The Basis for Survival

Carefully placing the suitcase in the trunk of the Volvo, Jim closed the lid, hands firmly on top of it as if to keep them from temptation. Awkwardly he asked, "Are you sure you remembered everything? Got your reservations for the hotel for tonight, directions to the commune that's hosting the retreat?"

Not looking at him, Blair answered patiently, "Yes, and yes, though I've been there before. I remember the way."

For lack of anything else to say or do, Jim said, "Well, call if you run into a problem or something."

"Sure, sure." Catching a handful of hair as the early morning wind tossed it into his eyes, Blair shoved the errant locks behind an ear, apparently as uncertain about what to do next as Jim was.

They both stood beside the car, eyes anywhere but on each other, and Jim cursed himself for getting so used to having Blair ease the way for him in situations like this. Not only was it patently unfair to his partner and roomie, but it left him feeling like an idiot when it *was* up to him to cope with the social amenities.

It didn't help that he had mixed feelings about the whole 'take two weeks off and commune with nature in the middle of nowhere' thing. He truly thought it would do Blair a world of good, though, not only to visit with Naomi, but to get back to the part of his life that didn't have anything to do with the daily grind in Cascade.

Since he and Katie had broken up a few months earlier, Blair had withdrawn into himself while contradictorily cramming his schedule to the brim. In addition to the long hours working with the P.D. demanded, he was volunteering at a homeless shelter, a halfway house, and helping one of his few friends left over from the debacle at Rainer do construction on his house. It was as if he were hiding from what happened with Katie, the loss of his academic career and reputation, everything that had happened in the past year by being too exhausted and over-extended to be able to think.

That wasn't good for Sandburg. Worked wonders for Jim, but Blair looked worn to the bone: too thin, no trace of his usual enthusiasm or energy. More than anything he needed a chance to recharge and to come to terms with having his old life disintegrate, which for Blair that meant meditation and the kind of company that felt comfortable talking about vibes and auras. The sort of place Jim hated and would send him off the deep end if he went along.

He would have, anyway, if Blair had so much as given him a fingernail hold on an invitation. But Naomi had made it clear that cop-types weren't welcome, and that seemed such a relief to Blair that Jim hadn't made an issue of it, though the thought of his partner going anywhere without him caused a deep-seated sense of unquiet. In part it was because Blair was such a natural trouble magnet, but mostly it was because he couldn't help but want to heal the hurt eroding his partner's soul.

But other than that first night when he had cried in the safety of Jim's arms, Blair hadn't allowed Jim to give him so much as a listening ear. They lived, worked, and played together, but Jim still only caught the occasional glimpse of sorrow in his friend's expression. Any clumsy attempt on Jim's part to offer comfort or to bring the subject up to talk out was gently, firmly turned away, making him feel the effort was un-welcomed and unwanted.

Having little choice, he'd done his best to encourage him to go, not that it had taken much. Blair brightened for the first time since Katie and had gone into a whirlwind of activity to get ready. With that, at least, he had allowed him to help, but now all that was left was saying goodbye, and for the life of him, Jim couldn't think of a way to do it that wasn't awkward.

A handshake was too formal, a wave was too unconcerned and casual, and a hug was too personal though that was what Jim wanted. At least Blair seemed as uncertain as he felt. He was all but scuffing his toe in the dirt like a schoolyard kid trying to get out of talking with the teacher.

That brought a smile to Jim's face, and he thought, Fuck it. Up until a few months ago I wouldn't have thought about it, because it's the thing to do. He wrapped both arms around Blair's smaller form, holding him close and scrubbing a cheek over the auburn curls. For a split second Blair was stiff, slicing yet another tiny rejection into Jim's heart, but then he returned it, hugging back hard and not leaving any space between them.

"No stopping to help stranded little old ladies," Jim joked weakly, not ready to let go. "No side trips to see the world's largest tomato or to look up an old kindergarten flame. Straight to Naomi and don't spare the horses."

Lame as the effort was, it coaxed a half-hearted chuckle from Blair, and when he reluctantly pulled back, he looked like himself for the first time in too, too long. "No giving Megan a hard time while she's riding with you," he instructed in return. "No Wonderburgers every night of the week, and absolutely, positively no keeping problems with your senses to yourself. Got it?"

"Got it," Jim mock-growled. "Though between her and Simon, I won't even be able to sneeze without one of them wanting to know what's wrong."

"Hey, they're your friends; they just want to help," Blair scolded. Then he grinned. "Not to mention you're one hard-assed son of a bitch to live with when things *are* on the blink."

On impulse he swept Blair in for another fast, hard, one-armed hugged, not giving him time to react. Then he stepped back and opened the door to the Volvo with a flourish. "Just don't leave me at their mercy too long, okay, partner? Have a good time but get back here before I have to ask you to help me hide bodies. Give Naomi a kiss for me."

For a moment Jim wondered what he could have possibly said or done wrong. Blair looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach, and his heartbeat and respirations spiked violently. He started to reach to steady the suddenly swaying man, but Blair clutched the frame of the door, putting it between them. "Chief?!"

Bowing his head, Blair took several deep, steadying breaths. "Man," he murmured after a moment. "Definitely should have eaten breakfast this morning." He held up a hand before Jim could suggest delaying for a meal or a quick trip to the hospital, maybe. "Nothing serious, oh Sentinel of the Great City. All those years as a starving student had some reward; I know how to handle myself when my blood sugar gets too low. I'll stop by that health food store on the way out of town that sells all-natural bran muffins and organic juice. It'll help get me in the ready for the brown rice and macrobiotic diet of the commune too."

Deliberately, melodramatically, Jim shuddered, reassured by how quickly Blair's vitals dropped back to normal. "You know, Sandburg, most people use vacations as an excuse to eat well, indulge the taste buds a little."

"I *like* brown rice and macrobiotics," Blair said solemnly, then added with a barely there twitch of the lips only Jim could have seen. "But I think I'll have prime rib and a baked potato with butter for dinner tonight."

"Be sure you brush your teeth so you won't show up with burnt animal flesh on our breath," Jim advised.

Shaking his head but smiling, Blair pulled out his keys and got into his car, leaning out of the opened window once the door was shut. "Remember, Sanderson disposition tomorrow 9am sharp, and you still haven't finished the Fields report. Simon will tear you a new one if that's not on his desk by noon."

"Go, Sandburg, go." Jim made shooing motions with both hands. "I know how to be a cop. Don't worry, I'll do fine."

"I know you will." His cheerful tone sounded strained, and Jim knew guilt about leaving him on his own was trying to settle in.

To combat it, he gave a careful rap to the curl covered-skull and repeated. "Go!" With one of those childish, hand opening and shutting waves of his, Blair did as he was told.

Jim wasn't the slightest bit embarrassed by standing on the street and watching the tail lights of the Volvo until it was gone from *his* sight.

***

The timing for Blair's vacation couldn't have been better. It was one of those weeks where court dates, dispositions, and routine stake-outs dominated the hours, leaving precious little time for real police work. On top of that it was an election year, one with a particularly heated fight for mayor, and police security had had to be provided for both candidates. Mostly it was the uniformed officers that took the brunt of it, but everyone was pressed into extra hours, often at the kind of dog and pony shows politicians love and cops loathe.

While Jim missed Blair with an ache that never let up, he was distracted from it for the most part, only turning to ask him something or to share a pointed comment with him every five minutes or so. Conner put up with him magnificently, only rolling her eyes and sighing theatrically, though she did ask once sarcastically if he'd feel better if she babbled on for an hour or so about aboriginal Australian culture. In a complete deadpan Jim shot back that he'd be delighted to listen, but only if she ended it by giving a demonstration of going walkabout. She'd boggled at him for a minute, then broke up, and the rest of the stake out went painlessly.

It was only Sunday Jim dreaded because that had informally become his and Blair's day to do household chores together, usually ending it by hanging out on the couch watching whatever game or movie they happened to find. For a while he thought about volunteering to work an extra shift to avoid the emptiness of the loft, but he'd been so busy for the past couple of weeks he had few things that couldn't be put off any longer. Deciding to take a page out of Blair's book, he made a list of long, hard jobs that needed seen to, including his routine check of the security of the window and door locks.

Mid-morning he was finished except for the window and fire escape off Blair's room, and he hesitated at the door, reluctant as always to invade his roomie's privacy. Normally he even kept his senses away from this part of their home, not wanting to ever make Blair feel as if he were constantly under surveillance. It was an unspoken agreement between them that had been the earliest show of dawning trust on both sides.

It wasn't as though Blair didn't know that he did the check, Jim reminded himself; or that it would take very long. Determinedly he pushed the French doors open, intending to go to straight to the window, and was actually two steps into the room before the *wrongness* of it hit him hard. Putting down his tool box, he did a lightening fast sweep with his senses, but they didn't tell him what the problem was. Though the air was stale, the only scents in it were the ones that belonged - the particular perfume of books and paper, scented candles, herbal personal products, and Blair's natural fragrance that Jim knew well. No unusual sound was present, nor did he see any movement where movement shouldn't have been.

Sentinel satisfied, cop training came to the fore, and he swung in a slow circle, studying the room itself for clues. Later he would think it was a sense of self-preservation that kept him from seeing the obvious, but in truth, there was nothing about a clean room that should set off alarms immediately.

Except that it was Blair's room, a room whose floor hadn't seen the light of day since he'd moved into it. Until now. There wasn't a single stack of papers or books to be seen, no clothes were scattered on every available surface, and no artifacts or personal possessions cluttered the area.

In fact, it didn't look as if anyone lived in there at all, and with cold, shaking hands, Jim opened the nearest drawer to find it empty. He stumbled away from the gaping space, hand going to his mouth as if to rub away a foul taste, and tripped over the tool box he'd left by the door. Falling heavily, he hit the side of his face on the door and his shoulder on the frame, not feeling the impact at all. Instinctively he scrambled out into the hallway, turning his back on the vacant bedroom, hunching over his middle as if he he'd been shot in the gut and clutching his upper arms with bruising force.

He's not coming back, he thought wildly. Not coming back. That's why his vitals spiked when I said not to stay away too long. He knew he was leaving for good. He's not coming back.

The words beat into him with the force of fists, and he quaked under the blows, unable to breathe because of the incredible pain. Mentally Jim fumbled to push it down, push it away to be used, like he always did, but then he remembered the momentary stiffness when he'd hugged Blair, his sudden capitulation. He gave in because he knew it was the last time. The last time. I'll never be able to touch him again. I'll never touch him again.

The agony from that was more than he could bear, and he passed out, gratefully reaching for the oblivion.

***

Jim fought regaining consciousness with everything he had, but someone was nudging him insistently, pawing at his shoulders to shake him. For a moment he was uncertain why he didn't want to face reality, but then Blair's desertion hit him again, and he moaned, trying to let the pain carry him back into darkness. To his surprise his cry was echoed by the mournful wail of a wolf, and his eyes snapped open of their own accord in time to see Blair's animal spirit lower its great head to the floor beside his.

They studied each other for a moment, then Jim said huskily, "Chief?"

The animal chuffed softly at him, and snuggled his muzzle against Jim's cheek.

Swearing he could see an echo of his own agony in the sapphire eyes, Jim raised a clumsy hand to pet it, fingers digging into the human-soft fur of his ruff. "Hey, fellow," he said, "You're a long way from home. It's not safe for you here." He wasn't sure that the wolf could be hurt in its physical form, but didn't want to risk him, terrified of what the consequences to Blair might be.

All Chief did was give him a dainty lick and inch closer, as if to say, where else would I be when you need me?

"You can't help me this time," Jim said, holding himself aloof from the warmth of the big body though all he wanted was to cuddle Chief close. "Unless you can convince Sandburg to call me and at least *explain* to me why he took off. I wouldn't even try to talk him into coming back, I swear."

Chief gave an almost human sigh and looked away, as if he were ashamed of what his two-legged self had done.

Sympathetically, Jim gave the animal a gentle tug toward him, finally allowing himself to accept the sparse comfort the wolf offered. "Not your fault; you had to be the part that argued with him when he hatched this hare-brained scheme." Closing his eyes, suddenly afraid he might cry, Jim added, "He must have been hurting bad from whatever it was I did, or he would have at least yelled at me. Guess that means I, uh...." His throat closed tightly, making him gasp the last words. "... means I shouldn't go looking for him to straighten things out."

Hurt beyond agony ripped at him, and he buried his face in Chief's ruff. "I never thought he'd just go away; he'd stuck with me no matter how much of a bastard I had been," he mumbled. "Knew he'd get tired of living in that little room after a while, get his own place, maybe have a girlfriend or wife move in with him. Even thought he might decide to live in another town or something. But I thought I'd be able to see him once in a while to visit or whatever."

He drew in a shaky lung full of air, straining to get it inside him, but his chest was too small, the ribs locked tight on something threatening to break free. Pounding heavily, his heart started to ache, feeling as though a great weight were crushing it. "Heart attack?" he asked himself. "Dying of a broken heart?" If that were the case, he was glad and grateful to whatever force it was that would spare him a life where he never touched Blair ever again.

Regardless, he couldn't simply let go, and he fought to breath, bracing himself to crawl for the phone. As he did, Chief creeping along side him, whining, the skin in the center of his chest began to burn hotly, and he stopped, clutching at the sudden sensation, the imprint of a wolf's paw scorching his palm.

Chief's symbol, and the promise that that part of Blair lived *within* Jim. What would happen if he did die? Would Chief rejoin his counterpart? Would he be lost, eternally wandering with no den or safe haven? Or would Chief die, and Blair as well because he couldn't survive without that vital piece missing?

Spurred by fear for his partner, Jim rolled to his back, and *made* himself take a long, slow, deep breath, concentrating on forcing the muscles in his chest to expand. The wolf woofed, clearly in approval at what he was doing, and lay beside him again, his pants whisking over Jim's face, flowing into his lungs, carrying the essence of Blair's scent and heat. That unknotted more of the paralysis holding his ribs, and the next inhale was easier, the next effortless.

Regardless, he lay still for a very long while, thinking only about each breath, bleeding away seconds with counts of how long each one took. It produced a kind of false tranquility, a facade that hid the desolation at the core of him. Eventually Chief barked once, softly, and pawed at his shoulder, standing up when Jim turned to look at him blank eyed. The wolf barked again, a bit more insistently, and Jim said a voice that sounded curiously flat to his own ears, "Is that a request?"

With a chuff of air that could only be a yes, Chief padded into the kitchen, his claws telling with little morse codes clicks on the hard wood floor where he went. The sound of the ticks changed to scratching over porcelain. "Water," Jim said. Chief needed a drink. That meant he had to get up and accommodate a companion without the opposing thumbs necessary for turning a water spigot. That meant moving.

He sighed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Chief was prodding him into motion, so that he would fall back into the business of living. Well, he knew how to do that; knew all too fucking well. Perversely he wanted to lie there and wallow in self-pity and sorrow. Another more demanding bark from the kitchen dug at his apathy and he found himself getting laboriously to his feet.

A dozen minor hurts from his fall and subsequent crawl over the floor reported in; he automatically turned the dial on touch down, dismissing them from mind. He swayed, wondered why, then noticed that the loft was dark. Night had fallen, and he finally understood how Blair had lost an entire weekend to shock when Katie said goodbye. He took a shaky step, which made his head spin, mostly because he hadn't had anything to eat or drink since breakfast that morning.

That would be the next thing on his new agenda, then - dinner. After that he'd come up with something. He always came up with something else to keep him moving. Shuffling into the kitchen, he turned on the water, then aimlessly opened a cabinet to look for a bowl for Chief. The wolf took care of the matter himself. He stood on his hind legs to lap happily from the flow, then went back on all hours, sneezing and shaking his head to dry his muzzle.

Aware of his own thirst, Jim muttered, "Works for me, Chief," and bent to drink from the running water. When he was done he fastidiously dried his face on a dish towel, Chief's head-tilted regard of the action bringing a hint of warmth to his lips. "Don't knock it. Beats making yourself dizzy with a headshake or twelve."

With a huff that said, "If you say so," the wolf expectantly stood by the refrigerator, restlessly dancing from fore paw to paw.

"Now you want me to make you dinner. Pushy, aren't you? Well, I do owe you for the rabbits." Taking out the steak he'd bought for himself - feeling at the time that he deserved it after not once indulging in Wonderburgers all week - Jim held it out for his companion's approval.

That came as a sloppy lick along the jowls and more dancing from foot to foot.

Along with the meat, he took out the makings for a salad for himself since Chief should get all the steak. He set about preparing the meat for broiling, the familiar task in familiar surroundings going a long way to restoring him to animation, if not to true life. But he was clumsy from forgetting to dial touch back up, though he blamed exhaustion and hunger, and he had trouble wielding the knife for trimming the steak, changing tools twice to try to compensate.

Nearly done, Jim ran into a particularly stubborn bit of gristle that resisted the edge of the knife, and, putting too much force into cutting, he skidded the blade over the surface, sending his hand shooting too hard and too fast across the counter. He hit the salt shaker with the edge of the handle, and with a spin it fell to the floor. Automatically kneeling to pick it up, he bumped the other two knives with the one he held, knocking it from his grip and toppling all three of them through the air, straight at his head.

Instinctively he threw up his arms to protect his face, swearing at himself for his clumsiness as the knives clattered to the floor. Retrieving them, he slapped them down with un-necessary force on the counter, irritated by his stupidity, and only then discovered from the smudge on the handle and the red sprayed over the surface that he had been cut.

With a growl of frustrated disgust directed at himself, he went to the sink to clean the wounds to see how bad they were. Turning the cold water on to a steady trickle, he washed of the red glazing his flesh, idly watching it melt away from his skin and blend into the clear liquid. It was a mesmerizing dance of crystal and crimson, both writhing and spinning around and through each other, courting, then mating as they plunged into oblivion.

Jim zoned on the sinuous mixing, zoned so completely that he would have stood there until blood loss rendered him unconscious. As it was, his fingers were shriveled by the time Chief's howls cut though the zone, and he leaned heavily on the edge of the sink, knees trembling as if ready to collapse.

"Damn."

With a firm head butt into his backside, Chief agreed, then put his forepaws on the counter so he could lick urgently at Jim's face. From the raw, slightly sticky feeling there, he'd tried that earlier to bring Jim back, and he could feel bruises coming up on his calves and buttocks where his companion must have resorted to nips to try to rouse him.

Giving Chief a reassuring tousle, Jim said, "How'd you like that steak rare, boy? As in uncooked? I don't think I'm going to be able to handle being a chef right now."

Chief's response was a tentative lick in the general vicinity of Jim's injured hand, and Jim looked it over carefully to appease him. "Should get stitches in the one on the heel, but the other two across the knuckles aren't deep, just long." Hanging his head over the sink, he groaned, "No way can I handle an emergency room right now. I'll smear it full of antiseptic cream, butterfly it and hope for the best. At least it should be clean."

Purposefully he straightened, rubbing a hand over his eyes tiredly. "I seem to be determined to be as battered on the outside as I feel on the inside; a shrink would have a field day with that, wouldn't he?"

Titling his head, Chief regarded him enigmatically, as though he had something to say about the accidents, as well. All he did though, was gently grip Jim's good hand in his teeth and tug.

"I get it, Chief. I get it; come on, let's get these bandaged."

It hadn't been that long ago Jim had had to bandage himself one handed, and at least this time only one limb was hurt, so he finished quickly. The wolf watched the proceedings intently, then when the last bit of tape was in place, he woofed in satisfaction and trotted off for the kitchen. He came back with the steak dangling from his jaws, and settled down in front of the fireplace in gnaw on it. Surprised, Jim sat unmoving and unblinking for a second, then gave a short bark of laughter. He *had* told Chief he could have it.

With something resembling a smile, he went to get his own dinner, though he had to resort to eating the vegetables raw. They filled the hole in his stomach and steadied him enough that he decided to finish his chores before calling it a night. Regardless of the hour or the injury, he stubbornly set out to finish what he'd started, though he resolutely kept his eyes fixed on the floor when he fetched his tool box from Bl... the spare bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him afterwards. A glance at the time when he was done told him that it was way later than he should be up, and, grimacing at the gauze circling his left hand, he picked up the phone to call out from work at the Department for the next day.

A few hours from dawn Jim crawled into bed, Chief right behind him, too worn and bleak to think about anything but the promise of a few hours of respite from his grief and sorrow. It didn't seem odd to him that the animal would want to go to bed with him, and it wasn't until the wolf circled before lying down beside him that it occurred to Jim that he should object to animal hair and whatnot on his clean blankets. But Chief's body heat and concentrated Blair-scent were very lulling, and he drifted off, fuzzily thinking that if he could cope with mammoth hair clogs in the shower, a little wolf fur was nothing.

Thankfully his sleep was dreamless, and so deep that the brightening loft and increasing city noises didn't disturb him at all. That took several minutes of steady pounding at the front door, along with dire threats being muttered by Simon Banks in a sotto voce. Groggy, aching in a dozen different places, Jim stomped downstairs, all too aware that he still wore yesterday's sweats and smelled like he'd forgotten what bath soap was used for. He was *not* in the mood to deal with his friend and captain, and definitely in no condition to answer any of the pointed questions Simon would have once he got sight of him. Not to mention the last thing he needed was to try to explain why there was a wolf curiously looking over the wire railings of the bedroom.

On impulse, taking advantage of the bright light from the balcony doors flooding the loft, Jim opened his front door only a crack so that all Simon could see was a shadowy form. "What the hell do you want, sir?" he snapped, realistically sagging against the door frame to hide his wounded hand behind his body. "I've had a rotten night and just got to sleep. Is there some department rule that says a man who takes a sick time has to prove to his commanding officer that he is sick?"

In the dark hallway, made darker by the light nearest Jim's door being out, Simon shrank back a step at the harsh tone, but then jammed his cigar in his mouth. "No," he growled around it. "But there's an unspoken rule among friends that when one isn't well, the other drops by to check on him, make sure he's okay."

Truly sorry for at sniping his friend, Jim put his forehead on the wall next to the door. "Shouldn't have bitched at you, Simon. It's just that I really feel like shit."

"And I shouldn't have got you up," Simon semi-apologized himself. "That bug going around must really have a hold if you were up with it all night." He made an abortive move to come inside, but Jim held up his hand to stop him, letting Simon assume that was why he'd called in so he could use the misconception.

"Let's just say I've been better; much, much better. And if you don't want me to show you how bad it can get, don't bring that cigar of yours in here. It's turning my stomach from here." That was the truth, on all counts, even if his captain had the cause wrong.

Guiltily Simon took the offending thing out of his mouth to childishly hide it behind his back, as if that broad barrier would be enough to block its stink. "I'll have you know that's a perfectly good Los Turvos Tarva, almost as good as a hand-rolled Havana," he said despite his actions.

Hiding a smile, Jim said bluntly, "I don't care if Castro rolled it himself. It's rolling *my* guts, and even if you put it back in your car, you'd still be carrying the smell. Just let me crawl back to my cave, Simon, to die in peace, okay?"

Looking uneasy, but too much of a good man to push when he thought his friend wasn't up to it, Simon barked, "No dying. Sandburg will have my hide. Go do the strong silent thing then, but if it gets to be too much, call. And *that,* he finished, cigar making a return to be used as a pointer, "Is an order."

"I'll see if I can't obey that one a little better than usual," Jim said dryly. "Later, then."

"Later," Simon agreed. "Feel better."

Jim closed the door slowly, aware that Simon was staring at it until the latch clicked shut, and he listened until, with a long-suffering sigh, the other man strode away, already muttering to himself about reassigning case loads.

Relieved that he was off the hook with his captain for now, Jim made his way back upstairs, ignoring a mental sentry that insisted that if he was up, he should be on duty. Almost defiantly he crawled back into bed, waited until Chief had done his mandatory three circles on his side of the bed before lying down, then curled around him, asleep almost before his eyes were shut.

****

Hours later Chief nudged him awake, whimpering urgently, and running to the door as soon as Jim opened his eyes, scratching to be let out. Feeling even worse than he had when Simon had gotten him up, Jim grumped, "You act so human - you can't figure out how to use the bathroom like anybody else?"

The answering bark was a definite 'no,' and without bothering with socks, Jim pulled on the sneakers he'd kicked off the night before. Sound and smell told him that Cascade was enjoying its usual two to three inches of liquid sunshine, and it wasn't worth to bother to get completely dressed if he was only going to get wet. Grabbing his rattiest jacket from the hook, he hesitated, then back-tracked to get a belt from his drawer.

Seeing it dangling from Jim's hand, Chief shook his head so violently his claws skidded on the floor, then he backed off, barely growling.

"I don't like it either," Jim said reasonably. "But the leash laws here are enforced, and cop or no cop, you'll wind up in the pound if we don't obey them, at least on the surface. Not to mention I have no idea how *anyone* would react to a wolf, especially one your size, running around loose." He held the strip of leather up between both hands so Chief could see it. "All I'm going to do is loop part of this around your neck, twist one end under, and hold the other. It'll look like you're wearing a collar, but one yank will free you, okay?"

Chief looked back and forth between the belt and Jim's expression several times, then gave a very human sigh and came to sit at his feet.

"Sucks, I know," Jim said sympathetically, and did as he described.

They tended to matters very quickly, and Jim whipped off the belt as soon as they were close to 852 Prospect, unable to shake the feeling that restraining Chief in any way was fundamentally wrong. His unease showed by the force with which he threw the belt onto the table by the door, before he even took off his soaked jacket. That seemed to give the wolf pause. Chief gave Jim one of his tilted-head stares, then he leaned heavily on the human's leg, nearly knocking him over.

"I like you, too," Jim said in puzzlement. "But give me some room here, will you? I can't shake off the rain the way you can. Well, I could try, but then some kind citizen would call 911 to get me help for my seizure."

Giving a series of short, sharp yips that sounded like laughter, Chief trotted over to the fireplace and sat in front of it expectantly.

"Fire sounds good." He took care of that, scrounged up some brunch for both of them, cleaned up from that, and automatically fell into the pattern of a day-off, filling the hours with the thousand and one stupid details that were the basis for survival in the big city. The only difference was that every once in a while he would stop, frozen in place as he was confronted with one that involved Blair. The first time was when he started making up a shopping list, calling out without thinking to ask his partner if there was anything that he wanted to add.

His voice had echoed emptily in the loft, ringing even louder in his head, and the full weight of the *absence* of the other man dropped on Jim in an avalanche of pain that was both sharp and crushing. Like it had the first time, it had squeezed the air out of his chest, constricting his heart to the point he was sure it'd stop beating. Chief had gone to him instantly and had leaned into him, whimpering sympathetically, until he had been able to breathe again. Then the wolf had nudged at Jim until he went back to making his list, neither commenting in any way at how shaky the writing was.

But each time he ran into a Blair reminder, the pain was worse and lasted longer, until Jim was going to his knees under the impact, screams restrained only by the steel chains of a life time of control. By the time sunset came, he was too battered from the repeated blows to stand without weaving, and he shambled his way up to his bed to collapse, not even remembering that he hadn't showered or changed at all that day.

Chief didn't get on the bed with him; he stood next to it, head on the mattress close enough to Jim's face to be able to sporadically give some of his oddly dainty licks. "This is killing me," Jim whispered honestly in the early evening's darkness, the faint flicker from the fire below dimly making it dance. "The only thing I can feel is pain, the only thing *real* to me is pain. I can only take so much before I go crazy, and god help me, Chief, I'd rather be dead than insane."

Clumsily he patted the wolf between the ears, scratching a little behind one. "Is there something you can do to take it away?" His eyes drifted shut and he thought of all the things he'd shoved down beyond his mental sight - Bud's death, his father's abuse, his senses, even Incacha and the Chopec. "I repressed all that; maybe you can help me repress what I feel for Blair, bury it under the hatred for that damned dissertation."

Chief turned away, crying out softly in sorrow and grief.

"Hey, no big deal, boy," Jim crooned, not wanting to upset his companion more than was avoidable. "If you can't, you can't. None of this is your fault; it's not even Blair's, really. How can it be? He didn't ask for me to love him so much, and it's not like he wanted me to." Restlessly he rolled to his side, pulling his knees up as if that would ease the interminable ache inside him. "Just wish I could feel something besides hurt. Senses that let me hear a mosquito biting the next door neighbor, and all they have to tell me right now is how bad I feel."

The mattress bounced once under the wolf's weight, but instead of lying down next to Jim, he spooned awkwardly behind him, his breath tickling the back of Jim's neck. He shivered from the delicate sensation, nipples hardening as tiny shock waves coursed down his spine. They met in his gut, causing a pleasant tug, and though Jim wasn't anywhere near horny, it made him realize there *was* something else he could feel, a way he could hide from his agony, at least for a while.

Quickly he peeled out of his clothes, then reached into the nightstand for the massage oil he kept there for when he needed a little solitary relief. Aware of Chief's gaze on him, finding that as exciting as what he intended to do, he poured a small puddle in his palm and began to coax an erection from his flaccid dick. Deliberately he mentally replayed his first encounter with Chief, relishing the twinges of desire that caused, encouraging it to grow. Body beginning to simmer with need, he trailed slick fingers down to his center and penetrated himself, gasping silently at the wonderful intrusion.

It was good, so very good, to just be two hands working twin sources of pleasure. Too good to hurry, too good to want to finish, and Jim gave himself to the moment, wanting nothing but the special oblivion that sex gave. A long, luxurious time later, he was rock hard, loose as a jailhouse whore, and in need of something *more.*

He peeked from under shuttered lids to see what Chief's reaction to the pornographic spectacle was, and found him watching intently, hunching slightly into the mattress as he did. Not allowing himself to think, Jim went to his hands and knees in blatant invitation, pushing down the wave of humiliation and shame being in that position always brought, though it was stronger than usual because of who he presented for.

It didn't seem at first that Chief would take him up on it, but Jim began awkwardly stroking himself again, moving from the hips into his hand, unable to stop tiny cries of pleasure from escaping. A moment later an agile tongue probed at his entrance, nearly sending him off the bed with a shout of shocked delight. He dropped back to all fours, needing to have that delicious torment continue, though he was shaking so hard from it that he worried he might collapse.

When it did end, he growled his disappointment, then cut it short when strong hands grabbed his ass cheeks, spreading them wide. "Yes, yes, yes, yes," he moaned, trying to hold still but feeling as though the air itself was intimately invading him. Then he was battered open by a thick cock that seemed to rush into him forever and ever.

With a choked scream, he shot, hardly registering the spray of thick cream hitting his belly and chest. That went on forever as well, and he writhed back into the hard fucking being given to him, relishing every second of it. Mercifully his arousal only dipped, leaving him loving the hard use his sensitive channel was taking and praying it that it never stopped. Chief didn't show any sign of slowing or finishing, and he hoped it meant his companion was in no hurry to come, either.

It must have been good for him; Chief pounded away eagerly, panting, and Jim could just barely make out small words in that sound. "Take it, take it, god, beautiful, fucking beautiful, yeah, all of my cock, all of it, all the way in, like that, like that...."

The barely breathed chant was another kind of sex to Jim's senses, the individual sounds thrusting in and out of his hearing, his mind, the air from them sliding over his tongue to use his throat. It was incredible, a rush of possession and lust that sent him into a frantic, punishing frenzy of fucking, tightening around the hardness filling him until he felt something internal give.

He didn't care, he didn't care, he just wanted more, wanted it deeper, harder, all in him, everywhere at once. When Chief roared his name, seed gushing into his depths, he whimpered in bitter disappointment, dropping his face to the mattress to get his ass high as he could so the last strokes would be as deep as possible.

But the heat from the come in him set off a need for release that couldn't be denied, and he roughly tugged and pulled on his nipples while he jacked himself viciously, wanting to finish while Chief was still pumping through the last waves of his own climax. Just as the softening cock threatened to slip free of his body, Jim dug his nails into the aching tip on his chest, driving himself over the edge. The liquid that bubbled lazily over his hand bore no similarity to the rip tide of ecstasy that caught him up and tumbled him away from any awareness of anything but itself.

****

It was the sound of weeping that drew him back to his body, and he lay without moving for several moments, trying to discern who it was that cried. It was only when a sob tumbled from him that he realized his cheeks were wet, and that he was the one making the soft, despairing noises. He fumbled for control, burrowing into the pillows to both hide and dry the evidence.

"I didn't meant to hurt you this bad," Chief whispered against his back, his weight a comforting reality. "I didn't mean to!"

"I know, babe, I know," he answered tiredly, but with no trace of resentment or anger. "I told you that it's *not* your fault."

"I've never seen your kind of love before; the in-for-the-long-haul, death-do-you-part kind." The tone was of a soul in torment, but before Jim could offer solace or absolution, Chief went on. "Never been sure it existed, though I think I always hoped it did. And, and, I don't know if *I* can do forever love."

"Chief, it's *okay,*" Jim assured him, speaking into the mattress, afraid his lover would vanish if he moved. "It's not like I've had much luck at it. You've seen the way my relationships go; I've learned to expect to be alone."

His companion was silent, though he scrubbed a whisker-sharp cheek between Jim's shoulder blades. Finally he whispered, "That's why I gave you this piece of me to carry, you know. I was dying, and all I could think of was that I was leaving you all alone with an enemy hunting you - an enemy I taught how to fight you. Then I saw your panther chasing after me, and I sent the part of me that always fought beside you to join him. Didn't expect them to merge, didn't expect to be given a piece of you in return. It was like an electric charge straight to my spirit, making me live."

"And it'll always be with you now, where ever you go," Jim murmured, getting sleepy, despite not wanting to lose the precious minutes when he and Blair could speak soul to soul. "No matter how many miles or how many years you put between us, my love will be within you, doing what it can to nourish you."

"I don't deserve it! I can't give you what you need, what you deserve!"

That puzzled Jim, as much as anything could penetrate the fog shutting down his reasoning, and he mumbled, "But you do. Always. Up to and including a kick in the ass. Like now."

"This isn't real."

That made him smile for the first time since he found an empty bedroom. "It's real enough for me." But he wasn't sure if he spoke aloud or only in his mind because sleep had him completely in its grip, blanketing his mind with peace.

****

An unknown time later he sluggishly tried to push the weight of it aside, some primal warning struggling to make itself known. Blearily, he considered what his senses offered, forced to deal with one bit of information at a time. Most noticeable was that he was cold, actually shivering with it. Reflex dealt with that, and he pulled the comforter over himself, dismissing the chill. Next touch voiced a number of complaints, so many that he simply dialed them down so as not to be bothered. Sound gave him nothing except the normal predawn sounds of the loft and surrounding area, and sight when he cracked open an eye found only the expected, as well.

Except there should have been something unusual on both counts, or at least, not run of the mill. That woke him up enough to check for what was missing, and he sighed when he realized Chief was gone. No spoor, no animal sounds, not even those of a sleeping wolf.

Absently he brushed his fingertips over the nearly imperceptible wolf print in the center of his chest. "Not gone," he told himself reassuringly. "Just back where he should be."

Deciding that must have been what disturbed him, he curled up to try to generate more body heat, noticing when he did that part of the problem was that the sheets were wet and sticky, sucking out the warmth. Scent said blood as well as semen, and vaguely remembering that he'd been torn during sex, Jim tentatively touched his pucker, finding it swollen and crusted with dried blood. No fresh wetness, though, so it wasn't anything that couldn't wait until morning. He scooted to the other side of the bed, mildly aggravated that sleepiness and exhaustion made it such an effort.

Wondering why he was so frozen when the room wasn't that cold, he nodded back off, clutching a pillow that was inundated with Blair/Chief scent.

It was Blair's voice, calling to him urgently that pulled him back again, and Jim tried to do as his partner demanded, to wake up and talk to him. But there were tons of frozen something pinning him on all sides, and the best he could do was stir weakly, eyes slitting open a fraction. In the early morning light he could see Blair sitting on the edge of the bed, cell phone in hand, giving their address in a voice just this side of totally panicked. Worry fueled a stronger attempt to wake up or to at least ask what was wrong, but he couldn't pull free of the massive lethargy holding him.

Nor could he sink passively back into unconsciousness with his partner so stressed. He meandered along the boundary of awareness, dimly aware that Blair was covering him with another blanket, tucking it snugly around him, hands flitting over him when done as if to impart more warmth that way. Over and over he asked softy, "What happened? Who did this to you?"

What *this* was, Jim didn't have a clue until the sound of an ambulance siren battered the air of the loft. It clicked suddenly, then: the sharp smell of blood, the half soaked bandage on his left hand and its rasping complaints, and the myriad of bruises covering him aching ever so slightly, especially the one covering half of his face. "Damn," he thought to himself. "I probably look like one of my old cases caught up with me."

Blair's words to the paramedics confirmed that, and Jim struggled to be free of his stupor, if only to reassure him that he wasn't hurt that bad. But when the paramedics moved him for examination, his body told him in no uncertain terms it was that bad. He was much too cold, respiration shallow, heartbeat and pulse way too slow - he was in shock, which meant that he was on the verge of bleeding out from the internal rip.

From a great distance he felt the I.V. being inserted, listened to Blair answer the paramedic's questions, his voice sounding sharp and abrupt. He grabbed Jim's hand when they loaded him onto the gurney and hung on all the way to the hospital, giving Jim a focal point in a numb darkness speckled with random sensory bits.

Simon was already at the E.R. when they arrived, and Jim caught a glimpse of him pulling Blair to his side, saying, "Good thing I called you. After yesterday I wouldn't have dared showed my face unless I wanted to deal with a pissed off sentinel. Thanks for leaving that number with me."

Doctors and nurses started doing uncomfortable things to him, and Jim focused on the two men in the waiting room to escape them, unabashedly eavesdropping.

"I thought you said it was the flu," Blair said accusingly. "I hate to tell you this, Simon, but you don't bleed out from a bad bug."

"Bleed out? Sandburg, he was sick as dog when I saw him, but that was all. Only reason I called was because I wanted to make sure there wasn't some esoteric flu treatment for a sentinel that I had to know. I didn't expect you to drop everything and rush back to Cascade. What the hell happened yesterday that made you decide to do that? And what the hell happened to Jim that he's bleeding?"

There was the sound of pacing, and Blair's voice waxed and waned to Jim's hearing as he moved. "The retreat wasn't doing me a whole lot of good. I couldn't meditate, couldn't concentrate, all the discussions were annoying and, I don't know, not *valid* it that makes any sense."

"No, it doesn't," Banks said with irritation.

"Look, have you ever watched re-runs of some old show you loved as a kid and sat there during it wondering, 'my god, what was *wrong* with me, how could I possibly have loved this drivel?'" Simon must have nodded or done something that Jim couldn't pick up on, because Blair went on, "It was like that. I thought I would be getting back to my roots, back to the things that made up the basis of me, and I found that I had already taken all the good things that life had to offer and grown beyond it."

Simon made an impatient, frustrated noise and Blair rushed on. "Anyway, I was about ready to give it up and go home where I belonged when you called, giving me the excuse I needed to keep Naomi and the others off my back. When I got to the loft, I found the door unlocked, and there is no way that Jim would go to sleep without a security check, so I called out. He didn't answer, I ran up to his bedroom, he still didn't answer, and I turned on the lights, there was blood everywhere, and he was so fucking *pale* and *cold* and, and...."

There was the sound of a fist repeatedly beating on the wall that was stifled by flesh coming between them. "Easy, Blair, easy. I don't need both of you in the hospital. Was Jim able to give you any idea of who it was or why?"

"He hasn't regained consciousness," Blair muttered.

"Better put a guard on his door then, in case whoever it was comes back to finish him off."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem; whoever it was already has the best revenge one man can have over another. Which is probably why Jim didn't call an ambulance and tried to handle it himself."

There was a long, heavy silence from his friends, one that went on so long that Jim began to lose himself in it, spiraling away from the boundary he'd been prowling, barely noticing when he was covered with warmed blankets and left alone. A spike in Blair's vitals brought him back enough to hear a strange man say, "....possibly more than one assailant judging by the blow to the side of the head which came from the back and the defensive cuts on the one hand which came from the front, the worse of which was reopened at least once. Also the pattern of bruises is consistent with multiple blows from more than one direction...."

The last thought Jim had before fading completely was, "Letting them think it was rape is better than trying to explain what really did happen."

***

"You might as well save us both a lot of trouble and tell me now who attacked you," Blair said quietly, handing Jim the mug of tea he'd offered to make as soon as they'd arrived home from the hospital a few days later.

Not surprised by the ultimatum, or even by how quickly Blair got down to business, Jim beat down the urge to snap at him in frustration and took a cautious sip of his tea. While Simon had done everything but unsuccessfully threaten to pull his badge if he didn't come forward on the supposed assailants, Blair had bided his time, knowing full well Jim would be at his mercy once he was home. Stonewalling him with silence on the subject, the way Jim had with the doctors and Simon, simply wouldn't work with him, any more than snarling or picking a fight would.

He'd known that from the start, so he shrugged and said as tonelessly as possible, "I wasn't attacked."

"Jim...." Blair started, sitting on the other side of the couch.

"Sandburg; listen to me. I am not in denial, I am not thinking of going after the fictional assailant on my own, and I am not hiding getting raped by some guys who grabbed me at a gay bar." The mulish expression on his partner's face as Jim went through the list of theories that he had over heard Simon and Blair mulling over was almost enough to make him smile. Almost.

Moving carefully he put the mug on the coffee table and said tiredly, getting it over with as Blair suggested, "This," and he held up the heavily bandaged hand that had been as responsible for the blood loss as the tear in his rectum, "was my own doing. As are the rest of the worst of the bruises."

The look Blair gave him was blatantly skeptical, and Jim rubbed at his face with his good hand. "Look, it was a hard week, I was more tired than usual, and I made a couple of dumbass mistakes that would have done the Three Stooges proud. One slip lead to another worse one until they all just added up. The doctors told you themselves the bruises weren't all done at once."

"Which just tells me the sons of bitches held you here until they were worn out from having their jollies," Blair said with a venom that startled Jim.

Admitting he was going to have to go all the way, though he'd half-hoped he'd be able to skip that part, Jim said, "The sex was consensual."

"Don't you dare try to blow me off on this," Blair warned, obviously not believing him.

"The sex was consensual," Jim repeated patiently. "And before you ask where I keep the whips and chains, we didn't intend to get so rough."

Doubt still clear in his expression, Blair echoed, "Didn't intend to?"

Putting his head back on the couch and closing his eyes, Jim said flatly, to hide his embarrassment, "Are you telling me you never get carried away during sex? Start a little rowdy, a little raunchy, and that feels so good that you let go a bit more than you should, and the next thing you know it *all* feels so damned fantastic that the pain doesn't get through to warn you to stop."

"Once in a while," Blair admitted reluctantly.

"Well, when it's with another man that can have consequences. He didn't mean to hurt me." The hidden truth in his words was a bitter irony for Jim that kept him from looking Blair in the face.

"Yeah, right," Blair snorted.

"Yes, right, Sandburg," Jim snapped. "He's a good friend that I trust or I wouldn't have gone to bed with him in the first place. Things just got out of hand, that's all."

"Some friend! He left you to bleed out!"

"We fell asleep right after, then he had to get up and leave unexpectedly, didn't turn on the light so he wouldn't disturb me. I don't think he knew I had a problem other than the hand, and I didn't want to upset him by telling him," Jim said mixing the facts with supposition.

Blair didn't say anything for so long that Jim knew he was beginning to believe him, however reluctantly. "You shouldn't keep something like that from your lover," he finally offered.

"It's not that kind of relationship. We're just friends who once in a great while scratch an itch together." God, he hated belittling what Chief meant to him; he wanted this conversation over and done with. He was all right, Blair had, by some miracle he wasn't going to question, come home, and he just wanted to get on with his life.

Surprisingly a gentle, tentative hand stroked over his cheek, popping his eyes open almost comically. "Why not?" Blair asked carefully. "Maybe you could make it more if you tried. Sounds like the two of you are, uh, special to each other."

"No, no more relationships," he said unthinkingly, knowing it was true. Any loss from now on would remind him of when he thought he'd lost Blair, and he couldn't take that. No way could he take that, and an echo of the pain slammed into him, showing on his face before he could shutter it away.

Blair looked absolutely horrified, but Jim threw up the highest, coldest wall he could, struggling to his feet to put some distance between them. "Going to go shower up," he said. "Bed baths aren't the most effective way in the world to get clean." Blair automatically reached for him, but Jim turned his back and limped away.

It wasn't until he was too far away to be touched that he added softly, not caring that it might cause a ripple in the belief Blair had that Jim had no idea he'd originally planned on never returning, "I'm glad you're back, Blair. I missed you."


finis