Notes: Of all the things I've written, there is no other story that has received more requests for a sequel than Dark Dreams Lived. Which makes sense, considering how unresolved and bleak that particular story is. It took so long, not because I didn't know what the next part was, but because it is *hard* for me to be so unrelievedly down. It is contrary to my natural personality, for starters, and to my personal philosophy. RL is hard enough without me bringing it to the one of the things that allows me relief - my fiction.

But RL had me down, struggling to stand, and writing is all I could do to help myself save my sanity. Which brings us to the:

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

Warnings: This is as black as Dark Dreams, and only a connector between it and a much longer, more involved story called Gray Reality. It stands on its own as a complete story, but leaves as many questions unanswered as its predecessor. So, if you're looking for a happy ending (of a sorts, anyway), you might want to wait until Gray Reality is done. There is b/d here and non-consensual sex (though not exactly, rape, again.)
 
 

Bright Nightmares Survived
 
 

Fists wrapped around the rope holding him to the bed, Blair strained backward, trying to force the intruder within him deeper. With his knees drawn up to his chest, arms stretched full length in front of him, he *couldn't* and he screamed in frustration, the sound muffled by the fabric stuffed in his mouth. Desperately he tried to move again, listening for the soft coaxing voice, shamefully waiting to hear its litany of promise and torment.

//Not enough, dear one?// he heard in his head. //Does that insatiable little hole need more? You know what to do, don't you? To get more? Not such a difficult thing, not so terribly bad - all you need to do is take me in your mouth. Just that. One small, easy task. Are you ready to do that, mmm?//

Again he tried to rear back, to satisfy the enormous ache he'd become. Again he was defeated by his bonds. Tears of pure need beginning to seep down his cheeks, he dropped his head onto his arms in defeat, nodding against his own flesh his capitulation to the gentle demand.

Only to have it ignored - unseen and unseeable. Reality crashed in on Blair, and he released the rope angrily, unwinding it from his wrists and throwing it across the room. There was no one here to move that damn dead piece of plastic in him, no one to fill his needy mouth. Spitting out the scarf and reaching behind himself, he took out the dildo and threw it furiously into the wall.

Its bounce was nowhere near as satisfying as a crash would have been, but he was really learning how to deal with lack of satisfaction, now wasn't he? He sat on the bed, knees up, wrapped his arms around them and put his hurting head down.

He didn't know how much longer he could do this; live with this yearning pain and its oblivious cause. If Jim would only give the slightest hint that he remembered what happened between them a few short months ago. Or give Blair an opening to bring it up. Or bring up his vice background or past sex life or any topic that would let Blair ask all the demanding questions obsessing him.

//Hell, even if he did, you wouldn't take it// he told himself in disgust. //Mr. Communication doesn't want to find out why Jim would play kinky games with strangers, but never so much as look twice at you. You're afraid of the answer.//

Tiredly he wiped his hot forehead against his wrist and stood, feeling oddly shaky. Jim would be getting home from that double and all-night stake out soon, and Blair wanted a cool shower before he did. Afterwards, maybe he'd feel more like cleaning up in here; get the stale scent of sex out before his all too perceptive roomie got a whiff of it. Or maybe he *wouldn't* and see if Jim would say anything. Yeah, right. Putting both hands on top of his pounding head, he wandered listlessly toward the bath.

Not feeling a whit better, 15 minutes later, he dredged up a honest smile for his partner as he came through the loft door. Gesturing at his own un-eaten breakfast, he asked, "Want some or are you just going to crash?"

Turning the chair around so he could lean on the back, Jim snitched a strawberry off Blair's plate. "I'm starving, here. Is there more where that came from?"

"Have mine." Blair pushed his dish toward his roomie. "I'm not very hungry this morning." He picked up his juice as Jim took the offered fork and took a swallow, grimacing as he did.

"Something wrong with the oj?" Jim leaned toward the other man. "Or is it your throat?"

"Throat, must be catching a cold or something." A trickle of pleasure lit Blair up a little. "Man, how did you know that? Did you hear that I couldn't swallow? Did you ever..."

"Hold on there for a sec, Chief." Jim stood and deliberately laid a palm flat on Blair's forehead. "I asked because you're red as a cherry and Simon could feel the heat radiating off you. Open your mouth." He took Blair's chin between finger and thumb and tilted back his head.

Burning from the touch, Blair tried to shrink away, saying, "Hey, no big deal. Just a cold coming on, which can't be too surprising considering how many people in the office have been hacking and sneezing all over me."

"Open," Jim ordered peremptorily, and Blair tried to get angry.

"I said it's nothing. Back off, man. I'll take some zinc and vitamin c; got some lemongrass tea. That and honey will take care of it."

"Sandburg," Jim said wearily. "Are you going to let me check your throat, or am I going to have to pinch your nose until you haven't got any choice but to let me see?"

Knowing 'blessed protector' wasn't going to give up, Blair petulantly opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, crossing his eyes as he did. Expecting a sharp remark on childish behavior, he was surprised when Jim took him by the arm and urged him up.

"You've got white spots on your tonsils and throat lining. A doctor should look at those; the student med center opens at 8, right?"

"Come on, man. It's nothing," Blair protested. He stood, wobbled, and nearly fell.

Catching him up against his chest, Jim told him angrily. "It's not nothing. Now are you walking or getting carried?"

Nose crushed into Jim's shirt, Blair mumbled - he didn't have a clue what - and tried to breath deep enough to carry the tantalizing, fantastic scent of Jim for the rest of the day. The fabric felt wonderfully cool and fresh, and he rubbed on it, trying to spread the cool around.

"Jesus! Sandburg!" Jim took him by the upper arms and carefully pushed him far enough away that he could see into the glazed eyes. "Doctor. Now."

Meekly Blair let himself be pushed toward his coat and the door. If he went along with his partner, there might be another excuse to get close. That was worth putting up with the hassle of a pointless trip to the medical center. Shame warring with one really bitching headache, he put on his coat with Jim's help and left.
 
 

"Strep throat!" Blair moaned for the hundredth time, throwing himself into his room. "I don't have time for this."

Coming just inside the door, Jim said calmly, "'Who does? Come on, Sandburg, take your meds, go to bed, and get it over with. The longer you put it off, the longer you're going to be down." He put the bag from the pharmacy down amid the clutter of the desk, absently picking up the length of cord lying there.

Heart kicking into overtime and barely fighting off the urge to rush over and snatch it away from Jim, Blair swallowed hard and concentrated on his physical problem. "Like swallowing those golf balls is going to be easy."

Looking down at his fist, wrapping the cord around it, Jim said distractedly, "Drink lots to help get them down. You need the fluids, anyway. I'll put the juice and stuff in the fridge before I go up; want me to make some tea for you?"

Turning around so he wouldn't have to watch Jim's elegant fingers playing with the rope, Blair waved a hand negligently. "No thanks man, I'm hot enough." Inwardly he winced at his choice of words, but couldn't help continuing in that vein. "I'm going to take another shower to cool down, then come in here."

Feeling the hesitation in his partner, not sure if Jim was responding to his unintentional word play or Blair's physical reaction to it, the grad student turned his head enough for Jim to see his smile. "Besides, you should be crashing, too. Get out of here and get some rest, unless you want Simon chewing on you for falling asleep during a stakeout. I'll be okay."

From the corner of his eye he saw Jim casually drop the cord back onto the desk. "Maybe I'd better stay up until you drop off."

Letting his exasperation show, but not his relief that Jim had stopped fooling with the rope, Blair said with some heat, "Look, Jim, I happen to be living with someone who will probably know if I'm having a problem before I do, even in his sleep. Go on, get out of here. I promise I'll yell out if I need *anything*. Okay?"

Smiling slightly, his head tilted, Jim held up his hands in surrender. "Done, Chief, done." He said, backing out of the room. Dropping his voice, he added as he left, "But I'm holding you to that promise."

Peeling his shirt over his head, Blair said, "Yeah, yeah," and threw the garment at the door. Purposely waiting until Jim finished his own shower and went upstairs to bed, Blair went to the kitchen and forced down the antibiotics. Grimacing at the taste of both the pills and the tepid tap water, he began rummaging in the refrigerator for something colder and better to drink.

Putting aside the sports drink, bottled water, and juice - he could tell by feel they were still too warm - he saw with a sinking sensation that the fridge was nearly empty of anything else drinkable. Quickly he checked the freezer, but he'd emptied out the ice tray last night and had it aside for washing. Resisting the impulse to slap the poor defenseless machine, he pointlessly checked the shelves again, and could produce only a few bottles of beer.

Looking at one of them speculatively, Blair thought about how good the crisp, cold feel of the beer sliding down his tight throat would feel. It was still early, granted, but it wasn't as if he was going anywhere today, anyway. And one couldn't hurt, even on an empty stomach. He picked up the glass bottle, sighing at the thought of how refreshing an icy brew could be on a hot day, and rolled the smooth surface of the container over his forehead.

It felt great, and that was all the encouragement he needed. Twisting it open, he took a long swallow that was practically orgasmic as it tingled its way down. Greedily he finished off the rest and opened another to sip at as he cooled off in the shower. That one was gone by the time he stepped out, and he meandered out to the kitchen, not even wearing a towel over his flushed skin, for the last bottle.

By the time it was half done, he was standing in the open doors of the balcony, letting a fresh breeze wash over him, muzzily thinking he hadn't felt so relaxed in *ages.* With the bleary wisdom of someone who has had too much to drink, he admitted that the beer was probably why, and he probably shouldn't drink the rest.

But the thought drifted away, along with his head, bobbing gently along the ceiling like a balloon adrift. Too late the tiny remaining portion of his sober, rational mind remembered that mixing alcohol and drugs was *not* necessarily a good idea.

Beginning to hear the distant stirring of alarm, he tried to remember if the bottle warned about not drinking while on the medication, but for the life of him couldn't pinpoint if he'd even read the label. Thinking now was a bad time to do so, but better late than never, Blair tried to connect his feet and thoughts so that he could walk over to the kitchen counter and check. But they couldn't seem to find each other, and he fell, sitting heavily on his backside, snickering softly at the image of being Alice in Wonderland with her feet so far away from her head that she felt she should send them Christmas presents.

The laughter was a bad idea; it made his lighter-than-air head bobble and weave, and the sane portion began to grow slightly hysterical. Trying to placate it, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, grasping after something resembling an idea of what to do before he was really in trouble.

One of Jim's hands was hanging limply out between the rails of the upstairs, and that smallest portion of sense grabbed onto that bit of information with both hands and shook it hard at Blair. After all, he'd promised he'd yell out if he needed anything, and since staying on the floor was *not* a good idea, he really should put his body in bed if his head was going to wander around by itself, he tried to call for Jim.

Well, apparently the mouth was almost as far away as the feet. No co-ordination there, either. The most he seemed to be able to do was gurgle more laughter. And he would need more than that to get through Jim's exhaustion and the white noise generator.

His sane brain was definitely hysterical now, and Blair used the energy to make a half-assed connection between it and his body to get in motion. Crawling up the stairs was actually kinda neat; the perspective was totally different, and the wood grain of the steps was fascinating. Once he reached the top, he hauled himself into a sitting position, locking his hands around his ankles to weight himself down while his head reconnoitered the room.

It didn't go very far; only as far as the bed where it hung up, mouth open and panting at the sight of perfect male beauty. Carved from living light, laying on his side in the center of the bed, Jim glowed with the sunshine coming from the skylight, each line of his nude body laser clear and sharp enough to cut.

The pain of that vision did for Blair what will power had not sufficed for; head and body came together with a solid thud. Unable to help himself, he stared at the sleeping man, vaguely recalling that he had read or heard somewhere that the true face of a person was revealed when they slept.

Somehow, sleep made Jim look gentler, and Blair couldn't help but wonder how he would have chosen to 'protect the tribe' if circumstances hadn't pushed him into being a warrior. He looked younger, too, and there was a wistfulness about him that made Blair think of a boy standing by the window watching his friends run and play outside while he stayed inside doing chores.

Knowing what he did about Jim's childhood that probably wasn't very far from the truth. William Ellison had expected his son to take on very adult responsibilities at a time when he should have been enjoying the freedoms of childhood. Painfully grateful at Naomi's insistence that *he* have a happy childhood, Blair couldn't help but wonder if Jim had ever known the carefree, unfettered play he had enjoyed.

Blair sighed. More than anything, even more than he wanted to touch the sleeping man, he wished he had a way to give Jim a taste of what he had missed. A way to make up for some of what had been taken from him. But he didn't think it was possible. He was so tightly reined in now, that even in the bedroom he had to call the shots.

That thought sizzled through Blair's drunken absorption in his partner. Even in the bedroom, even in the bedroom, even in the bedroom - the words pounded in time with his heartbeat, then with his growing hardness. Could that be why Jim had never approached him, let him know that he swung both ways? Because he *had* to be the dominant one, *had* to have the whole bondage scene in order to be able to perform? Was he ashamed of that? Afraid that Blair would think him sick or perverted? Was that why he almost never saw the same woman twice; because he was looking for someone with the same interests?

Burning from the inside out, Blair crept on his hands and knees toward the bed. Sitting on his heels next to it, he brought his face close enough to Jim's to feel the faint sweep of his breath on his cheeks. If he told Jim what they had done, how much he *loved* it, would he want to do it with him again? Maybe after the sex he wouldn't mind the rest of it - the cuddling and holding. Surely someone so inherently gentle needed that, too. Maybe he didn't *know* he needed it or that he could have it. Given his life, that made sense.

The thought of coaxing the playfulness out of his friend, of showing Jim the sweetness that sex could have, inflamed Blair to the point of insanity. How? How to convince Jim that he understood, there was no reason to be ashamed, that he *wanted* it the way Jim wanted to give it.

Stirring in his sleep, Jim brought his other arm up to block some of the sunlight streaming onto his face, letting that hand droop over the end of mattress, too. The sight of both of them draped near the railings gave Blair his answer. Maybe he should use the same method Jim had used. Just dive right in and do it. Give it to him, the best Blair could manage, and take his lumps afterwards. After all, Jim could always say no.

Hesitating automatically, his intoxicated, fevered mind scrambled around the concept, as if waiting for a protest from some part of itself. Not receiving one, Blair tore his eyes away from Jim for a second, long enough to find what he was looking for in the nightstand. Standing on suddenly sure legs, lust burning away the inebriation's feebleness, he swiftly and easily cuffed Jim's hands to the wooden rail, then used the spare ones to bind his feet to the metal supports at the bottom of the bed. Climbing onto it, Blair fitted his shorter length along Jim's side, and nudged at the top arm until Jim shifted it sleepily, not quite awake yet, to enclose him.

Side by side, head held loosely against the hard chest, Blair sighed again, this time in relief. Smooth and cool, Jim's skin soothed his hot flesh, feeling better than satin ever had. Eyes sliding closed in appreciation, Blair tasted the bit closest to his mouth and found it more delicious than the beer had been. He tongued another square inch, then set off across the vast plain of Jim's chest in search of every tasty spot he could find.

Following the slight natural swells and dips of the terrain, he quickly located an tiny oasis of pure delight that changed, hardened under his questing mouth and drained every drop of flavor from it. By now small Jim-quakes were moving over the landscape, but that only encouraged him. Finding another morsel, he lingered over it until the animal sounds coming from under it spurred him to travel on. It took forever, it took no time, it took as long as he wanted and then he was at the end of his journey, facing the tower jutting above the level field he rested his forehead against.

The top was damp, with more moisture seeping from it, and much as he wanted to sample that, his ignorance held him still.

"Why didn't you rape my mouth, too, Jim?" he whispered forlornly. "You tip-toed into the deepest part of my mind and gave me the darkest fantasy I ever had. One I never had the courage to admit to made me love every stroke of it, and the only thing I lusted for that you didn't give me was to make me suck you."

Tentatively he dabbed the tip of his tongue into the tiny opening of Jim's cock, and the flavor created a groan from so deep inside him, its escape hurt. Hiding his face on the flat stomach, he panted, then moaned. "You may as well be forcing me, now. I can't live without feeling you slide over my lips, filling my throat." He lifted his head until he was hovering right over the head. "Do it, Jim. Fuck my face, shove that beautiful piece of meat into my mouth, do it, doit."

With a sound as pained as Blair's groan, Jim began to thrust raggedly into the waiting orifice while Blair stayed still, as though held in place. Excited almost to the point that he couldn't breathe, Blair accepted the jagged movements, trying not to let his teeth scrape or gag when it went deep. Jim made a frantic warning noise, and he closed his lips, sucking hard as the first stream of semen flowed. It was delicious, and he drank Jim dry, petting the restless hips as he did.

When the proud manhood was softened, he reluctantly released it, giving it a last, loving lick as he did. "Beautiful." He murmured. Nuzzling at a downy thigh, he cooled his forehead on the taunt muscle, and set off to find other delights. Traveling almost languidly now, he worked his way over to the curve of Jim's buttocks, then shifted until he was back on his side and his burning face was pillowed on the rise of the cheeks. "Nice. So nice."

He rested there a minute, hugging Jim's legs, then swept a curious tongue along the edge of the crevasse. Not surprised at the instinctive tensing of his headrest, he dipped in slightly deeper, easing past the defense to the secret well of Jim's body. The rich flavor tore at him, and while lavishly wetting the hidden pucker, he urged Jim to lay flat.

Kneeling between Jim's legs, he pried open the clenched cheeks with shaking hands, and set the head of his cock at Jim's asshole. Urgently, half-afraid of the lust roaring up from the pit of his soul, he spit in his palm and rubbed it over the shaft. That was almost too much. Urgently he shoved, was frustrated by the unrelenting opening, bent over Jim's back for a different angle, and shoved again.

Unexpectedly Jim went limp under him, the hole gave unwillingly, and Blair was in, moaning at the soft, grasping, tight feel of the channel. It was almost painfully tight, and he withdrew hastily, loving the way the tunnel clung to him. At the rim, he pumped shallowly two or three times, to spread the lubrication around, then slammed back in. This time the way was easier, and he set a brutal pace, unable *not* to satisfy as quickly as possible the hunger he'd been living with forever.

"Good, good." He said gutturally, nearly grunting. "This is why you fucked my ass, why you didn't take my mouth... wanted this... wanted to be all in... in deep... god...oh, god..." Shuddering hugely, he rammed in as far as he could go and held it, his come shooting out in painful/ecstatic spasms.

With each jet, his body weakened, liquified, so that he had no choice but to fall in a splatter over Jim's back. The shock of hitting the cool skin was like diving into cold water and Blair zoned out, aware, but unable to react. Eyes unblinkingly open, he watched as Jim yanked on the chain holding him to the balcony railing. There was something wrong with the hands held there, but he couldn't quite fathom what. Belatedly he played back sound - Jim's pained request to take the cuffs off, repeated over and over.

Not sure what was wrong, he tried to respond, but managed only weak flutters of his hands. Finally, with a tremendous effort, the muscles in his back bunching and straining, Jim lifted up to lock both hands around the support the chain was looped around and pulled. With squealing protests, it gave slowly, then with a crack. Slipping the chain free, Jim rolled to his side, sending Blair falling onto the mattress and into the black of unconsciousness.

Twice during his sojourn there, Blair drifted toward awareness, called by Jim's hands on his body. The first time, not long after he slipped away, he roused to the luscious feel of cold damp on his face, wrists and groin. He tried to let Jim know how much he appreciated it, but could only manage mumbles that made no sense even to him. The next time the cold was at his lips, and he swallowed eagerly, both hands on Jim's to prevent him from taking the cup away. When he did, anyway, he moaned disconsolately, and tried to spit out the hard pill Jim was putting in his mouth. But the big man was insistent, and Blair forced it down, gagging as it went. Immediately the cup came back, and he drank until he fell back into unconsciousness.

It was the harsh shrill of an alarm that shocked Blair awake, finally, and he laid staring at the unfamiliar clock, trying to wake enough to understand *why* it was unfamiliar. The sight of a bottle of water sitting in a bowl of partially melted ice and the antibiotics next to it triggered his memory, and he smiled as he took the medicine. Jim must have borrowed some ice from a neighbor before heading out for his stake out. And he hadn't moved Blair from his bed or been so angry at him being there that he stormed from the loft.

Exhausted from the effort of sitting up, he sank back under the sheet, still smiling. Though he had only confused notions of how it happened, he remembered very clearly making love with his partner, and wondered why he had wimped out about doing something *way* earlier. Finally he was going to get some information - first hand! - on the sexuality of sentinels, and though he was sure none of it would ever see print, the research was going to be great.

Almost asleep, daydreaming about a whole different brand of tactile sensitivity tests, Blair was nudged awake by the unpleasant sensation of an overly full bladder. Grumbling to himself that sleeping upstairs had *one* drawback, he got out of bed and headed for the stairs. Standing at the top, swaying slightly, he amended that to *two* drawbacks. It was a long, long way to the bottom.

Sensibly, sheepishly glad no one was there to see Blair sat and began to bump down the steps like a toddler. Halfway down he had to stop, head spinning even worse than his stomach, and rest. Intending to lean on it, he put one hand on the wood next to him and immediately jerked it back up. Looking at it closely, he saw slimy, sticky stuff on the heel of the palm. In the dim light from the kitchen, it was blackish red - drying blood, he recognized.

Confused, he studied the stairs for more, and found it a few steps lower. This time it clearly held the imprint of a human heel, not as if it had been stepped in, but as if it had been coming from it. All at once, and at a price he knew he would pay later, Blair took stern command of his body. Standing, he calmly walked down the stairs, went into the bath, and checked the hamper.

There, at the bottom, was the rest of the evidence he needed: bloody towels.
 
 

Huddled in the corner of the couch, wrapped in his own blankets, Blair looked up as the door opened and Jim came into the room, pharmacy bag in hand. Shivering, he turned back to look into the fire that couldn't seem to warm him, and asked, very matter-of-factly. "How badly did I hurt you?"

Thankfully, Jim didn't pretend not to understand. Coming to sit by his roomie, he said. "I've been hurt worse."

Turning his head to glare at him, Blair said, "That's not what I asked. How badly did I hurt you?"

Moving as if he expected Blair to explode, Jim laid his palm on the stubbled cheek of his friend and admitted, "A long tear. But shallow, no stitches needed. I'll need to take care, watch what I eat for a few days." Before Blair could force his self-hatred down his own throat, Jim smoothed a few locks of hair away from his face, and went on. "It's all right - you just didn't know what you were doing, did you?"

Startled, Blair blurted, "I didn't think it was so different."

Smiling wryly, Jim told him, "It is. For one thing, unlike vaginal intercourse, where Mother Nature provides the lubrication, anal intercourse needs help. Lots of it. And, Blair, spit is lousy lube. The next time you try it, whether with a man or woman for a partner, you need to open them up a bit first, too, ok?"

Despair welling up at Jim's choice of words, Blair reached up to grab Jim's hand, intending to argue, but was stopped cold when the other man jerked away. Before Jim could cover it with his sleeve, Blair saw the deep gouges in the wrist, and saw in his mind's eye the swollen fingers that had pulled at the handcuffs.

Wincing, he mumbled, shrinking away from his friend. "God, Jim, why didn't you stop me? Why didn't you stop me?"

Fiddling with the blanket, tucking it around Blair's shoulders, Jim shrugged. "I owed you."

"Owed me!"

Sitting back into the couch, sideways to Blair, Jim rubbed his face, once, then said from behind his hands. "I've been... dreaming. About Morrison's hideout - finding you there. Today, I saw a cord, like one in my dreams. It smelled, I mean... it had a scent... "

He fell silent, then asked abruptly. "They're not dreams, are they? They're memories."

Quietly, patting Jim on one knee, Blair told him, "Yes, but that doesn't mean you owe me, Jim. You were hurt, confused, but I *know* that if I hadn't wanted it, you would have sensed it and left me alone."

"That works both ways, Chief." Jim's tone was gentle, but firm.

That effectively shut off Blair's mouth, though his conscience still struggled. With no choice but to concede the argument, he sagged against Jim, not sure what would happen next.

For the space of heartbeats, individual ones that Blair would later be able to count with painful accuracy, Jim held him. Then, with a final pat on the shoulder, the cop stood and stretched. "Does this mean we're even, now, Sandburg?"

"Even?" Too tired to be confused by the sudden turn in Jim's behavior, Blair could only blink at his partner.

"Yeah, like in both parties are in agreement, nothing left over to discuss or get out of the way. Even."

Warily, Blair said, "I guess we are."

"Good." Looming over him, Jim pinned him with a sharp look. "Then it's over, Sandburg. I don't ever want to talk about it, think about it, be *reminded* of *any* of it again. If you can't live with that, you know where the door is. Do I make myself clear?"

"Jim! You can't, *we* can't..." Blair spluttered, trying to stand, astounded by Jim's words.

"Am I clear or not, Sandburg?!"

He nodded helplessly, sinking back down, and before he could give any other response, Jim was gone, moving fast and sure for his bedroom.
 
 

Several hours later, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, Blair un-wrapped the cord from his wrist for the last time, and threw it in the fire, unaware of the tears cooling his face.

The End