over the edge, and there was nothing he could do for him. Nothing. Nothing, because the vital thing that had always let him reach Jim no matter how deeply the sentinel had buried him was gone, and he hadn't even noticed it go, let alone missed it.

They pulled up in front of the loft, and Blair looked up to their balcony, praying to see Jim at his usual thinking place by the doors.

"Looks deserted," Joel muttered, eyeing the same spot. "Are you sure..."

"Damn it, no, I'm not!" Blair bit out. An instant later he said quietly, "I'm sorry. I just." He stopped, took a deep breath. "I just don't have a clue what to do if he is up there. Or if he's not."

"It's okay." Joel sighed. "Want me to wait for you?"

Letting himself out, Blair shook his head. "If he's not home, running around looking is not the thing for me to be doing. I'll stay put, and if I get word from him or an idea where else to check, I'll call. If he is... I don't think he'd be able to stand having any one around him except me." If he can stand *me,* as things are now, he added to himself despairingly. "Go ahead and take the truck; we'll arrange later to pick it up or something."

Joel looked decidedly unhappy, but he said, "All right. And I'll call you if I hear anything."

"Thanks, man. For everything," Blair said sincerely, mustering a partial smile for him, then he turned to go in, steps dragging contrary to the rapid pounding of his heart. At the elevator he leaned on the wall with both hands, head down, and closed his eyes. He made himself breathe steadily, regularly, calming himself as best he could.

It wasn't much help. At the moment the only thought in his mind was that he didn't know what bothered him more: Jim freaking out or him not knowing Jim had freaked out.

Jerking upright, he straightened, staring blankly at the wall. What if those two are the same thing? What if Jim's freaking out because there's something wrong with our connection? But if that's the case, why am I unaffected? Thoughtfully he brought up his left hand, right one going to the marriage bracelet around it, the hidden words engraved on it echoing in his mind. We just know.

When was the last time I did? he asked himself, and immediately flashed to his nosebleed in front of his class at the beginning of the past summer. The major thing that's changed between then is... shit. The project and how much time I've spent with Jim. His headaches started since then, too. We've been thinking it was because we weren't together enough; what if that's killing the connection? Not all at once, but slowly. If a person looses his hearing gradually, he doesn't realize there's a problem until he's nearly deaf because he keeps compensating. So maybe we wouldn't notice our bond fading until something extreme like this happened.

The door to the elevator opened, and he automatically walked in, punching the button for three. That explains a lot, he decided, thinking of his irrational anxiety and fear before and during that first trip, the unwarranted jealousy, the night terrors. Wait, wait... that started *before* the rest of it.

Confused, Blair recalled the first time it had happened without any problem, since it was etched in his mind with painful clarity. I woke up, scared out of my head, sweating, ready to scream... Jim didn't. Slept through it, always does, which is bizarre because he never sleeps through my nightmares. Usually he wakes up before I do... but he's sleeping through the panic attacks... In his mind's eye he could see his lover laying on his side of the bed, back to him, and for the first time Blair realized that he always woke up now with Jim on the farthest edge from him. They *had* always slept knotted together, if not one on top of the other from where they'd made love. When did *that* stop? And why didn't I notice that, either?

There wasn't an answer to any of that readily available, and he pushed it away, concentrating on what he had to have right now. If the headache was a warning from the connection, how did he go about healing it, healing Jim in the process? The elevator door slid open, and with or without solutions, it was time to do what he could. If nothing else, he decided in sudden, bleak determination, I can love him. No matter what, I love him and did long before the sentinel part of Jim got involved in our relationship. I have to trust that to help me find a way.

Feigning a confidence in himself that he didn't feel, depending on it the way he had the time he'd barged into an examining room in a borrowed lab coat, he strode down the hall and let himself into his home. Hand hovering near the light switch, he hesitated at the threshold, trying to sense for himself if the loft was occupied. A moment later his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he could make out Jim sitting at the kitchen table, hands on either side of his bowed head. His shirt was hanging open, probably from when he'd been trying to keep the baby warm, Blair thought distractedly.

Deciding to leave the lights off because they made the pain worse, he took out his phone, turned it on, and called Joel. "He's here. I'll call again if we need help, okay?" Disconnecting and turning it back off, he put it aside, then went to sit at the table with Jim, obeying the body language that said no touching allowed.

"Hi," he said as softly as he could, barely moving air.

"Go away, Blair," Jim said dully. "Please."

"Can't do that; you've got me scared half out of my skull, here. You taken any meds for that headache yet?"

"Why bother? All they're good for is to make me sleep; head still hurts. Head always fucking hurts." He muttered something, the repeated. "Go away."

"No, look I can help. I think I might know *why* it's hurting," Blair said insistently.

Head shooting up, Jim glared at him, then said, "I know, too, but that doesn't change anything, isn't going to change anything." His voice rose, words getting stonier and stonier as he spoke. "Get out, dammit. Just leave me alone for a while! Leave me alone!"

Refusing to be cowed by the anger, Blair shot back, trying to keep his tone level, "The TMJ diagnosis was the doctor clutching at straws, probably to keep you from jumping down his throat. Trust me, babe, the last thing you need is for me to leave you alone."

Unexpectedly Jim shot to his feet, knocking over the chair. "Fine, fucking *fine* then! You won't go, I will!" He stomped for the door, not once glancing at Blair's open-mouthed surprise.

Recovering nearly instantly, he got up and hurtled himself at his partner, grimly determined to fight if necessary to keep his mate with him. Without warning Jim whirled in place, and for one sickening moment Blair was sure that he was about to be punched. But Jim only caught him in mid pounce, spinning in one smooth motion to pin him to the support beam with his upper body, feet dangling several inches off the floor. Blair's hands automatically went up to push him away, but they were caught in a vise-tight grip and pulled down to his sides to be held there.

He had time to half say Jim's name, to see the beloved face contorted into something he didn't recognize by both emotion and the dark shadows of the room, then his mouth was covered in a brutal kiss that drew blood as a tooth cut his lip. All the memories of the times he'd been attacked as small boy with classmates much older and stronger than him rose to swamp his reason, and for one terrifying instant he was convinced that this stranger that used to be his Jim intended to beat and rape him. Spurred by that, he began to struggle, jerking his head to one side, but sentinel senses seemed to detect the motion as he commanded it, and Jim moved with him smoothly, not losing the kiss.

A fresh spurt of fear hit him, but he rode with it, unwillingly convinced that in the physical arena, Jim was going to win this one. That made the battle one of intellect, and if the glimpse he'd gotten a moment ago was anything to go by, his partner's wasn't exactly on-line currently. Holding emotion at bay, he made himself think, and that gave him time to realize that whatever Jim intended, it wasn't sex.

There was nothing of passion in the lips on his, and no attempt to go past them for a more carnal connection. The hard form holding him prisoner was doing only that, not rubbing or rocking to bring about physical satisfaction. There was no panting in excitement, no heaving from the chest for more air, no hungry noises. Most importantly, Jim wasn't erect.

Blair stopped to consider that, pressing his thigh forward gently into the groin near it, confirming that there was no trace of arousal. Why, then? he asked himself dazedly. Why hold me against my will, kiss me?

Experimentally, wondering what Jim would do if there was a sexual component, Blair opened his mouth in invitation, and waited. With a grunt, he took him up on the offer, but the tongue that entered wasn't there to excite. It was there to taste, and taste thoroughly, if the way it methodically touched and probed every part of Blair's mouth was any indication. With that clue, it all fell into place, and he relaxed into his captivity.

He's sensing me up, gorging himself on the input from my body. Okay, that's understandable. If the pain is from the bond failing because of lack of contact, sensory starvation would compel him to take what was needed. That's why he tried to put distance between us. Instinct was telling him what he had to do, and, like always, he was refusing to do it.

The sentinel's words from their fight came back to stare at Blair. Son of a bitch! he thought furiously. He did know the real cause of the headache, that he needed this. Why in the hell didn't he tell me? We could have worked something out, damn it! Why did he let himself get in this state?

There was no immediate answer to that, though in the back of his mind he was sure he had the clues. All he needed was the time and opportunity to add them together. Unfortunately, now wasn't the time, and opportunity was slipping away rapidly, taking reasoning processes with it.

Jim might not be turned on by the intimate embrace, but Blair sure as hell was beginning to be, anger, frustration and worry not withstanding. As much from habit as need, he'd begun to return the kiss forced on him, not gentling it, but channeling the power away from painful to sensually intense. Held nearly motionless against the support, he couldn't give much more cooperation than that, but it seemed to be enough to allow the hold on him to become less punishing. A tender lick at the small wound on his mouth apologized for causing it, and a careful nibble on the center of his lower lip distracted him from it, causing a soft murmur of pleasure to rise.

That melted a great deal of the tension in the muscles flattened against him, and he braced himself on the steely fingers at his wrists to bring up his legs to lock around Jim's hips. It pushed his back painfully into the beam, but even as he noticed the discomfort, his lover shifted, releasing his hands to cup his bottom and carry him toward the living room.

Placing him on the back of the couch, Jim put one arm around his shoulders to steady him, and used his free hand to rip away Blair's shirts, not caring that he was reducing them to rags. His own he clumsily shrugged out of, tearing fabric when it wouldn't get out of the way fast enough. That brought them bare chest to bare chest, and Jim made a small noise of satisfaction that was a match to ignite the slowly accumulating passion in Blair.

More than once he had told his lover that he loved the very idea of being passionately taken without permission requested or given. Despite that, Jim rarely approached him without some sign that it would be welcome, never as if it were his given right to use Blair as and when he wished. In Blair's mind, he did, and that right had been granted precisely because he was positive down to the core of him that his sentinel lover would never abuse his trust.

This voracious gobbling of the feel and taste and scent of him may not have been what he had in mind, but was proving to be very exciting in its own right. Blair could feel himself growing to hardness, the length tunneling its way between their tightly pressed bodies. The resistance was good, focusing his attention on that part of himself, making him think of other tight, hot places. With his balance so precarious, he couldn't hump into the lax mound of Jim's groin, but he smoothed his palms down the long plane of back, coming to rest on the hard globes of his lover's backside. Pressing rhythmically, he encouraged Jim to pump slowly onto him, sighing when his hint was taken.

At the small sound, Jim finally broke their kiss, but only to nibble a path to Blair's sensitive spot behind an ear. That drew out a low moan, and, as if in reward, Jim pushed a little harder into the hardness gouging at his stomach. Wants me to make noise, Blair thought dazedly. I can do that.

The next sucking bite at the same place made it impossible not to, and he gave himself up to the pleasure being created in him, crying out in abandon at each delicious suck or bite. Inspired by that, it seemed, Jim's mouth wandered over his neck and upper chest, taking tastes and creating love sounds as if he were playing some unique musical instrument. Before long Blair was lost in the pleasure from it, not needing to strive for climax as it welled up irresistibly from the devoted caresses being lavished on him.

Somewhere along the way his pants and shoes came off, the doing of Jim's clever fingers, he was sure, though his undressing didn't make an impression on him at the time. Nor did it slow down or hinder Jim, and he added low, slow sweeps of hands over every part of Blair he could reach after it was done. Through it all, the only thing he could do was cling to his lover, arms locked around the strong neck, legs wrapped over slim hips.

His finish surged up unexpectedly, catching him off guard and unable to hold back, though he was not ready to give up the sensations being coaxed from him. Powerful, undeniable, the ecstasy flooded through him, washing away everything but itself, scattering wits and consciousness, leaving only his body to luxuriate in the aftermath.

When he finally was able to collect the flotsam of himself, he was on his back in their bed upstairs, covered by a Jim who seemed bound and determined to touch every part of him with every part of himself. Not sated yet, Blair thought dazedly. A careful push up showed still no signs of arousal, and for a second he wondered if his sentinel was going to need to come at all. Dismissing it as unimportant, really, he went back to appreciating being handled so tenderly and lovingly.

It seemed fair to return it, now that his hands were free, and he lazily explored and petted, not really caring what part was under his fingers. That drew the first direct response that he'd gotten from Jim since his aborted pounce. His lover murmured his name dreamily, and added a softly pleading, "More?" A sliver of renewed need darted through Blair, and he willingly did as asked, occasionally using his nails lightly to change the texture of his touch. Leisurely they tumbled and twined around each other, using fingers, feet, tongues, Blair's curls - anything to excite skin.

Eventually he was hard again, needing more than random stimulation, and he maneuvered them into a head to toe position so that his need was near Jim's mouth. With a careful nudge, he thrust in, taking the semi-hard cock in front of him as he did He took his time, slowly bringing Jim to full arousal and savoring the wet heat sliding so luxuriously along his own. As good as that was, when Jim began to buck in earnest, taking instead of passively receiving, lust bit Blair hard, and he drove himself past his lover's lips fast and hard, climax clawing its way over his nerves.

When he was close, close enough that he could feel the ache of it in his gut, Jim pulled away, rolling Blair to his back and kneeling on all fours over him so that they didn't touch. Crying out in disappointed need, Blair reached for him, arching his back in a useless attempt to be close again. Capturing his wrists, Jim pulled his hands over his head, and then leaned down so they were face to face, his expression inscrutable in the faint light available.

Writhing against the hold, Blair used a foot to stroke along one of his lover's calves, "Please, please don't stop. Please!"

There was a flash of something over Jim's face, and he looked away for a moment. Some small change in the way he held himself told Blair that he was going to do what was asked, but that he didn't want to. Intuition took a leap, and he murmured, "We don't have to stop just because we come. We can keep going as long as you want, I promise."

"You don't have to," Jim mumbled, voice rough as if from long disuse. "It's okay; you know I love to make love to you."

Smiling as sexily as he knew how, Blair said, "All the more reason to make it last as long as possible, then." His grin became impish. "Think we can beat our old record for number of times in one night? Or maybe you've gotten too bored and used to me to get that hot any more."

With a soft snort Jim told him what he thought of that, then bent down for a long, hungry kiss. "Want in," he groaned, breaking it off when both were whimpering from it. He helped Blair turn to his stomach, then lay over him to reach for the nightstand to find lube. The cool gel being spread over his opening made him sigh; the blunt, hot head that pressed into it made him moan greedily for more.

He didn't get it. Jim inched his way past the guardian muscle, breaching it in slow motion and sending wave after wave of pleasure through him, until he was whimpering non-stop and straining back to get the fucking he needed so badly. Held in place by the weight on him, all he could do was take it, squirming into the mattress in vain hope of relief.

Then sharp teeth found the sensitive skin of his nape, biting as a low growl of possession rumbled through Jim's chest. With a shocked howl, Blair thrashed under his lover, hips trying futilely to lift higher to get what he had to have. Dick grinding into the bedding, he tightened around the pole half-lodged in him, and it was good, so good that a bolt of it blinded him, tossing him into a white out of ecstasy as his seed jetted its way out of him.

When that faded back to the shadowed night surrounding them, he was breathless and boneless, and Jim hadn't moved a millimeter in deeper, though Blair could feel him trembling with need. Without meaning to, he flexed internal muscles, trying to decipher how much was in him, and his lover took that as a signal to press forward again. In a distant, sleepy way, it was nice to be so slowly stretched and filled, and Blair let himself go with the feeling.

Despite the languor of coming twice, random stabs of desire came and went, aided and abetted by the words Jim was heatedly whispering against his skin. "Tight ass, lover, so tight and hot and good. Going to go all the way in, go in so deep I'll be fucking your throat and your ass at the same time. Gonna take all of you inside and out and make my mark on it. Gonna make you beg. Make you scream. Fill you with my come until you taste it just by thinking of it. Like that, babe, huh, like that? Like that?"

Laying on him full length, buried in a deep as he could humanly go, Jim burrowed a hand into the curls at the back of Blair's head, and came, murmuring, "Love you," over and over. For Blair it was pulses of heat, deep inside, that spread out to find all those little bits of desire to gather them together to renew his hard-on. By the time his lover was easing back out as slowly as he entered, he was completely aroused again, milking the shaft inside of him with determined force to coax Jim into taking him.

Turning them onto their sides to give hands freedom, Jim desultorily pinched and tugged on nipples every bit as erect and aching as the weeping shaft standing out so demandingly. Roughly, Blair fisted it, though it wasn't going to be enough to bring him off, not when the core of him was crying out for something else entirely. And still Jim refused to speed up, holding Blair back from taking control by a long leg thrown over his hips.

It trapped him in a maelstrom of sensation that was both disorienting and demanding, and with the hot, strong body pressed so tightly against his, he lost all sense of what feeling was coming from where. It was impossible to tell whose fingers tormented the burning nubs on his chest, or if it *was* his chest that was being so tortured. The only constant was an ass begging to be properly used, a cock begging to do it, and when someone came, they both screamed, neither softening in the slightest.

The sensual deluge rolled on unabated until hours later, when both collapsed at the same time into exhausted slumber, whimpering love words and sweet promises with their last conscious breath.

***

His first thought when Jim woke the next morning was, God, my ass is sore. Everything else is, too. Damn, why do my *toes* hurt? Despite that, he had a serious hard-on poking at Blair's belly, and he scrunched down, taking it out of direct contact with his lover, partly to let him sleep, and partly because there was no way he was going to be doing anything with that thing for a while. A long while, to judge by the abrasions on the head and shaft.

For all the various aches and pains, he felt *wonderful,* and for the first time in weeks his head didn't hurt. The why of that dampened his simple enjoyment of lying in a wrecked bed, reeking of sex and satisfaction, and he stiffened, berating himself for losing control. Almost instantly Blair woke, snuggling in closer to him to comfort. Hey," he mumbled happily. A split second later, he bumped gingerly into Jim's erection, and said, "You're joking, right? You couldn't *possibly* want more."

"Ignore the man behind the curtain," Jim quoted dryly. "I don't know a thing about him." With a hiss he backed away from his lover's questing touch, and the both looked down at the abused flesh.

"Jesus, Jim! What did you do to yourself?"

Guiltily he started, then realized a split second too late that Blair was referring to the damage itself, not why Jim had had to do it. Casting about for a way to divert his lover, or at least an excuse to get away before that alert mind woke all the way up, he said lightly, "Guess we got carried away; think we broke the old record for most times in a night, though."

Refusing to be sidetracked, Blair studied him with narrowed eyes, then said with careful emphasis, "You did do something, didn't you? That's why you knew the headaches weren't just because we were spending so much time apart, that our bond was dying. You did something, sense-wise, and hid behind the excuse of being separated. What did you do, Jim? What did you *do?*"

For a moment he thought about lying, denying it all, but a part of him knew all too well that would be the end of the trust in their relationship. And Blair was too perceptive to buy it, anyway. "I chained my senses, blocked them off from you so that all I had was what any normal man would have where his partner was concerned."

"What in the hell for!" Blair sat bolt upright in bed, brushing away the riot of hair from his face.

"To kill the connection," he said bluntly, knowing he couldn't back track now. Not giving Blair's outrage a chance to find words, he went on. "You never wanted it, Chief, never liked being invaded that way." He laid a tentative finger to the bow of his lover's upper lip to remind him of the nosebleeds. "And it hurts you."

A touch of unease surfaced in his anger, and he argued, "Things have been like that for a while now, and if I didn't have any objections why should you?"

"Because it’s getting stronger, lots stronger," Jim said tiredly. "Strong enough that you're beginning to zone *with* me. Remember Daryl's graduation party?" At the reluctant nod, he went on. "What's the last thing you remember before we asked Simon to call us a cab?"

"Ah...." To their mutual surprise a rush of desire colored Blair's skin and filled the air with its scent, making his dick stir sleepily. "You making love to me with your eyes, telling me how you wanted to touch me. No, not telling me," he corrected himself thoughtfully, looking into the past. "Showing me. Like it was really happening... Why didn't I remember that until you reminded me?"

"Because you didn't want to?" Jim ventured, studying the sheets between them and absently picking at some dried semen on them. "Cause it was way, way more than you were ready to handle? If it's any help, I didn't realize what had happened, either, until it happened again."

"Again?" Blair asked with a mix of hurt and anger in his voice.

"Only once more that I know of," Jim admitted. "I tried hard to keep you from getting sucked in ever again, and then you had that bleed, and it made me rethink having the connection exist at all."

"You didn't think to talk to *me* about all this?" Blair ground out furiously. "Didn't you think I should have a say in fucking messing with something so fundamental in you, in our relationship? If nothing else, damn it, I'm supposed to guide you. Forget that I'm your spouse and partner, which means we're supposed to work together; I'm *supposed* to be the one you come to about your senses. Why did you keep this to yourself?"

"To give you the choice," Jim said bluntly. "This," and he gestured in the small gap between them, somehow indicating the sentinel part of their lives, "Was more or less forced on you, Chief. You were supposed to just help me get things under control, help me get a handle on the sense thing. But you kept getting dragged in deeper and deeper, because you're too good a man to walk away when you're needed. Did you ever have a chance to pull back, to think about how involved you were getting? Hell, Chief, not even Incacha gave you a chance to say no. He grabbed you and dumped the responsibility of a shaman guiding a sentinel without so much as asking if you had any other plans for your life."

"So you thought by taking away my chance to stop you from this stupidity, you'd be letting me decide whether or not I wanted to be your guide?!" Blair asked incredulously. A moment later he leaned forward and poked a finger into Jim's chest. "Then all that business about me taking on the MAC project to build my rep was just so much bullshit? You used it to put the distance between us needed for your idiotic plan?"

"No! NO!" The idea had never occurred to him; he had truly thought Blair should have a chance to shine at what he loved. "Listen, I..."

"Why the fuck should I listen to you!" Blair shouted, getting out of bed. "Why the fuck should I ever bother to listen anything you ever say to me again? You never tell me anything important. Every time I turn around you're hiding something from me, not telling me what I *need* to know if only because it's important to you. Never mind what kind of guide it makes me to always be so damned in the dark; what kind of partner, what kind of *spouse* does it make me?"

At that he ran down the stairs, going so fast that he was in the bathroom by the time Jim untangled himself from the sheets. Wanting very badly to try to explain himself again, knowing from experience it was pointless to try until Blair was ready to forgive him, he took off the soiled sheets and made the bed, then occupied himself with getting breakfast, going so far as to make his partner's algae shake for him.

The bathroom door opened, but Blair went straight to his office, shutting the door and locking it behind him with a click anyone could have heard. Resigned, Jim called Joel to find out where his truck was and went to clean up himself; he might as well go to work and see if he could hopelessly fuck that up, too.

Taking a taxi to the station, he found the Ford in his usual spot, and used his spare set of keys to open it. As early as it was, he had time before his regular shift to make the trip to Tarryton's that had been interrupted yesterday. Only yesterday, he thought, scrubbing at his face as he drove. Why does it feel like a week ago? Helplessly he replayed the long sweet hours of the night, almost tasting and scenting his lover from memory alone.

Trying not to dwell on how long it would be before he could do it again, and praying with a part of himself far in the back of his mind that the answer wasn't 'never,' he drove to the complex, coming in the back way on a hunch. Stopping at the security shack to let them know he was there again and to listen to their report, he drove slowly through the side streets, using the same route he had the morning of his first visit.

Then, like now, it was too early for the businesses to be open or for anyone to be about who wasn't an employee. So far there had been no incidents at this time of the day, probably because anyone not where they were supposed to be would be easily noticed by other shop keepers. The sun sat in nearly the same place as well, and Jim put it to his back both to save his eyes and to reenact that morning.

Pulling up to nearly the same spot he'd been, he slowly surveyed the entire area, trying to recall the direction from which he'd heard the bolt of the rifle. In front of him and stretching to his right was the back of the paintball arena, and through the finger-wide gaps in the shutters on the back windows, he could see Hayes moving around. Another movement caught the corner of his eye a short time later, and he looked back to where the arranged landscape of the arena's open play field sloped up to merge into the many acres of unclaimed forest that stood at that edge of the complex.

Two men dressed in camo fatigues, heavily loaded with a variety of illegal weapons, were hiking into the forest, vanishing into the underbrush as Jim watched. Jerking his sight back to the building, he focused intently on the interior, this time seeing the contents, not the occupants, his dawning suspicion confirmed when he saw an Uzi handed yet another camo dressed man. From the back of his mind the glimpse of what he had seen months ago resurfaced, this time allowing him to identify a high power rifle with a scope, very like the one being brought up by Hayes to aim at him.

Reflexes took over, and he threw himself sideways the moment before his windshield shattered from the rifle's bullet. Another crashed into the cushions of the driver's seat, and he had no choice but to abandon his truck, using it for cover as he ran. The netting for the batting cages was too high and going up the alley would give the shooter a clear target, which left scaling the chain-link fence of the arena and going into the playing field.

Diving into the first concealing growth he saw once he was over, Jim sat on his heels, back against the small trunk, and opened his hearing. As far as he could tell, no one had heard the rifle shots, not surprising given the hour and size of the complex. Looking ahead as best he could, there was no sign that the men in the woods had back-tracked, that left only the ones he could hear talking softly as they crept out into the arena. A moment's careful consideration let him identify four total, counting Hayes, and from their conversation, it was obvious that a real-life manhunt wasn't something they balked at. They were cursing heartily at being discovered, and were apparently very happy to take a cop down before they bugged out.

Jim reached for his cell to call for back up - and swore at himself for forgetting that it was in the leather jacket he'd left at the crash yesterday. Scuttling forward, keeping low and heading for high ground, he calculated his chances of living through his idiocy. With one gun and one extra clip, he was out-gunned, out-numbered, and he didn't know the terrain as well as Hayes, and his cronies. On the other hand, they didn't have a great deal of time to devote to finding him. Sooner or later his truck would have to be moved and dumped, and in another hour or so, gunfire, even from the paintball range, would attract attention.

Diving into a small blind, he summoned old skills, assessing what he would need to do to survive. First and foremost, he needed to blend in better with the surroundings, so he dirtied his face and stripped off his jacket and oatmeal colored sweater, leaving him in a dark tee shirt. Methodically he rubbed more dirt into his arms and the khakis he wore, glad that he had decided to wear boots today.

Another hard listen located his pursuers; they were fanning out in a standard search pattern that would be hard to avoid given the amount of cover available. Quickly he sifted through the pockets of the jacket to make sure there was nothing useful in them, hesitating when he found the small notebook all cops carried everywhere. With it in one hand and his gun in the other, he ran, mentally plotting a course that would take them all deeper into the range, but hopefully allow him to double back to get behind his opponents.

At his next stop to assess, he looked the notebook, told himself he wasn't being defeatist, just covering all the bases, and sat down, ears open all the while to track the hunters. Deciding that if he got out alive, he could destroy the note, he started writing. In Quechua, so that his partner would be called to translate if his body was found, he printed neatly, "Forgive me that our last words were in anger. Forget that and remember only how much I love you. J."

Tucking the notebook and pen into his back pocket, he double-checked his gun, and smiled grimly, wondering how many he could take with him.

***

Mad carried Blair through Jim's departure and his own breakfast, though he didn't look too closely at *why* he was so angry. As bone-headed as the move was, it was pure Ellison to do what he thought was right and take his lumps later. Mixed into it was the leftover frustration and anger from the way the MAC project was ending, and his own fury at himself for not connecting his night terrors to their bond or Jim's headaches. Or ever mentioning them to his partner, which could have snipped the whole idiotic thing in the bud.

Underneath it all was a snigglet of shame. Jim was right. He hadn't wanted the mental intimacy the two of them shared, and had accepted it only because he saw it as a necessary part of the sentinel/shaman thing. And very useful.

At a loss for what to do with himself when he'd eaten, Blair roamed the loft restlessly, not willing to go to the station and face his partner yet, and equally reluctant to go to Rainier to start spin-doctoring the fallout from ditching the meeting yesterday. That was going to be a nightmare, and he had no idea how to handle it. For a few minutes he considered trying to meditate for a while; maybe if he could center himself he'd be able to thread his way through the mess stacking up on him at every side. Halfway through a search for matches for the candles, he gave up, abruptly admitting he was too agitated to sit, let alone clear his mind.

When the phone rang, he all but leaped on it, grateful to have any excuse to think about anything else.

"Blair?" Cindy asked hesitantly.

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Blair said instantly. "I should have called you guys and let you know what was going on."

"That's okay," she said in relief. "Your partner - is everything all right?"

Pulling at the hair on the other side of his head from the phone, Blair said honestly, "No, no it's not, but there's not much I can say about it, the police business thing, you know? Look, I didn't mean to ditch you to deal with Matt on your own. I take it he wasn't willing to listen to reason about the publicity tour?"

"No, and the rest of us talked most of the night about it. Can you come down to the hotel before we have to leave to catch our flights?" Cindy's voice became slightly teasing. "If nothing else you need to get your laptop and things; I took them with me for safekeeping."

"Wow, I totally forgot," Blair said. "I owe you."

"So pay off by getting down here before it gets too late."

Mentally running over the bus schedule in his head, then checking the time, he said, "Consider me on the way. With luck I'll see you in a half an hour or so. And Cindy? Thanks, I still owe you, okay?"

"I might have a way for you to pay off," she said seriously and somewhat mysteriously. "Half hour, then, but that's squeezing it, since the airport shuttle's picking us up in about forty minutes. We'll meet you in the lobby."

Blair hung up and sprinted for the door. It was going to be a race to catch the bus, and he used the haste to bury any thing but speculation on what the other members of the team wanted to talk to him about. He spent the trip itself reviewing what he remembered of the contract he'd signed, and by the time he found the others sitting clustered together at one side of the hotel lobby, he could say with triumph, "Copyright! Swett owns the concept and the components, but he doesn't own the art, programming, or writing for any of it!"

Laughing, Cindy agreed. "We all kept the rights, mostly because there was a hope to squeeze more than one use out of the work. After all," And most of the team chorused with her, "Publish or perish!"

Sitting on the floor in the midst of the others, Blair said seriously, "So how do we use this to leverage Swett?"

Hurriedly the others filled him in on the 'strike' they had hashed out the night before, pointing out what they needed most was someone to finesse it to Swett so that he would see doing things their way as a good move, publicity wise. After all, the family values card could be played to a much wider audience than the rich elite. When the shuttle van arrived, they hadn't worked out the details yet, so Blair impulsively got on it with them, making a joke about sticking around until their planes were ready for takeoff.

Less than five minutes after they got on the highway, he shut up mid-sentence, hand going for his cell phone without orders from him. "Hold on a sec," he muttered to no one in particular, and hit the speed dial for Jim's phone. When he got the recording that the customer was currently not available, he rang Simon's office Intending to ask if the captain knew where Jim was, he calmly said instead, "Simon, can you send a back up unit to Tarryton's? Jim's in trouble. And no, I don't know what kind; I'm on my way there myself."

All there was from the other end of the line was a heavy sigh, then Banks said, "On the way, and I'll call security there and send them looking for him."

"Thanks." Shutting down the phone, he gave a distracted smile to the worried faces turned his way, and clambered toward the front to speak with the driver. It took more miles than he felt he could afford, but he did talk the man into detouring toward the Complex, heavily using words like 'police emergency,' 'life and death,' and 'department's gratitude' to do it. Thankfully it was on the way, which helped convince the driver, and there was no one on the bus beside the team to have to deal with.

Not that he did He spent the next fifteen minutes controlling his breathing to fight off a massive amount of adrenaline nervousness, miraculously contriving to be distant and remote from himself at the same time. Blatantly ignoring the concerned and puzzled looks shot his way, he held on mentally and was out of his seat before the van had stopped moving when it reached the first security shack.

To his relieved surprise, Haurer and Tarryton themselves were waiting there, looking up and beckoning him over when they saw him. "Jim...." he started.

Ushering him into the back of the limo, Haurer said softly, "We found his truck in back of Premier Paintball, with a couple of bullets in it, but no trace of blood. Captain Banks is there now with a patrol unit, and they're searching the immediate area."

Nodding, Blair leaned forward and said earnestly, "He's being hunted, I'm sure. That couldn't be done in the streets without drawing attention; that means the paintball grounds."

The two men traded a look, then Haurer said softly, "A landlord has the right to give police permission to search, if he thinks the request is reasonable." Before Tarryton could reply to that, the body guard's phone rang, and he answered with a "Yes?" He looked over at Blair and repeated, "Shots fired? Give the police every assistance; I'll be there momentarily."

"Oh, god, oh, god," Blair whispered, closing his eyes and reaching for his lover with his thoughts. He felt a careful touch on his shoulder, and he shuddered, getting out from under it. Which ever of them it had been, no more comfort was offered, and he gritted his teeth, waiting for the limo to stop.

When it did, he catapulted himself out of it, racing toward the arena, only to be literally tackled to the ground. Squirming, he twisted and kicked, trying to get out away, but Simon was much bigger than he was. It only took a minute for him to be immobilized well enough for the captain to mutter into his ear, "You won't do him any good if you get shot by whoever's after him. Stay safe, don't distract him."

Stifling a sob, Blair relaxed, giving his parole with a nod. Eyeing him suspiciously, Simon let him up, then took him by the upper arm and dragged him over to the cluster of people by his car, which included, he saw in surprise, the MAC team, who must have followed the limo in the van. No one looked at them, and the conversation went on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Grateful for the courtesy, he listened to a security guard looking through field glasses report, "Movement toward the forest line, I can't tell how many. My guess is that they can see the rack lights, and are going for broke. It's not likely we'll be able to find them if they make the woods."

"Considering what we found in the back of Hayes' shop, that would be the smart thing to do if you wanted to stay out of jail," Simon agreed dryly. For the benefit of the newcomers, studying the civilians milling around uncertainly, he added, "Premier Paintball apparently has an interesting side-line; gun running. There are enough weapons back there to supply a small army. Question is - do they take the time to bring down the cop that closed down their business on their way out of town?"

"Hell, yes," Haurer said, taking the glasses from his man and doing his own surveillance. "Your people trained for this kind of fight?" Foolishly Blair strained in the same direction, as if he could see what the other man could see.

Going into his trunk and getting out his kevlar, Banks said, "Ellison taught me the basics; Wilson over there is military trained for the guerilla warfare."

"Would you object to help from a civilian guide?" the bodyguard asked. "Before Hayes took the place, I helped design the course. Even if he's changed it a lot, you can't really change the terrain."

Before he could answer, Blair laid a hand on his forearm, and put all that he was feeling into his eyes. "You'll stay put if I say yes?" Simon asked quietly.

"Promise," Blair said solemnly.

"Go keep those civilians out of the way, then," Banks ordered gently. Returning to his normal gruffness, he asked irritably, "What'd you do to get here, anyway? Hijack a bus?"

Looking over to where the driver and others were watching curiously, he said, "Not exactly, but maybe they did." With a small shove from Banks, he started over to them, but caught the sound of heated words, and turned toward Tarryton and his companion instead. Before he could reach them, Haurer picked up a vest, said something too softly for Blair to hear, and joined Banks, checking his weapon as he went. Not sure why he did, he stood by Tarryton, leaning on top of the limo, companionably watching with him as the three men cautiously broke the lock on a gate and went through.

"They can't help it, you know," Tarryton said almost to himself, gray eyes focused on Haurer as he spoke to Banks while strapping on kevlar. "The ones born to protect, I mean. For them, it's like walking or sleeping, something they have to do. If they can't...." He sighed. "Well, killing them would be kinder."

Studying him intently, Blair didn't say anything, hoping the silence would encourage the other man and wanting very badly for some reason to hear what he was thinking. It must have worked, or maybe Tarryton just needed to voice his thoughts to someone who could understand. "It's hard for those who love them," he confessed obliquely. "But, god, how fiercely they love back!" He closed his eyes for a moment, a small, sweet smile flitting over his lips. "A single day of their love is worth all the moments of fear or sorrow that come from when they risk their lives to do what they have to do."

A knot of tears clogged Blair's throat, and he nodded once, then folded his hands over the top of the limo, unconsciously imitating the man beside him. Fingers running lovingly over the chain on his wrist, he looked out into the acreage that hid his sentinel, easily thinking only of the love he felt for Jim. And that Jim felt for him. As stupid as it had been for his mate to try to break the connection between them, it had shown Blair that one thing very clearly. For all that it must have looked as if Blair had chosen anthropology over being a cop's partner, that his career was more important to him than his lover, Jim had believed in and trusted their love. Far more than Blair had.

With that admission, the jagged anxiety that had been so prevalent in his mind and heart fled, a poisonous smoke fading into non-existence before the fresh breeze of the truth of what lay between them. For the first time he saw that he had always feared that it was the bond alone that held them together, sentinel necessity commanding the imitation of love to insure that Jim not be abandoned. And he had lived with it because, whatever the source, it was a truer and better love than any other he had known.

Fear finally laid aside, mind and soul serene, he focused all he was on his sentinel, creating for himself the mental image of standing in his customary place, slightly behind him, hand in the small of his back to help Jim focus. It was after all, where he wished most to be.

And a thousand yards away, Jim's senses went crystal clear and sharp, as if Blair were beside him, hand touching him gently to give him an anchor point. The pain flaring along his cheekbone from a splinter of wood sent flying by a ricochet bullet faded to the background, and everything dropped away but the necessity of the moment. That dictated that he hold absolutely still, and the small amount of wild growth around him seemed to reach out and cradle him in its embrace, hiding him as one of the four men hunting him stopped, looked past his hiding place, then went on, putting Jim at his back.

As quietly as a tree growing, Jim rose and crept after him, a remote part of him wishing for the silent protection of his Chopec crossbow. But he could make do with out it, and a fast hard throw of a rock hit the hunter square on the back of his head, bringing him down without so much as a shout. Disarming him as fast as he could, Jim shoved him into the spot he'd vacated a moment ago, and went on, the predator now, instead of the prey.

Hearing told him that Simon and two others had entered the arena, but were too far to be of any help bringing in Hayes and his remaining men. In a another few hundred yards the battle would be in the forest itself, and Jim was fairly sure at that point, disappointed in their hunt or not, the gun runners would take off for wherever it was they considered safe, more than likely far beyond the reach of U.S authorities. Not getting away, not any more, he thought ferociously, and that was the last coherent one he had before he slid completely into warrior mode.

Very shortly he brought down two more, leaving only Hayes himself, who, if scent were any indication, had begun to realize that something was very, very wrong. Hands clutching nervously at his weapon, he inched along a barely perceptible trail, trying to see everywhere at once. From his perch on a branch high enough up that he was invisible to anyone who didn't know exactly what to look for, Jim waited for the man to get underneath him, then dropped, knocking the former shopkeeper off his feet and sending the rifle flying.

They both scrambled to their feet, and shock on the man's face at seeing Jim's changed exterior was almost worth the hunt. Loose, graceful, the sentinel circled the other fighter, waiting to see if he would be mindlessly charged or if Hayes actually knew how to defend himself. A karate kick was his answer, but the timing was ragged, as if the crook didn't know for sure if it would do any good to even try. Jim caught the foot by the heel and dumped Hayes, landing on the small of his back with a pinning knee.

Fight gone, Hayes started blathering threats and insults, accusing him of everything from police brutality to sexual harassment. Ignoring them, Jim put on the handcuffs, reciting Miranda, and grinned up at Simon as he crashed through the brush to pull up short and glare at him.

"Damn it, Ellison," Banks snapped, picking at nettles clinging to his shirt, "You could have left us *one* of them to make it worth our while to hike through this mess."

"I could always let him loose," Jim said agreeably. With a tiny shake, he added with what he knew was a shark's grin, "See how *he* likes being hunted."

"Don't tempt me." Giving Hayes a harsh nudge to get him going, Simon muttered softly, "I thought you were trying to keep Blair free of the sentinel thing; he called me to tell me to send back up to Tarryton's."

Feeling his contact with his shaman fading to the normal background awareness, Jim smiled, knowing that his friend would see the love in it and not caring. "He found out," he said quietly, wary eye on the mumbling, cursing man in front of them. At Simon's worried glance he added, "You know Sandburg - give him a problem with three less than good solutions, and he'll come up with a fourth that nobody heard of which works better. We'll be all right."

When the worry didn't fade, Jim repeated, making sure only Simon could hear it, "We'll be all right."

At that Simon's concern was replaced with something sadder - sorrow and longing. It made him wish with all his heart that this good man could find love. Maybe if he stopped keeping Wayne at arm's length. This wasn't the time or place to talk about that, though, so Jim pointed out where he had one of the other gunrunners stashed and shoved Hayes toward it.

Simon pulled out his cell, and spoke into it briefly, becoming all business and starting the business of wrapping the case.

It took longer than Jim wanted. Now that the danger was over and the *immediacy* of Blair's presence had faded, all he really wanted was to find his mate and touch him in reality. Eventually he'd led the other officers to where he'd stashed the remaining gun runners, given Banks a verbal report, and was free to leave the mop up to others. Walking beside Haurer, he headed for the alley, homing in on Blair with a single-minded determination that the bodyguard apparently found amusing - though he seemed as intent on rejoining his companion as well.

They both pulled up short at the sight of Tarryton surrounded by the Mobile Classroom Team, deep in conversation, but all Haurer did was grin, shrug and begin to work his way to his lover's side. Jim shook his head, and finished the walk to the limo where Blair was standing, half turned toward the team. "What's going on? Why're they here?" he asked conversationally, but coming to a halt so close Blair could feel his heat.

"The last is a good question; curiosity I suppose. And it looks like Cindy is solving the problem of how to finesse a billionaire," Blair answered distractedly, eyes only on Jim.

Barely hearing the answers, he stared down into the calm blue of his mate's eyes, wishing he could lift a hand to brush aside the curls, for no other reason than to feel their weight and the satin of his lover's skin.

Tilting back his head as if he *had* been touched, Blair murmured, "Guess we know now how a sentinel manages when his guide can't be with him."

"Chief..." he started to apologize, though whether for the connection or for the argument this morning, he wasn't sure.

Not letting him get any further, Blair circled Jim's wrist with strong fingers, digging slightly at the marriage band, hiding the action with the angle of their bodies. "I *did* make a choice, Jim. I chose *you.* And everything that comes with that." He inched closer, and repeated lovingly, "I chose you."

Jim bent his head until he and Blair were less than a breath from kissing, and ghostly fingers stroked over his lips, making them lift in a smile.

finis