Notes and warnings: please read

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

After the discussion about bdsm on Senad a couple weeks back, I hesitated on posting this story, afraid that everyone would see it and think 'oh, another bd story' and delete, or they would read it with certain expectations. Or that it would offend someone who embraces that lifestyle, though that is the farthest thing from my mind. But it is *not* about domination or bondage, though it wears the trappings: blindfolds, ropes, bound hands. What it *is* about is obsession and the almost imperceptible, nearly un-noticeable slide down the gray path from the light of sanity into the darkness of madness.

This story does not have a happy ending; rather I hope I found a believable one that leaves room for hope. And love.
 
 

Gray Reality by Legion
 
 

Nine weeks in the isolated, primitive locations of an introductory Anthropology expedition had left Blair's hearing and everything else sentinel sensitive and he flinched repeatedly at the crashing drums of the band. The stink of the crowd assaulted his nose, the beating lights hurt him - even his skin tried to crawl away from the overload of information provided by too many bodies too close. As nightclubs went, though, this one wasn't really half bad, and he promised himself he'd adjust to it as soon as he'd had a beer or two. To the sensory input, anyway. He wasn't sure he was going to able to adjust to the customers.

Around him, men and women, both in mixed pairs and same sex ones, strutted to the music, showing off their bodies, their expensive clothes - their leashes and harnesses and gags and... He shuddered, looking away from one woman who proudly displayed bleeding whip marks on her back and thighs. It wasn't disgust in his reaction, or even distaste - more like self mockery as he acknowledged he was fascinated by it. Not the detached, curious interest of an observer, an anthropologist, but more like the morbid curiosity of someone rubber necking at a car wreck and wondering if they knew the victim. If they were going to be the next victim.

This isn't what he wanted, he denied fiercely, even as a small voice in the back of his head wondered if he was *really* sure about that. This was farther than he wanted to go, farther than he needed to go, to satisfy the yearning that had been eating him alive for what seemed like *forever.* But here was where he started hunting for what he needed. Someone here would know someone who did what he was looking for, or who was willing to provide it, if nothing more to their own tastes came along. It was this or...

This or die of the longing, since Jim had made it very clear he would not relieve it. Though he had created it, though he had once *satisfied* it in a way Blair was beginning to be afraid no one else was going to be able to do again, Jim had also refused to continue. Be friend, roommate, partner, Guide, but never again lover. Take it or walk, Sandburg. Blair took it.

Not because he was stupid, as he'd accused himself more than once; not because he was a masochist, he would have told anyone who knew to ask. But because he had thought it simply wouldn't matter. He had no trouble finding sex when he wanted it, and he truly believed he and Jim didn't need the complications that having a physical relationship with each other would cause. Friend, room mate, partner, Guide - all combined to make a life that was the best he'd known. Sex was, well, redundant in some ways, and on the surface, Blair could easily do without that in the mix.

Underneath, waiting to sneak up on him at night, or when he was alone and tired, was the truth. He more than wanted Jim as his lover; he was starved for him. Needing his partner so hopelessly had scared him, and he had left Cascade on the expedition, hoping to kill the hunger. Maybe Jim had sensed that. Though he had made it clear he didn't want his partner to go, Jim hadn't hampered Blair or laid guilt trips on him as the grad student had organized the trip. Their good-byes had been warm, reluctant, and filled with understanding.

The separation hadn't worked; it had only increased his wanting. He hadn't even gone home yet, terrified of what he might do if he walked through the door of the loft this desperately needy for his Sentinel. Finding a substitute, someone who could calm the ache, would help him keep his hello's natural, normal - sane.

Resolutely pushing his introspection away, Blair peered from under lowered lashes, checking out the crowd, looking for someone by themselves, someone he found approachable. Idly wondering if his face showed the same predatory mask everyone else seemed to wear, he dismissed person after person. She was pierced in a dozen visible places; probably too extreme for him. He was too small, too flamboyantly bi; wouldn't know anybody who'd be discrete enough. She looked too butch to be willing to talk to a guy at all.

About to down his drink and simply tap on the shoulder of the first person who looked even vaguely friendly, Blair was startled when someone nearly fell into the chair opposite him. "Hey, Blair! I didn't know you were back yet. Man, that was one cream-puff job, shepherding all those uppers who wanted a taste of the real thing."

Grinning hugely, Blair leaned over the tiny table and half-hugged Blake's shoulders. "Then why didn't you take it? Harry afraid to let you out of his sight with all those pretty co-eds?"

"More like me afraid to leave him here to find out just how much he likes living alone! Besides, I got enough brownie points with the anthro department to last me til I get *tenure!*" The sturdy Asian man laughed.

"Yeah," Blair admitted ruefully, "I use mine up almost before I get them. Maybe those nine weeks will last a while, goodwill wise."

"While you're riding with that cop buddy of yours? About a month. *If* you're lucky." Looking at a shapely backside as it danced past him, Blake asked off-handedly. "I didn't know you were into this scene. Or are you studying it as a closed society?" he ended on a teasing note.

Opting for a version of the truth, Blair admitted, "Had a hell of a one-night stand, a while back. Just dabbled, but, wow!" Before the friendly man could ask for more details, Blair returned the question. "Never struck me as your thing either. Or did Harry get you into it?"

Blake laughed, and pointed over to where his life-partner was leaning over the bar, grinning at something the big, burly bartender behind it was saying. "See the dude he's talking to? That's my pop; he owns this joint."

"No way!" Blair half-shouted, half-crowed. "Man, no wonder you got into anthro - you were *raised* in a counter-culture!"

"Blair, I absolutely love you," Blake gasped, laughing harder. "Anybody else on this planet would have either made a snide comment on my mixed heritage, politely changed the subject, or asked me if I was adopted. You immediately connect my upbringing to my career!"

"Well, it's a natural progression," Blair laughed with him, only partly joking.

After he strangled his guffaws down to occasional chuckles, the other man said more seriously. "I was adopted, and Pop wasn't living this life-style; you know how the agencies are about gays. In fact, he didn't come out of the closet until about a year after I came out I was bi - told me my honesty and courage made him stop and really assess his own life. Mom was a bitch about it, about both of us, sorry to say. Won't even talk to him, now and won't acknowledge Harry at all."

Looking over to the slender blonde man was explaining something to Blake's father, hands and eyes dancing, Blair shook his head. "Her loss, man. Seriously. Harry's one of the best."

"Tell me." With an the kind of abrupt change that was usually more Blair's style, Blake leaned over the table. "So tell me what you're looking for here. I can steer you away from the major sickos, and Pop knows all the good people."

Hesitating, looking around the crowded leather, rubber & chain filled room, Blair shook his head slowly. "I don't know..."

"Let me guess. Like nine-tenths of the people on the make in here, you're looking for a good top, right?"

To his surprise, Blair blushed, then tried to cover. "Uh, nine-tenths?"

"Yeah, real shortage of them, in general, but here in Cascade, after what happened a few years back, they're absolutely scarce. Seriously, Blair, all the good ones are taken; anyone that's cruising tonight is most likely trouble, serious trouble, and definitely not for a newbie." Blake tapped the table- top for emphasis.

"A few years ago?" Blair asked, more to give himself time to recover than because he was interested. This whole thing was beginning to look like a very bad idea.

"Yeah, some head-case was killing doms. He took out more than anyone likes to think about in the community before it closed ranks, then he started in on the professionals. Police tried, but, to be truthful, everyone is so closed-mouth, there wasn't much they could do. Eventually they did find him, but, man, was that was a mess. Big shoot out, 2 or 3 people killed, including a cop.

"Rumor had it they had an undercover man on the job and that's how they caught the killer before there were more deaths. Some big, buff, military type came on the scene just before the guy was caught, and he got pegged as the cop later, though no one really knows.

"Come to think of it, it's a pity he's not still around. He specialized in beginners - gentle rape fantasies, 'turned on against my will' sort of thing. Perfect for you."

Closing his eyes, the strobe light suddenly sharp and slicing as metal, Blair told himself sternly that he was jumping to conclusions. There were lots of cops that were buff or ex-military that could have worked for the department a few years back. That could hide a gentle enough soul to seduce frightened virgins. Stomach clenching, he said as casually as he could, "Guess he just vanished, huh? Probably why they thought he was a cop."

"Yeah, but there are lots of reasons he could have left. Found a permanent relationship, a new job, or maybe he turned his back on it. Happens, now and again. They go too far and their sub gets seriously hurt, or they just see someone take it too far. Maybe in this guy's case he couldn't stand to see someone hurt for fun after having seen the real thing himself. Who knows? Pity though - he fueled a few fantasies for me, with those sky blue eyes and one seriously great ass. And if you ever tell Pop or Harry that, I'll call you a liar to your face!"

Dredging up what he hoped was a smile, Blair shot back, "Like anybody'd ever believe that behind that sweet, innocent face of yours is a single dirty thought."

"Well, maybe one or two! Now, tell Uncle Blake, my friend, what fantasy is behind *your* sweet, innocent face and let me see what I can do to help you."

"Oh, god, just what I need in my life," Blair muttered melodramatically. "A matchmaker!"

"Make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch," Blake sang off key, from the music of Fiddler on the Roof.

"Aaaggghh! A show tune! That does it, I'm outta here! You might be contagious!" Blair laughed realistically, and upturned his bottle as he stood, finishing the beer. "Catch you at the beginning semester faculty meeting in a couple of days?"

"If not before that. Taylor wants to talk to us both about class loads. See you!"

With a wave, Blair struggled through the crowd and left, wondering if anyone he knew at the department would be in records at this time of the night.
 
 

Morning came, and he was still at Jim's desk in the slowly filling bullpen, studying the file he'd scammed out of records. It had taken a chunk of the night to computer search to find the one he needed, and nearly the rest of it to get the hard copy. It had been buried, buried deep, and after reading over it once, he could see why. Some of the names listed as witnesses at the private club....

The only part of it that really concerned him was the report the Jim had turned in, and IA's investigation. IA had nothing but praise, worded in its usual stingy style, granted, for an officer who showed 'remarkable calm and presence of mind in unprecedented circumstances' and 'was willing to place himself in harm's way to allow time for the arrival of reinforcements.' Jim's dry recitation of the facts held a clearer picture of what must have happened, but not, Blair suspected, the entire truth.

What Blair had expected to learn, exactly, he didn't know. He re-read Jim's story of agreeing to do a scene with another top, because both the prostitute and his clients thought it was better not to work alone. But after the female customer was tied up, the male john had pulled a gun and held her hostage, demanding that Jim restrain first the dom, then handcuff himself. Unable to draw his own weapon without endangering the hostages, Jim had complied, but managed to hit a hidden panic button that *he* had insisted be installed. Then, as he watched, the murderer tortured and killed first the prostitute, then began on the female customer. She had survived because Jim had gone berserk, from the way Blair interpreted his version, actually ripping out the hook holding his handcuffs to the wall. It had panicked the man into running straight into the arms of the arriving police units. He'd chosen to fire rather than surrender, and had killed a bystander and officer before being brought down.

Closing the file, Blair removed his glasses and rubbed at his face. It was Jim's last case in Vice, though, technically at the time he'd been assigned to Major Crimes already, shortly before he'd been partnered with Jack. From scuttlebutt, Blair knew that Jim had had something of a wild boy, bad boy reputation until then, and everyone had attributed his turn around to Jack. What if it had been something else, or only part of it? What if it had been something about this case?

With an effort, Blair shoved the papers away from himself. *Why* was he *doing* this? Reaching for excuses, excavating old cases for explanations or insights to Jim's behavior? It wasn't going to make Jim want a physical relationship with him, though it sure as hell would have been nice if his partner had bothered to share his reasons why he didn't want one. He didn't and that was that. Blair knew his options, too, and *that* was *that.*

Even as he lectured himself, his hand reached out, Blair watching with a fatalistic detachment, and dragged the file back over.

"Sandburg! My office!"

Jumping at Simon's yell, knocking his glasses onto the floor, Blair rebounded quickly, bending to retrieve them and taking the file with him to stuff into a drawer. Putting his glasses in his pocket, he hurried into the captain's office, determinedly putting on a cheerful face. Shutting the door behind him, he started, "Hey, not even a..."

Simon's punch hit him square on the chin and would have knocked him to his ass if the big cop hadn't caught him by his shirt. He was thrown into the file cabinets, and he struggled to right himself before Simon had a chance to catch up with him. "Simon!" he shouted, once, then the captain was on him again, holding him in place for another punch. Obeying an impulse he didn't take time to analyze, Blair reached out to lock his fist into the tie under Simon's chin and stared into his eyes.

The fury there made him gasp, but he held on, meeting the raging eyes as calmly as he could. A second later, the blow aimed for his stomach hit the cabinets beside him, and Simon wrenched away. "If I didn't need you alive, Sandburg," he rumbled menacingly, "you wouldn't have a prayer." With a steel grip on his wrist, he dragged Blair out of the office, ignoring the confused and worried looks the other detectives gave them.

Once in the car, Blair fastened his seat belt and glared defiantly at his friend, wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt despite the punch, *willing* him talk.

Either his silent command worked or Simon simply couldn't hold in his own words any longer. "Damn it, Sandburg, don't you *ever* take your messages? Do you have any idea how many times I've tried to contact you in the past month?"

"There were last minute changes in the intenerary, then the secretary went on vacation, and the temp couldn't find the her copies of it. Most of my messages haven't caught up with me, yet." Blair started defensively, "and the ones I did get from you just said you needed to talk to me, not that it was an..." The shoe dropped for Blair, and he grabbed the captain by the elbow. "Jim, something's wrong, oh, shit! Simon, did he get shot? Is it his senses? When did it start? How long..."

"Now he starts worrying," Simon muttered blackly, pulling away. "Look, Sandburg, I don't know if it's his senses, but I sure as hell hope so. Then you can drag out some obscure reference or cook up some weird recipe and help him. Otherwise, I am not going to cover for him any longer, you understand? I am going to have to take this to a real doctor, regardless of the fallout."

"Simon, what's *wrong*!"

Absently Simon reached into his breast pocket for a cigar, and put it in his mouth, chewing on it while thinking. "Best you go into this without my opinion, okay? You're the expert on this sentinel thing, you're the expert on *Jim.* I'll tell you what I know after you see it for yourself. Hell, you probably won't believe it until you see it for yourself."

At that Banks clamed up, and refused to talk again, obviously still simmering. Blair left him alone and concentrated on not panicking. They were moving into the worst part of Cascade, the part that made Blair glad he was riding with a big, big man - who had a gun. Even in the early morning light, the streets down here looked dark and threatening, weighed down by unimaginable sorrows and angers.

Parking where his car could be seen clearly for several blocks, and ostentatiously checking his gun as he left it, Simon nodded at a scraggly black youth lounging at the corner. "Usual?"

"Usual," the boy insolently agreed.

Nodding his acceptance, Simon went around to his trunk, opened it, pulled out a good-sized box filled with foil wrapped packages. Without looking around, but still giving the impression he saw everything, he went down a narrow ally, navigating around the piles of debris with an ease that suggested practice. At the far end of it, several buildings had been torn down, creating a sort of urban courtyard, with remnants of wall supports and piles of discarded bricks for furnishings. Simon made his way to the far side of it, where the sun was making a brief, frightened appearance.

There a homeless man stretched out next to the wall, half covered with cardboard and what looked like small piles of clothing. Simon headed straight for him, walking slowly and muttering something under his breath. Mystified as to why Simon would want to be here, let alone talk to one the residents, Blair looked around to see that a dozen or so other bums were camped out here, all in various states of domestic endeavor.

A black man, shrunken and knurled with age, was husbanding a small fire, stirring the contents of a can sitting on it. Hobbling on one artificial leg, a woman was hanging a few garments over a line strung between the handles of two wheeless shopping carts. Others went about their business, none of them watching him overtly, but he could feel their attention and worry.

As Simon squatted down, putting the box on the ground beside him, the bum sat up fast, pulling a gun and aiming it straight at Simon's chest. The bundles of clothing developed arms and legs and scrambled behind the sheltering bulk of the armed man. Not even jumping, Simon simply waited.

After a second, Jim's blue eyes blinked, once, then he thumbed the safety back on, and hid his gun again. "Hey, Simon," he said softly.

"Hey, yourself, detective," Banks returned as quietly. "How you doin' today?"

Beside them, Blair stared first at one, then at the second, jaw literally hanging open.

"Pretty good - nothing new for you though, sir." Jim took a deep sniff and smiled, "Bologna and cheese. Good, they could use the protein. May I?"

 At Simon's nod, and not before, Jim reached into the box and began handing sandwiches to the children behind him. There were three of them, Blair could see, finally beginning to pull his brains back into his head, though they were so wrapped up he had no idea what their genders were. They waited until they all had one, then opened them up together, virtually inhaling the food.

Both Simon and Jim ignored that, but went on giving out the foil-covered sandwiches to hands that appeared out of nowhere, all of them child-sized. When all those vanished, the old man who had been at the fire shuffled over, pointedly not looking at anybody, and took the box, putting one sandwich in his pocket, but plainly intending to give the rest out.

Closing his mouth, but only because he suddenly found words ready to go, Blair shut it again on a yelp when Simon rocked back onto his foot and shot him a warning glare. "Seems to me like there were more than usual left over," Simon said to Jim conversationally.

"Yeah, the Erickson's found a roof," Jim said a little proudly, around a mouthful of his own food. He shrugged fatalistically, "Probably someone new in their place in a couple of days."

"Probably," Simon agreed noncommittally. "Remember Sandburg, here, Jim?" he asked casually, way too casually for Blair's peace of mind.

At that, Jim looked at him for the first time, clearly assessing him as if he were a stranger. "Yeah," he said at last, "worked a couple of cases with us a while back. Consultant? Right?"

Swallowing, though there wasn't an ounce of wet in his mouth, Blair instinctively matched Simon's off-hand tone. "Anthropologist, working on my Ph.D - Simon's letting me study one of his men. You know, tribal protectors, closed societies, male dominance hierarchies, that sort of thing."

Jim frowned, looking down at his hands. "Lash. You were one of Lash's targets."

A shudder hit Blair at the mention of that name, but for once it had nothing to do with the serial killer and everything to do with Jim's vaguely disinterested tone. "Picked me while he was posing as his own psychiatrist - ironic, huh?"

With a gesture of negation, Jim pushed his thoughts away. "You're my new contact?"

"Thought he'd be able to come and go down here easier than me." Simon carefully didn't answer the question as it was asked. "Students blend in a little better, more likely to be doing the 'help his fellow man' thing in person."

"This isn't a good place for a student *or* an observer, Simon." Jim said absently, staring at Blair.

"By now, Ellison, your contacts down here are good enough that the risks are minimal. And people are going to start noticing that the Captain of Major Crimes keeps coming down here then going back up town with choice street information."

Again Jim shrugged fatalistically. "As long as he knows the risks."

"I've been contact before," Blair put in quietly. "I know the drill. And this situation," he waved his hand in a small circle to encompass the courtyard, "is no worse than some of the others I've dealt with." Taking a deep breath, leaning into Jim's personal space, he deliberately shut out Simon's halting move and added, "Remember, Jim?

For the first time Jim smiled at him, and gave a short bark of laughter, "Yeah, Chief. You've always managed, haven't you? Okay, then, I'm here most mornings and if I'm not, just leave the food with Gurney over there," and he pointed to the bent over black man, "and check back next day. If I need to talk to you, I'll send one of the older kids to find you at..." his voice trailed off, eyes un-focusing and becoming lost.

"Hargrove Hall, Rainier University, " Simon finished for him calmly. "They can leave a message under his door, like they do for me at my place."

"Sure, whatever, Captain," Jim murmured distantly, slumping in on himself.

Reaching in slow motion, Banks gripped one of Jim's shoulders, squeezing hard to penetrate the many layers of clothing on it. "Think about coming home, soon, Jim. Just for a rest, all right?"

With a muttered sound that might have been "Soon." Jim subsided more, hiding his face under his crossed arms and curling in on himself. Defiantly, the three children crawled on top of him, more or less blocking Simon's access.

Silently, the big cop stood and grabbed Blair by his elbow, pulling him up and into a shambling walk. Without thinking, Blair resisted, dragging his feet and looking back over his shoulder, trying to free himself from Simon's grip. Wisely, seeing the seething frustration chase over the strong features, he didn't verbally argue, but kept up his physical protest until Simon threw him into his car.

Taking a moment to hand the still lounging youth a $20 bill and a video tape, Simon got behind the wheel and drove away leisurely, pretending there was no hurry.

The trip back was as quiet as the trip in had been, except now Blair didn't notice, being the source of it. Fist against his mouth, hard enough for his teeth to gouge it, he sat motionless and trapped in his own mind. It was a tentative touch on his jaw that broke through, and he shot a startled glance at Simon.

"That was out of line, Sandburg. I'm sorry." Simon's voice was sincere and contrite.

Brushing his own fingertip over the bruise coming up, Blair said bluntly, "Yes it was." He sighed and admitted, "But I understand it. How long?"

"Three weeks. My last messages were pretty demanding and insulting, just so you know when they *do* catch up with you."

Though his mind felt fragmented, Blair nodded, and wearily started the inevitable. "Please tell me it didn't happen over night."

"Actually, it might have started before you even left, Sandburg." Simon admitted reluctantly. "That night we found Jim in the parking garage, holding his keys and looking at them like he'd never seen them before in his life? We made jokes about him forgetting what truck he was driving, now, he goes through them so fast."

"He really forgot which truck was his." Blair stated, not asked.

"There were one or two other things like that, but I brushed them off. The man works hard, Sandburg, and can get tunnel vision about whatever it is he's doing. We both know that."

Sighing, plainly hating hindsight, Simon went on. "Then he didn't recognize the details of one his own old cases, looked right at Simmers from homicide and didn't know him. He came in for work late, once or twice, missed a meeting or two. He'd make excuses - so many old cases, distracted by something, lost track of time, got busy and forgot. Came to a head when I caught him checking a map to get to Rainier to question someone on a case.

"Took me over an hour to break him down, but he eventually confessed he was having trouble remembering things that he should know. Like how to get to the station, or his father's name. His father's name, for God's sake! Told me it was like those game shows where they put a person in a sealed tube and fill it with money being blown around by air - except instead of trying to grab cash, he's trying to grab memories.

"Dragged him down to the hospital so fast, I wouldn't have been surprised if we left those cartoony puffs of dust behind us. Physically, he checked out fine. Psychologically," Simon slammed his fists onto his steering wheel, "he didn't want to officially see anybody. Jim was sure it was a sentinel foul-up of some kind, and he'd be able to get a handle on it."

"I let him get away with it; he was doing the job and was so damned calm about it all. That should have made me worried, but for years now Jim's been dealing with the freakiest thing I've *ever* heard of. Never occurred to me he couldn't do it again."

"Simon, you're responsible for the entire department, not just its best detective," Blair said honestly. "Jim should have known better than to try to blow you off about how bad it was becoming."

For a very long time Simon mulled over the words, then conceded, "Maybe, but he's my friend, too, Sandburg." A second later he added, "And I'm not sure he *knows* how bad he is. Like today, when he hits something he's missing, he just... withdraws."

"Not his usual stoic stonewalling?"

"No. Anyway, about 5 weeks after you left, he vanished. I had the loft staked out, checked with anyone who might have seen him, even called his Dad. When I went through his things, looking for a clue - and found dozens of lists. Cases he was working on, people he's supposed to know and why, chores that needed to be done, even directions to all the places he needed to get to regularly."

"He created a support system for himself."

"And it worked, for a while. I think, aww hell, I think he forgot he did it. A few days after he turned up missing, he showed up at work, wearing the same clothes he'd had on the last time I saw him. He couldn't remember how to get to the station, or even back to the loft. Found the PD by following a cruiser! I took him home, intending to have him see someone no matter what he said, but he took off before I could set it up. He promised me he'd stay put, I left a note on the inside of the door to remind him, but he left anyway.

"The next time I hear about him, Vinton down in Vice is demanding to know why one of my men is undercover on the street without sending it past him as courtesy. A patrolman had made Jim as one of the street people, The Hell Man, and asked what case he was working on."

"Damn, damn, damn... Simon, why didn't you bring him in then?"

Parking the car in the station's garage, Simon lifted his glasses and rubbed at the indentations on his nose. "And keep him off the street how, Sandburg, when he doesn't know not to leave his place or mine or where ever? I can't watch him every minute, and he could get past me without even stirring the air if I tried to. Only thing I could do would be to put him in a mental hospital. Which I could *not* hide from the brass.

"Since he believes he's undercover, it was easier to let it ride until you got back. Damned thing is, he is turning over some serious goods to us: major drug shipments, gang shootings, chop shops. People don't *see* the homeless, but the homeless see everything, apparently. The brass haven't begrudged the money I've been spending on food; cheaper than snitches." He laughed bitterly and turned to the smaller man to ask, "Sandburg, do you have any ideas at all what's wrong with him?"

Grimly, Blair shook his head. "But that doesn't mean I can't find out, Simon. I *will* find out." The last was a soft promise to himself.
 
 

Slipping into Simon's office, Blair sat in a chair away from the desk and near a wall. Hoping Simon would take it as a hint to treat him as a friend, and not Ellison's partner, he peeled off a few layers of clothes and tried to get comfortable without falling asleep. Not that he was sure that he would. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind insisted on debating his decision - again! - by hitting him with images from the past few weeks.
 
 

******
Jim took the brush from Blair and gently ran it through the long hair of a young girl, sentinel fingers finding and working loose knots without her ever feeling them. "Selling yourself isn't the way to go, Merrileigh."

"I know it's bad. I see what happens to the independent girls *and* to the ones with 'protection.' But if I try to get into a foster home, they'll send me back to my parents, and Hell Man, I'd rather sell it than have that stinking slob take it. He likes to hurt me, and the johns pay good money for someone as young as me and treat me better besides."

"Maybe you could get one of the women with little ones to take you in. You watch the babies and she becomes your 'mom' for the authorities until you're older. You're good with them."

"They have enough trouble feeding their own. Why take in another mouth? Sides, I'm not sure I'd trust them to be better than my own mamma. She knew what was happening and was grateful he left her alone."

"Not all men are like your old man; not all women are like your mom. You can always come back here if there's a problem. Look, it can't hurt to ask Peg Peg if she knows someone. You'd be surprised how many moms wouldn't mind the extra mouth if it was earning it's keep watching over their babies." He ran his fingers impersonally down the shining length. "No cooties."

"Thank god!" Merrileigh popped up, then helped Blair seat Bitsn. "Now, don't wiggle!" She told the child.

The small black girl giggled, showing a beautiful smile made winsome with a missing front tooth. "No cooties for me?"

Blair poked a little finger into her dimple and grinned. "Let's see."
*********

"Who the hell are you to tell us what to do!" The man was drunk, the kind of mean drunk that was unpredictable, but Jim stood toe to toe with him.

"Your mother-fucking conscience! The kitchen's already said it's going to be short today; let the kids eat first. Missing a meal won't hurt you." Jim barked.

Behind the drunk, the line of people waiting to get in for dinner at the soup kitchen murmured its approval, but no one stepped forward to back Jim. Whether the drunk took courage from that or was too soused to care, he stuck his face in closer to Jim, washing fumes over him. "Let the little rats starve! World doesn't need them!"

Jim finished closing the distance, voice low and deadly. "What the world doesn't need is a drunk like *you* in it. Since you're going to drink yourself to death anyway, why waste the food? Let someone who might have a chance amounting to more than a stinkin' alcoholic have it!"

The menace was so palpable, Jim's stone-cold assessment so biting, the drunk staggered back a step. Immediately he lost the fear, but before the anger could make him swing, several people in the line *did* step out, and come to stand by Blair and Jim. Seeing their calm support, looking around wildly to see none for him, the drunk subsided into vile mutters and staggered away.

Ushering the children who had been waiting to one side into position, Jim mumbled softly, "Going to have to watch for him." Wordlessly the others vanished back into line, but Blair made a point of smiling at each of them, receiving a shy one in return most times.
*********

Thock! Crack!

Blair jerked awake, automatically looking for Jim. It wasn't hard to find him; his partner was standing over him, long legs steepled over Blair's prone body. As he scrubbed away the sleep, he heard the same Thock! that had awakened him in the first place. This time, it was associated with a movement from Jim. Seconds later, there was another, and Blair saw Jim throw the rock, barely tracking it to its target: a cat-sized rat scuttling along the edge of a dumpster.

"Jim, man?"

"I hate them." His partner said clearly. "Sneaking, scurrying, squealing... can't sleep cause of the noise, can't breathe cause of the stink. Even the sight of them..." He hurled another rock, hit the rat squarely on the head. It collapsed where it was, brains spilling. "I hate them."

Wising up, the rest of the rats made them selves scarce for a while, but a few hours later - Thock!
 
Blair wondered at Jim's obsession with them until Jim killed one that was on top of a sleeping child whose mom had gotten up to relieve herself. The rat had died nearly instantly, but not before it had managed to seriously bite the little girl on her face. On the way back from the free clinic with them, the words of the doctors haunted him. "Rats always go for the small, the sick, the helpless and always for the tender parts first - eyes, cheeks, lips." Suddenly the layers and layers of clothes most of the people wore, and the hunched in, almost fetal way they slept made chilling sense. After making sure mother and child were safely on their way, Blair took a detour. With Jim's sight, a slingshot and ball-bearings would be more efficient, and they'd be able to recover the bearings most of the time.

*********

Wordlessly Gurney led Blair to the edge of the derelict buildings at the edge of the harbor. Ramshackle, ready to collapse at the first strong breeze, only the very desperate would venture into these structures for any reason. Coming from one of them were inhuman howls that cycled through from barely audible to lung-hurting volume. Suppressing a shiver, Blair nodded at Gurney, who turned to make his way back to his usual place.

Carefully he picked his way toward the source of the sound, finding Jim a few minutes later, demolishing a wall with his bare hands. Taking his time, Blair inched closer to the frenetic man, not stopping until he was close enough to put a comforting hand in the small of Jim's back.

As if it he didn't absorb the contact at first, Jim continued to destroy the hapless sheetrock, then slowed, backed away from it, and half turned toward Blair. Silently Blair tapped a forefinger to his own head, asking wordlessly if Jim's head was hurting. At the sharp shake no, he began a soothing circular patting, using his other hand to coax his partner closer. Jim came gradually, sinking to his knees as he did. Opening his coat and first few layers, Blair drew the bent head to his stomach. Mentally offering up thanks that he'd taken the opportunity to catch a shower at Rainier's gym after his class, Blair hugged the half insensible man.

Rubbing his face against the worn, ultra soft cotton of Blair's undershirt, Jim took deep breaths, apparently enjoying the clean scent. On impulse, Blair took one of the butter toffees that he kept for the kids from his pocket and slipped it past Jim's lips, then closed his jacket so that Jim was shrouded in darkness. Scent, feel, taste, sight, sound - Blair realized all Jim's senses were either occupied with something pleasant or muffled. And the other man had calmed almost completely, passively resting in Blair's embrace. It was the first hint, amid all his questions and watching, that he could *help,* and if he could help, then he was that much closer to finding the cause behind Jim's odd amnesia.

******

With animal patience, Jim turned his back to the rain being blown into their small crevice, and shifted to shield the child curled up by his stomach. Blair adjusted the tarp for what felt like the millionth time, trying to guide the drips *away* from their bodies, and went back to his story. The small boy that was half-leaning, half-sitting against him never moved, and kept his wide eyes locked on Blair's, intent on every word. His sisters were more restless, poking and jabbing each other, stifling grins and whispering.

Abruptly Jim reached for where he kept his gun, and gestured at Blair who promptly shut up. Even as Jim moved, the four children with them scrambled over and behind Blair, and he shifted the tarp to hide them. Within minutes they could all hear the heavy tread of boot-clad feet and booming male voices, laughing and jabbering raucously. If the roving gang members saw the wide back filling the opening of the crack, they ignored it or were looking for something more specific to entertain themselves with.

When Jim put his head back down, hand easing from his gun, Blair took the story back up, helping the kids get comfortable again as he did. Mind only partially on his tale, he double-checked his partner to see if he was still tracking the gang. Though his voice didn't show it, his mind and heart ached sight of Jim's gray, pained, exhausted face, still wearing its intently listening look.
********
 
 

It was that memory that Blair held onto, now, holding it in front of the moral part of him that kept insisting that he had no right to interfere in Jim's life. Sane or not, Jim had found a place for himself where he was useful; hell, more than useful. Philanthropists who donated millions did less direct good than Jim.

But he couldn't let his friend burn away more and more of his mind and soul wandering in a world of shifting memories and uncontrolled senses; he couldn't let Jim kill himself living like that. Staying on the street wasn't helping his sentinel or giving the guide any answers. A shadow fell over the office door, and he pulled himself together determinedly. Right or wrong, a change was going to happen, and he needed Simon's help to do it.
 
 

"You're living on the street with him?!" Simon shouted. It didn't even begin to penetrate the guilt and weariness drenching Blair's thoughts, and he crossed his legs under him in the chair so that he could lean his head back on the office wall.

Not bothering to open his eyes, he said reasonably, "How else am I going to find out what's going on? If you thought it was tough to get Jim to talk about personal things before, you should try now."

"That's just great, Sandburg, just great. Now I've got two of you to explain to the brass, if this comes out. Which it will if either of you get hurt."

"Thanks for the concern, Simon." Blair said, letting a smile surface. "It's nice to know some one is worried about us." At the captain's rough throat clearing, Blair opened his eyes, his smile widening. Not meeting the look, Simon poured a cup of coffee and offered it to him. "Thanks, man." He took a sip, sighing at the heat moving through him.

"Believe it or not, it's not as bad as you think." Blair spoke into his cup. "Jim's tribe is one of the better ones."

"Tribe?" Simon blurted incredulously.

"Tribe. In fact, Renewed Tribal Structures in Urban Settings is the reason I'm giving the University and anybody else who asks, for hanging out down there. I'd appreciate it if you'd back me on that, too. But it's a valid description, not just an obsfucation. Makes sense, from a sociological point of view, that people would organize to some extent or another." Taking a long drink of his coffee, he put his head back on the wall.

"In this case, Jim's group is mostly families that have hit long bad-luck streaks. Divorcee's whose ex's aren't providing alimony or child support, single mothers who can't work then pay for childcare *and* a roof, families where the primary income source became ill or unable to work - good people, basically, who were swamped by the system. They try to take care of each other and the kids as best they can; most of the adults work at least part time. Those that can't or who aren't working keep an eye on the kids as best they can."

"But they took in Jim when he was wandering the streets, not knowing where he lived?"

"Or he adopted them because of the children. Once they realized how useful he was, they were happy to have him stay on the fringe of their group. He's doing exactly what he did when he lived with the Chopec: watching for the approach of enemies, helping find food, warning them if what they bring in isn't good, guarding them when they have contact with outsiders."

"How are they handling having you on the scene?" For once, Simon sounded truly interested in what Blair had to say, and that encourage Blair to be open.

"They call me Shadow, cause I follow The Hell Man everywhere he goes, and if Hell Man thinks that's okay, they don't have a problem with it. They give me the same courtesy and respect they give him when they have dealings with him, and ignore us the rest of the time. That seems to be Jim's choice, by the way. The only ones he doesn't mind having in his space, besides me, are the kids, and they'll cluster around him when their parents are gone cause they know he'll protect them."

"Any clue why he puts up with you?"

Despite the conversation, there was a thread of good natured teasing in the comment, and Blair couldn't help but snag on it. "Now, or in general, Simon?"

"Personally, I think it's your vegetable lasagna. He probably sees you and his stomach remembers for him."

Grinning, Blair told him, "Good thought, Simon. I'll make a batch up, take it down there, and refuse to give him any until he answers some questions for me!" He tried to take a drink from his cup as Simon grinned back and grimaced at finding an empty cup. Seeing that, the captain picked up his pot and reached to fill the cup again.

"Seriously, Simon, I'm almost afraid to ask. He never asks me where I'm going when I head back uptown to clean up or take care of my classes, never comments when I come back. Either he knows me on a level so deep he doesn't feel the need to question my coming and going, or he doesn't remember me at all, and is passively accepting me because he isn't sure I'm *not* supposed to be there. I can't decide which is worse."

"Maybe he's putting up with you because you help him with the sentinel thing. Whether he realizes that's what you're doing or not, he has to understand that it's a help." Simon offered.

Banging his head on the wall behind him, lightly, in anticipation of Simon's reaction, Blair admitted, "I'm not helping him with his senses because there's nothing wrong with them. In fact he uses them as naturally and automatically as if he's been doing it his entire life, instead of spending most of it suppressing them."

"Oh, my, god," Simon moaned wearily.

"That's the good part. The bad part is that he has no control over them, at all."

"Sandburg," the captain began in his best 'don't-drag-this-out' tone.

"I'm not talking in riddles, here. Think of it as a musician that has perfect pitch, but doesn't know a Csharp from a Bminor. Or a wine taster who's never had anything but Boone's Farm. He has the innate talent, *can* use it without thinking about it, but has no training to utilize it properly.

Putting down the cup, Blair dragged his hands through his hair, not liking the way the greasy mass grappled with his fingers. "Do you know why they call him 'Hell Man?" he asked, rhetorically. "Because once in a while he visits Hell and comes back. Without warning, from the point of view of the street people, he starts screaming and banging his head, or rocking, or hitting himself. He always takes off so the kids don't have to watch, and until I got there, the adults used to send someone to keep an eye on him.

"It's stress triggered by one or more of his senses. I once watched him try for over an hour to put on his shoe over his sock so that the seam in the sock wouldn't irritate his skin. There is no way for me to describe the frustration I saw, let alone know how much he must have felt. The last time he laced the shoe up and the sock still hurt him, he lost it and destroyed the socks, then spent an hour screaming and hurling bricks at a wall.

"Intellectually, he knows that for a homeless man, a pair of socks is the difference between warm feet and gangrene from frost bite. Getting that sock on was important. But he couldn't dial down his tactile sense enough to be able to endure a bad fitting pair. It's princess and the pea time, here, Simon. He gets no rest because his bed is so damned uncomfortable, he gets no peace because he hears everything, he gets blinding headaches because there's always too much light... and so on and so on and so on."

Slowly processing that, Simon wandered around the room for a minute. "I take it you haven't been able to re-train him."

Finishing the second cup of coffee, Blair sighed. "If I try to remind him, he fades out - if I try to re-teach him, it doesn't sink through. Which makes no sense, since he needs to be able to and *knows* it."

"What now? Just keep being his Shadow until inspiration hits you? Or until he goes off the deep - and stays there?" There was no mockery in Banks' words, just honest concern, Blair knew, and he decided it was time to play to it.

"What he needs most, right now," Blair said carefully, "is rest. A warm bed, good food, security, comfort. I don't think he's had a good night's sleep, been 'off duty' since he started living on the streets. That's not helping. I want you to talk him into coming home, back to the loft, for at least a night. Use the undercover angle if you have to, throw your weight around, bully him, but get him home."

"Me? Aren't you in a better position to persuade him?"

"I don't want to use it. Once he's there, I'm not planning on letting him leave until he *does* eat a few nutritious meals and get some sleep, no matter what I have to do to accomplish it. But I can't risk his trust; better he blames you for luring him into a setup than me."

"I don't want to know what you're planning, do I?" Banks asked warily.

"Probably not."
 
 

Looking up at 852 Prospect, Jim said doubtfully, "This is where we're supposed to meet Banks?"

Hiding his disappointment, Blair said evenly, "He said something about giving us a chance at a hot shower and meal. No reason reporting in has to be done at the office, is there?"

"Guess not, partner." Slowly Jim made his way into the building, Blair deliberately hanging behind to watch. As he climbed the stairs, his steps became more and more confident, and when he reached the third floor, he headed for the loft without asking Blair which apartment. His movements slowed as he fished his keys out, but he opened the door readily enough, automatically dropping them in the basket.

Per Blair's instructions, Simon was sitting on the couch, watching the news, and merely waved his beer bottle at them as they came in. Surreptitiously, Blair checked out the place. Though he had been back periodically to take care of bills and listen to the answering machine, he hadn't spent very much time here at all since the expedition. But he had worked here the better part of yesterday, cleaning and preparing for tonight, and he was worried that too much of his scent lingered or that he had left something out that Jim would react to badly.

"Stew's on the stove," Simon said, eyes on the set. "Why don't you clean up first? Sandburg mentioned he thought some thermals would be a good idea, and I left them in there for you to change into."

For a moment, Jim obviously wavered, but Blair took off his coat to put it on the hook. "Great! Jim, you go ahead. My hair takes forever, and I don't want to use up all the hot water."

Face showing the equivalent of a mental shrug, Jim started on his buttons. "That stew smells as good as I smell bad. A shower sounds right."

Without prompting he went into the bathroom, and Blair sighed in relief, unconsciously echoing Simon. He went to the kitchen, pausing on the way to give the captain a reassuring pat on the shoulder, to put the bread in the oven to warm and set out bowls and utensils. By the time Jim came out, hair still damp and wearing the silk long sleeved thermals and long johns, he had everything ready and was nearly undressed himself.

"Hope you don't mind," Jim spoke to no one in particular, "but I hated the thought of putting those dirty clothes back on just yet."

"Want me to scare up something else for you to wear back out?" Simon offered blandly, handing Jim a bottle. "Doesn't have to be dirty as long as the look's right, does it?"

Slipping into the bath himself, Blair left Jim to Simon's capable hands and gratefully showered. By the time he came out, Jim was ladling out the stew, good-naturedly arguing with his friend about the chances of various basketball teams, insisting the Jags had a decent chance even with all the changes in the lineup lately - changes that in reality had occurred 5 years ago. Somehow he kept himself from reacting to that, and sat beside his friend at the table. The meal was achingly familiar and comfortable, and for the first time in his life, Blair Sandburg had an idea of what the word 'homesick' meant.

Half way through it, Jim's eyelids started drooping heavily, and he missed parts of the conversation, needing to have them repeated. Banks, beginning to get worried, started flashing looks at Blair, but didn't react otherwise, keeping his promise to follow the Guide's lead. When Jim was so groggy he dropped his spoon, Blair calmly stood, motioning the captain to help, took the Sentinel by the elbow, and led him to Blair's old room.

Holding most of his detective's weight, Banks took one look at the alterations, and tried to back out. "Jesus, Sandburg, if you wanted him in a padded cell, we could have taken him to the hospital! You didn't have to make your own."

Blair urged Jim into the empty room, perforce dragging Simon into it, too. "Touch the walls." he ordered shortly.

If it occurred to Simon to question the smaller man's authority, it didn't show. Letting Jim sag to the well cushioned floor, he tentatively stroked the nearest surface. "Satin?"

"Next to silk, it's the most tactilely neutral fabric for Jim." Blair informed him, carefully positioning his sleeping partner. "The padding is for sound insulation and warmth." He picked up the jeweler's box holding the miniature white sound generators. "Like I said, Simon. Princess and the pea time, here. I'm taking away his senses, all of them, as much as I can, to give him a chance to rest, re-discover his dials." Inserting the devices, he cautiously glued them in place with spirit gum, and reached for the roll of gauze. "The loft is scent neutral for him, like his own scent, or mine, unless there's an environmental trigger to create a change - like fear on me or smoke in the kitchen. Taste is automatically off line unless he's eating, and sight..." he finished lightly wrapping layers of gauze and fastened them in place. "... is being reduced to the amount that can get through the blindfold.

"Hopefully, even after the sedative I put in the stew wears off, he'll keep sleeping off and on for a couple of days." Taking up the wide ribbon that was left from his stack of supplies, Blair finally looked up at his friend. "The fact that you and I aren't even yawning should tell you how little I put in and how exhausted he is."

The concern on Simon's face visibly mutated from one kind to another. "Thought he was nodding off just because he was tired, he looked so bad." Simon admitted.

"Give me a hand here," Blair said, and with Bank's help turned Jim to his stomach. "Don't freak on me, okay? It's only to keep him from removing the bandages or ear plugs." He began to wind the wide ribbon loosely around Jim's wrists and forearms. "I'll be staying here with him 24/7 until he wakes up on his own. Maybe the break from his sentinel abilities will help clear his mind and we can talk about the memory loss. If it doesn't," Blair shrugged without looking at the other man. "We'll think about what to do next."

"That's not much of a plan, Sandburg." Simon said worriedly.

"You've got a better one?" At Simon's shake, Blair lifted both hands expressively, "Then this is the best we can do. If nothing else, he'll *feel* better when he wake up."

"Somehow," Banks said dryly, "I don't think Jim is going to be in much of a mood to appreciate that, at first."

That startled a grin out of Blair, and he tugged gently on the knot on the ribbon. "I didn't think of that. Good thing he *is* tied up, huh?"

"May not be enough - how fast can you run?"
 
 

Rising lazily to the surface of wakefulness, Jim neither helped nor hindered the process, content to let it happen if it was going to. Half expecting the loving hands that had met him halfway before, hands that helped him take care of personal needs or pressed drink or food on him, he was mildly disappointed when no touch came. The disappointment was enough to make him want to reach for it; the inability to do so was enough to wake him, more or less.

There was only a frission of alarm; he tested his bonds stealthily and discovered they were only token really. He could work free of them in minutes if necessary. Opening his senses, he invited more information in, not feeling enough urgency to grab after it.

Under his cheek was the slide of satin, soothing his skin with cool. Dismissing the faint chemical taint from its cleaning, he easily picked up the scent of his home - and his, his, his... lover? - both combining to simply say 'mmmmm' to him. Recognizing the hum in his ears, he filtered it out, finding the melange of heartbeat/respiration/pen scratching/muttered vocalizations that marked his Dear One. A love game then, though he wasn't awake enough yet to play. He opened his eyes; seeing his lover in all his beauty would be all that he needed, he knew, to wake his body. Vaguely disappointed when all there was to see was a gray layer of fabric blinding him, he started to drift back down into sleep.

A petal of warm air wafted over his cheek; a frustrated exhalation from his companion. It felt good, and he liked the thought of more contact from him, so he hitched his way slowly over to where he could feel the body heat of his Dear One radiating into the room. Eventually the top of his head bumped into a muscular thigh. That was enough; with a satisfied murmur Jim sank back into darkness, never seeing or feeling the trembling hand that hesitated over, then settled butterfly soft onto his cheek.

The next time Jim drifted up from the depths, his lover was asleep himself, his silent breaths teasing the air around them into hesitant currents. He wasn't close enough to snuggle into, but Jim thought from the pattern of warmth he felt, that it wouldn't take much to close the gap, so he hesitantly inched over, not sure what his Dear One expected now. Again his head nudged the precious body first; what part he couldn't tell. On a whim, he tasted it, to try to guess whether it was thigh or arm or hip. No clue there, just the taste of silk, so he coiled around the sturdy form, letting himself slither and wind around it.

Seeing in his mind's eye the image of himself as a soft, loving snake, he grinned, feeling silly but not able to dismiss it. Sticking his tongue out, letting it flicker lightly over his lips, he hissed, laughed softly, and rubbed over his companion again, not caring any more what parts were what. The air around them became charged; pheromones, some part of him knew - arousal. There, there it was, proof of his knowledge, a different kind of snake hiding in its borrow, nuzzling at his face through it, a one-eyed one that wept because it was lonely.

Well, he could help that, couldn't he? His Dear One, after all, his love, his precious, his g... The rest of the word tumbled away, but that was all right. The nuzzling had become something more energetic, and all he cared about was pleasing the man with him. Not hard himself, he never-the-less locked a leg around a powerful calf, giving his lover leverage to work against. He rode the resultant surge of thrusting easily, sucking at the skin/silk that shifted around and onto him. It wasn't going to take long; he could feel the concentration of heat and fluid in the groin, almost burning him with its demand.

There! A shout, a final crushing spasm of the legs wrapped around him, then wet soaking onto both of them - his Dear One came for him beautifully, and Jim murmured a sweet sound before gliding back into sleep, carrying the scent and feel of it.

By the time hunger hooked him and reeled him unwillingly back, there was only a faint promise of scent left, and no feel at all. Lips pursed, distantly unhappy about that and not sure why, he cast about for his companion with all his senses. He wasn't there. That pricked at him, making him uneasy, and he laid very still for several long seconds, letting his hearing venture beyond his cocoon for the first time. No sound of him.

To his amazement, he felt the dry bite of tears in the back of his throat. Scolding himself like he was a child for *acting* like one, he tried to reason with himself. There was no rule that said he couldn't be left alone, he didn't even mind being alone, mostly. He was used to it. Had even learned to like parts of it. It was just... better... when his Dear One was with him. The lies didn't work, and he curled around the cold in his middle, willing the hunger to go away and let him sleep. It did, and he gratefully hid in the darkness.

The smell of hot barley soup, a favorite of his, dragged him back into his gray reality. Eagerly he slurped at the liquid, balancing the hot rim on the cup on his lower lip. Humming his approval deep in his throat, he quickly drained it, then licked his lips to ask for more. It came, and he took his time with this serving, pausing between sips to sniff deeply at its aroma or to feel its heat work down into him. When that was done too, business was taken care of, impersonally and efficiently, leaving him clean and drowsy.

It wasn't until his companion began to leave again that he remembered his last awakening. Without meaning to, he moaned mournfully, turning on his side, knees nearly up to his chest, face hidden in the fold of his body. Immediately the loving hands were back on him, a treasured voice asking what was wrong, where did it hurt?

He wasn't allowed to answer that, to tell his lover that he didn't want to be left alone. As ashamed as he was to admit it, even to himself, he couldn't take the punishment any more. Curling tighter he mutely shook his head and tried to escape into sleep. Hoping to lull himself, he began to breathe regularly, and when his Dear One left, it had worked to the point that his only reaction was an internal shudder.

But in a few minutes a swirl of cold outside air and hectic heartbeat announced his return, and Jim was able to let go for real, his body relaxing its defensive posture somewhat. As he did, hot, scented weight draped over him, slithering over and into the tuck of his body, despite his closed off pose. Seemingly oozing into the crannies, his lover soon had him feeling engulfed and encompassed in lovely warmth. Under his nose was the steady thrum of a pulse, and he licked it, loving the vibration of life, *this* life, on his tongue and lips. With a film of soft curls draped over his head and face, he felt hidden and safe, the beat on his sensitive mouth nourishing him.

And enflaming the lithe form he held. It grew impossibly hot and limp on him, save for where insistent need drummed a counter point to the tempo in his ears and on his tongue. Tiny cries were added to this sensual music, and both sets of hips began to dance to it. Once movement began, his own need grew, and he worked his way down from the life-source he'd suckled, looking for others to sample. With his teeth he worried at the sheer substance blocking his access to what he wanted. There was a flurry of frantic motion, then bare skin for him to savor.

Finding his lover's nipples was easy; they were so hard they dug through the cloth on his own chest with insistent pleading for attention. Laving them one at a time, he drew each one into an painfully hard peak, bit it enough to create a scream, then went on. Wiry hairs dragged over his face as he went down, adding their own tiny caresses; sweat beaded up to ease his way. Reaching another barrier, he waited, rocking a bit from side to side on the hard length branding him between his own nipples. "Please." Not quite demand, plea, or request, the word had elements of all three, and Jim repeated it quietly.

Anxious hands arrived, hastily shoving the clothing aside and freeing a torrent of musk and jungle damp heat. Jim only had time for one deep breath before his head was taken, held, his lover's cock urgently seeking entrance to his mouth. Willingly he granted it, almost coming from the wildly driving rod filling his throat, using him ruthlessly. There was no pattern or rhythm to the fucking his face received, but it didn't matter. Instinct somehow served to let him meet and match each shove. His own hips lifted unknowingly, seeking a hole to fill, finding only the air. Clenching and unclenching his ass muscles, longing to fuck, he rode out their lustful frenzy, not caring if it ever ended.

Without warning it did, and his companion's shout held both relief and disappointment. Oddly, it was the disappointment that broke Jim, forcing out his seed in great washes of ecstasy that matched the ones he drank down. Before the last tremor died in the arms and legs locked around him, his weakened grip on consciousness slipped, and he plummeted back into rest.
 
 

The pattern of sleep, food, cleanup, loving quickly became set, with Jim reluctantly accepting the blankness of those times his Dear One was elsewhere. No longer exclusively sleeping, he was content to lie in his cocoon when awake, letting his mind skip and meander where it would. It was these long journeys that helped him rebuild himself into a person instead of the collection of sensations that had first awaken here. He didn't speak of it, not ready to give up his sanctuary or return to his duty just yet.

His lover didn't seem to mind the burden he was, and no matter how Jim focused on him, he never heard or felt anything that indicated his partner wished circumstances were different. Guiltily, he made no effort to change them, and tried to make it worth it to the other man by being as compliant and receptive as possible. Not that it was an chore; his Dear One was voracious, playful, demanding, tender, inventive, and simply the most enthusiastic partner anyone could want.

The only thing they hadn't done was take each other, and Jim was frightened by wanting it. In the past, he'd been punished for wanting, too, though not as badly, especially when he wanted it so much. That kept any suggestion he made nonverbal; an offering of his uplifted ass or a delicate probing at the desired portal. The refusal was as wordless and unexplained; a gentle kiss to his bottom before turning him over, or a minute stiffening. With the same dumb animal acceptance he took everything else, he took the rebuffs, and inwardly longed for the possession.

Finally, an opportunity came that he decided he would use. His Dear One made a laughing remark about needing more than a bed-bath to get the accumulated come off him, and Jim eagerly agreed. In the shocked quiet that followed, Jim understood what he had done. A bath would be his first step away from this private world - and away from the beloved man kneeling beside him. His punishment, then, for wanting. Left to himself, he would have backed off; not even the joy of being filled to the brim with his lover's seed was worth the gap that would be born from leaving here the first time.

But with weary resignation, thinly disguised as joking reluctance, his Dear One agreed. "You'll need your hands free," he added quietly.

Automatically Jim rolled onto them protectively, but then stood with gritted teeth and turned again to grant access. The ribbon came away easily; his arms felt strange and heavy as they fell to his sides. "Leave the head bandage on, Jim."

"I will." He twisted his elbows and wrists experimentally. Movement didn't take away the oddness.

"Stiff?" Elegant fingers massaged briefly, reassuringly.

"Some. The bath will help." With a last attempt to stop it, Jim added wistfully, "You're sure you don't mind?"

For a second, he thought prevarication would be his answer. Instead, "Yes, I do mind. I've never had anything like this before in my life; I don't think many people have. I don't want to give it up, its.." he stumbled over his words, trying to find one that fit, then gave up with a darting hand that worshipped Jim's cheek and lips. "But - it's not .. it's not really *right,*" he went on, "and we both know it's not what's best for you in the long run. We can stop though, here, if that's what *you* want. If you're not ready, yet."

Mind filled with the choice, hide or be strong, Jim murmured without meaning to, "It's not safe to want. Or need." In a firmer voice, he added, "It's only a beginning, anyway. A baby step." With that he stepped forward to where he knew to door was. Immediately a hand fit itself to his elbow to guide.

The journey was strange, filled with both familiar and unfamiliar overlaying each other on the same objects. His bare feel slapped against the wooden floor, his toes *knowing* the waxy, slippery texture of it, even as he was steered over its surface around furniture he didn't remember. Outside his snug nest, the air was more alive, constantly plucking at his skin and hair, reminding him of the grand freedom it had. Sounds were punching through his protective hum - cars, people yelling, far off construction - all well known, but somehow still sounding alien.

Through it all was his Dear One by his side, and even that wasn't new to him, was something his... his guide had done for him before. That memory clicked into place, at least partially, and while he studied its meaning, their short trip ended with a closing of a different door behind him. Surprisingly shaky, he leaned on it while the bathtub was filled, not trying to process the differences between this room and his. Too many, too much, if he let himself go past his own body, he'd suffocate in it all.

Then his elbow was taken again, and the chaos receded at the touch. Gratefully he wrapped both arms around his lover, relishing the ability to do it and the way it felt. "Have you always been able to do that?" he asked curiously.

"Do what?"

"Make it go away. Like sucking up all the parts that I can't deal with, and just... make it go away."

The wariness in his Dear One's voice was heart-breaking. "I don't know; you've never mentioned it to me before."

Wanting to give him firmer footing, Jim admitted, "It sorta feels like you have, and there are a couple of things I remember... something about dials?"

"For each sense," and his voice hinted at banked excitement, this time. "You turn them up or down to control how much input you're getting."

Feeling the tiredness creeping up, Jim asked, "Not one for the whole set?" He sagged more. "I don't think I can concentrate hard enough to fix them all."

"Shh, shh, you don't have to. There's no hurry, and it's okay in here, isn't it? Listen to the sound of the water, nature's white sound. Come on, let's get you in the tub; that'll help, too."

Clumsily he undressed himself, his shirt catching on the wrapping on his head as he pulled it off. Then, steadied by capable hands, he stepped into the hot water and gratefully sank down to let it flow over him. "OH! Damn! This is almost better than sex!"

He could hear the grin in his lover's voice when he replied, "I'd be offended.. but I know exactly what you mean. I've had a few showers that were damn near religious experiences, I'd been away from hot water so long."

For an instant he remembered tripping over his own feet, he had been in such a hurry to get the stink of so many months in the jungle off him. Aloud he said drowsily, "Yeah, I'm behind you there, partner. First bath after Peru, I stayed in so long I thought the wrinkles were permanent." He scooted down deeper into the water, letting it lap at his chin.

"Jim.."

"Mmmm?"

"Jim! Man, you *cannot* go to sleep in that tub!"

Fingers dug into his hair, lifting, and Jim made himself brace his feet on the far end of the tub and straighten up. "Sorry. Bad idea, I know."

"Damn," his companion muttered, then he ordered, "Sit up and scooch forward a bit." A second later hard legs slid past his and a lightly furred chest pressed into his back. "Okay, now you can relax. Still no snoozing, though, you hear!" Gingerly he leaned back, but his lover held him easily. "There. Comfortable?"

"Thought you didn't want me to doze off," Jim complained mildly.

"So I'll keep you awake."

A bit of flesh was pinched playfully, and Jim gave a snort, then squirmed deliberately so that his back rubbed all over his companion's front. "I can think of better ways to... stay up."

"Argh! Then we'll both drown. Come on, man, behave." So saying, a sponge was dipped into the water, and then started circulating over him. It felt wonderful, and he subsided, trusting his backrest to keep him safe. After it had traveled over his chest leisurely a few times, his partner asked quietly in his ear. "Jim, how much do you remember?"

Tempted to shrug it off, he sighed instead. "Technically, everything I guess. I always know who I am - Jim Ellison, detective - and where I am, Cascade. The rest is like confetti, all torn into pieces and tossed in the air. I reach out for it, sometimes snaring it, sometimes not and what I do get doesn't always make *sense* to me. Lately I've been able to hang onto the pieces, put them where they belong."

"Like knowing you were in Peru. How much do you remember?'

He started to tense, but the sponge ran over his arm, wet and warm, and he couldn't stay that way. "People died there. People important to me. And I lived with the Chopec and became like I am now." The fragments trailed off, and so did he, but before he could get lost in looking for them, his Dear One mouthed his ear, then nipped. It caught him, and he blurted his own question before it could slip away, too. "Do I do that a lot? Zone out on thinking?"

The banked excitement reappeared. "Is that how it feels? Zoning?"

"Yes," he answered with some surprise. "It’s not that different from focusing on a sense until everything fades, except I'm focusing on what's in my head."

"Does it bother you? Or not being able to put all the bits of confetti together?"

That he had to consider, and he turned his head until his cheek laid almost directly over the heartbeat echoing in his own body. "It's very peaceful," he admitted after a minute, "in a lot of ways. But frustrating, too. I don't know, babe, it's hard to explain."

"There's no need to; I'm just trying to get a handle on this so I can help you." Under him, his lover shifted uneasily. "If you want me to, that is." There was a pause, then he blurted, "I've been taking a lot of things for granted with you, Jim. Like you want to be here like this, like you don't mind what I've been doing with you - to you. Making decisions for you that might not be the ones you would make for yourself. I don't have the right, I know, and, oh, shit, Jim, I don't even know if you know who I am!"

That struck Jim as so odd, he couldn't keep it out of his voice. "That's like asking me if I know how to breathe. You're my own, my Dear One, part of me."

As soon as the words left his lips, he panicked, able to hide it from his lover only because the other man was already upset. Those words were too close to saying 'Stay' or 'I love you' and he quickly tried to downplay them. "All those my's sound selfish don't they?" Quickly he shifted enough that he could place a sucking kiss on his companion's neck. One hand found the semi-hard erection that had been cozying up to him all along. "Works both ways, babe. *Your* lover, *your* own, *your* toy to do whatever you want with," he whispered as hotly as he could.

He tackled the soft skin again, putting just enough pressure into it to make his lover arch into both the bite and his hand. "Want to hear me beg? Want me to fight you so you can force me, feel your strength subdue me?" His own words burned him, and he moaned before choosing another sweet bit of flesh to torment. Releasing it, he undulated, bringing his own hard-on into play. "Want to hurt me? I can beg for that, too, babe. Tell me what you want, how you need it; let me be your fantasy."

It was too much for both of them. His Dear One yanked at him, pulling both of them up and out of the water. Jim went eagerly, hungrily, and somehow they made their way back to the soft gray room, Jim never ceasing his torture of the strong neck, his own body being sweetly assaulted with bites and kisses. Once he felt the padded satin under his feet, he broke away, crossing his wrists at the small of his back for his binding and going to his knees. He put his face down into the soft floor, and waited, trying to think of some way other way to ask that wouldn't sound like asking. All he could manage was a whimper, and he let that go without shame.

To his relief and shattering joy, his lover instantly dropped into place behind him, his mouth going unerringly to the opening presented to him. Nearly screaming from the hot kiss filling his ass, Jim fought not to rear back, wanting to drive the flexible probe deeper inside him but knowing he had to wait. It teased and promised, stroking and digging in, and he tried to make himself split wider to take more and more. It didn't last nearly long enough, and his Dear One broke away, moans coming from deep inside him. "Be still, Jim," he muttered harshly, his hand gently petting, "Just a second. Be still."

Somehow he managed not to weep when his lover left, tracking him desperately with his hearing as he went back to the bathroom. He heard the cap coming off in the living room, and against his will his hips went high, his drooling cock swinging heavily, in anticipation of what was coming. Again he tried to spread himself wider, keeping his wrists crossed in an unbelievable act of will.

Behind him, his lover groaned, "Oh, God! Jim, God, God, God." Then a shaking finger was dipping into him, the cool gel on it stabbing at him with a spike of pleasure. It felt so good, but not nearly good enough and he restlessly rode back on it, asking and telling at the same time. The second finger came promptly, and the two of them worked inside him, stretching and twisting, until nothing could have kept his begging whimpers from spilling. A third finger took up its job, and he rammed back on them all, wanting to feel them rip him open.

"Easy, babe, easy," his lover cautioned, but took away his hand to place his cock where Jim needed it so badly. "Gonna take you, take you hard, gonna to ride you until your throat hurts from screams."

"Yes, YES, *YES*!" Jim did scream, held from impaling himself by determined hands on his ass cheeks.

Then it happened, he was entered, filled past endurance, but the pain was totally overwhelmed by the incredible pleasure, intense and hugely swelling inside him. Keening his delight, unable to move now, he waited for his Dear One's will. It came swiftly; he was pounded with long, fierce thrusts that pushed his face into the floor and smacked into his ass cheeks. He didn't care; he wanted it, wanted it all: from the bruising fingertips clawing into his thighs, to the sharp grunts from his ravisher, to the ache in his knees from the weight bearing into him. Trying to capture it all, he placed it where it could never join the scattered fragments littering his mind, but could not stay there himself as his body blanked out his mind.

He became a hot asshole, a tight channel, overflowing with a demanding cock that was going to split him in half with its need to take all of him. At its mercy, and drilling shaft had none, he shoved back to satisfy it, to make himself its possession. The rod inside him grew, impossibly, it grew and he couldn't hold back the spasms that tried to grip the tool and bring it in even deeper as the same contractions forced out his own seed in streaming lines. Then he was awash with fire that shot hard from his lover, bathing him internally, marking him forever, and he died in it, never feeling his body collapse.

Coming out of it abruptly, senses warning him, he found his lover balled up next to him, shaking too hard to be easily held. But he did, crawling over the quaking form and clumsily patting him with exhausted hands. Bit by bit he coaxed his partner into his arms, so he could cradle the curly head on his shoulder and drape a large leg over the slender waist. Wisely, he didn't speak, biting the inside of his cheek to remind himself to let it happen naturally.

His lover began to mumble, his fist coming up to his mouth as if to keep the words from escaping. "Don't make me leave," slowly became intelligible, and it was repeated over and over with varying degrees of command and fear. "Don't make me leave, don't make me leave."

Worried, he whispered into the locks clinging to his chin and lips, "Of course not, never." Forbidden words came to his lips, 'please stay, I love you,' and he held them back by dropping kiss after kiss onto his companion. Was that why the fist? Was his Dear One using his forbidden words? Something more dangerous than worry gnawed at the edge of his mind, and he warded it off with promises. "*Your* lover, *your* possession... how can I make you leave? Shh, shh, this is where you belong, this is your place, shh, shh..."

At long last, the tremors stopped and his lover wrapped all four limbs around him, clinging as if a weary child. "And I can do this any time I want." His voice was child-like, too, almost petulant.

"Any time you want," Jim swore. "This and more, any time you want, I'll give it to you." That seemed to be what he needed to hear most; the last of the tension melted and the smaller body cuddled instead of clutched.

His own emotion faded into the pleasant exhaustion of heavy love making, and he started to wander back toward sleep, automatically adjusting to the weight and size of his companion resting against him. Nearly gone, he struggled to make sense of the words when they drifted up to his ears. "What can I give you, Jim?"

Phrased like that, he could honestly answer, but didn't know for sure how much his lover really wanted to give. Picking the smallest thing, the one he thought had the least potential for rebounding on either of them, he ventured, "Your name?"
 
 

Half-hard already, anticipation giving a boost to his naturally energetic steps, Blair headed down the hall to the loft, shifting his load of packages to fumble for his keys. First the groceries, then he'd take the bag from NightWorks and show the contents to Jim, so they could decide over dinner... or maybe, he'd do that first, then groceries, or maybe.... Grinning, he thought what he might *have* to do was use that talented mouth first. There was no way he was going to able to accomplish anything with the erection straining at his zipper distracting him. Just the thought of the velvet ropes in the bag and what he was going to do to Jim with them was quickly eliminating any other possibility.

When the door swung open under his hand, he nearly backed off. He knew he had left it locked. But it didn't look forced and the thought that Jim might be alone in there with a stranger sent him through it in the next heartbeat. Standing in the hallway, still wearing his coat, Simon Banks was staring at the padlock on the French doors to Blair's old room. Cigar hanging limply from his fingers, he pivoted to stare at Blair instead as the smaller man went into the kitchen to drop his packages, carefully keeping the one from the sex shop out of sight.

"I thought you said 24/7, Sandburg!" he barked.

"I did until he got better," Blair said calmly, though his heart was pounding frantically.

"Then why is he locked in there?"

"I said better, not healed, Simon." Putting the groceries where they belonged, he took a second to fish the key to the padlock out of his jeans. "Since I couldn't risk him wandering off..." he tossed them to Simon, "I put a lock on the room. He knows about it, and understands my reasons, just like with the blindfold and earplugs, the last, by the way, he hasn't needed for a couple of days. Been meaning to give you a key in case something happened to me while I was at school or checking back in with Jim's tribe."

Catching the ring, Simon glared at him and it alternately, clearly not liking the idea. "He *lets* you lock him in?" The disbelief couldn't have been louder.

In his head, Blair answered, 'not for the reasons you're going to assume.' Aloud, he said shortly, "Come on, Simon! You know how those doors are made; at best, the lock is a token, a reminder. He could break through them without even exerting himself." Dismissing it, Blair brought out the wok and asked, "Staying for dinner? Stir fry. You could visit with Jim if he's awake."

"He's still sleeping alot? That's why the phone's are off and the answering machine volume is all the way down?"

"Not as much." Taking a risk, mentally reviewing the condition he had left his lover in earlier, Blair encouraged Banks again. "And he's pretty together when he is awake. Why don't you at least check on him?"

Slowly, Simon took off his coat, hung it, and retraced his steps back to Blair's room. Clearly not happy, he undid the lock, and cracked open the door. Coming up behind him, on the pretext of giving him a beer, Blair peeked into the room, too. Good. Though naked, Jim had covered himself up to mid-chest with a satin sheet, hiding the fingerprint bruises on his thighs and ass. Blair no longer bound Jim's wrists except when he *wanted* those clever hands captured, and now one hand was tucked under his chin, while the other was under his bandaged head, making him look as innocent as an infant. The scent of sex was hidden under the stench from Simon's cigar, and Blair had removed the soiled linens and other potentially incriminating objects out earlier while cleaning.

Disguising his sigh of relief as one of worry, he lied softly. "Would you mind not waking him yet? It seems to disorient him if he's not allowed to do it on his own." Without waiting for Simon's reply, he went back to the kitchen and started assembling the tools for making dinner. After a minute, Simon quietly closed the French doors and joined him, standing at the edge of the kitchen. As much as he could, he helped Blair begin dinner, talking desultorily about current cases in the department and how Darryl was doing.

That caused more than one pang for Blair, though he responded normally to Simon's conversation. He couldn't rid himself of the memories of the times he and Jim had shared this homey task, and how much more natural it felt when it was Jim working beside him. It should have been Jim in here with him *now*, not Simon. Resolutely, he pushed that desire away. That was the old Jim, and much as he missed him, his new Jim definitely had advantages. Much appreciated advantages.

His penis stirred, recalling its earlier condition, and Blair had to force his thoughts out of the gray satin room and back to the captain. He must have fallen silent; Simon was studying him. "Sandburg," he started gently, and Blair was suddenly reminded that this was his friend, too. It caused a pang of another sort, and he had to look away, blinking.

"Are *you* all right?" Simon finished, putting a large hand on his shoulder. "You're carrying all of this," and he swung the same hand around at the room, meaning more than the loft itself, "by yourself. Is there at least enough money for bills and things?"

On impulse, Blair stepped forward to hug him, for once ignoring Simon's preferences on that activity. When he was done, he moved away, not looking at the other man, and went back to cooking. "I'm doing okay. Jim's isn't hard to take care of, really, and I can do a lot of my university work here with him. As for the bills, there aren't many, Simon, utilities mostly. I can handle most of it with my grant and stipend. And," he hesitated, knowing he was technically confessing a crime, "I can sign Jim's name as well as he can. He has a pretty nice nest egg; when we have to, I cut into that." Hastily he added, "Food, mostly, I swear."

"It's okay, Sandburg. You're doing what you have to do." Taking the offered knife, Simon put down his bottle and started chopping. "Is there any chance he's going to be able to come back to work soon? I don't know how much longer I can handle being a man short."

"You getting pressure from the brass?"

"Not really. The info Jim brought in paid off too well; they're very graciously allowing that he might need some time off after being undercover that long." He looked up from the veggies and said bluntly, "He's my best man and I want him back. He's my best friend, and I want to *see* him back. Have you at least got a handle on how he wound up like this?"

Ashamed to met Simon's open gaze, Blair began heating the wok. "I don't know, Simon, I don't know." Hesitantly he confessed, "I have a couple of clues, weird ones, but clues." Taking the ingredients he began to add them to the cooking pan. "He's been talking to me, so I know he's been reconstructing his memory, chunks here and there. Most of his childhood is spotty, but all of his school years seem to be intact now. Army years are good til Peru, and his years with the department right up to when he joined Major Crimes is so-so. Since then, nothing, not even his time on the street.

"Simon, I had to tell him my *name.* He knows I'm an anthro grad, my mom's name, and everything about me I ever told him. But not any of the cases we worked together, why I'm his partner, or why I moved in with him - none of the *history,* you know?"

Frustrated, Blair turned down the heat, then stirred the dish vigorously to work off some of his agitation, falling silent as he worked. Simon let him, pacing around the loft to ease his own discomfort. "Has he let you re-train his senses?" he asked absently, something about Blair's recitation apparently had him thinking.

The question jarred Blair out of his funk; he paid closer attention to the big man's face as he answered. "Hasn't really needed me to; bit by bit it's been coming back. The dials, the meditation to help focus, piggy-backing. He *knows* that stuff, but he doesn't have the context that created them, so he forgot he knew. Somehow being around me expedites re-discovering them, now that he's not absorbed in survival. Probably because he associates them with me and I can prompt him simply by expecting him to be able to."

Obviously working that over in his mind, Banks paced some more, and Blair went back to preparing their meal. "Childhood, Peru, Major Crimes. What do those have in common, Sandburg?" Banks asked eventually.

Without thinking, Blair answered, "Using his senses." Hearing his own words, he looked up and met Simon's startled eyes. "Using them," he said slowly, "then *repressing* them, in two cases."

"Maybe the third time, too?" Banks said hopefully.

Veggies done, Blair transferred them to a chaffing dish while he drained the cooked rice and added it to the wok to quickly brown and season it. As his hands flew over their task, he brain churned over and over Simon's question. "As a kid, he stifled his senses because his dad treated him like a freak, but didn't *repress* them until he saw his mentor's dead body. He hid both the memory of that and his abilities, possibly associating them and using the emotional trauma to power it. When he came back from Peru, he did it again, either because he knew how on some level, or because the return to civilization was traumatic enough that he could use it the same way he used Bud's death earlier.

"Now... He has accepted his senses, Simon, made a commitment to use them. So he *can't* repress them anymore. But if he *tried* for some reason, it could rebound I guess. Senses remained intact and his mind went away." Blair said the last words doubtfully. It was possible, but he was certain they were overlooking something, the key piece to understanding what went wrong.

Coming to lean on the kitchen block, Simon said tiredly, "Only problem with that theory is what trauma? What did he want to repress?"

"The worst thing that's happened to him this year is Incacha's death," Blair said, handing Simon the dishes to put on the table. "In my opinion, anyway. And *that* brought about the commitment we're talking about here." Resolutely, he shook his head, as if to scatter away any more thoughts. "Look, we can worry this out more, later. Right now let's check Jim to see if he's awake, then eat. It'll taste better if we don't season it with frustration, man."

Leaving Simon to set the table and dish out the stirfry, Blair took a clean pair of thermals and went into his room, shutting the door behind him. "Jim?" he whispered, knowing he had been awake and listening all along.

"No, not yet, babe." the barely audible reply came back.

"He's a good friend, and worried about you."

"Not yet." Jim's voice quavered fractionally, such a small amount Blair wasn't positive it was there. Then it turned sly, teasing. "Unless you're ready to brag about your perfect little slave, lover. Want to show off how well I'm trained?" The suggestion, and the image that it created, arrowed straight to his groin, and Blair unconsciously pulled at the fit of his pants at the crotch.

Despite that, angry that Jim would use their intimacy as a tactic, he hissed, "Or how well you plead when punished! Or can we add public humiliation to your very long list of kinks!?"

"Babe, I'm sorry," Jim answered, instantly, uncharacteristically apologetic. "I only meant..."

"I know," Blair interrupted sharply, "to sidetrack me. Which you shouldn't feel you need to do. I might be your keeper right now, but you have a mind of your own. I'm not going to force you into anything you don't really want, and you should know it!"

"I do! I..." Jim sat up, sheet falling to pool at his waist. His hand knotted, there, and his jaw clenched, the muscle there jumping for the first time since Blair moved him into this room. "I'm yours," he said softly. "Nobody else's. Nobody else should see me like this, know me like this. Having Simon here is... is an invasion, somehow."

If Simon hadn't been in the other room, Blair would have dropped to his knees and ravaged Jim's mouth right then and there. As it was, he moaned, then made himself get back to the problem at hand. "If you had time to prepare, meet him on the other side of the door..."

"That'd be okay, I could do that," Jim agreed quickly, almost too quickly.

Torn between Simon's trust and Jim's need, Blair wavered, then let his libido push him into a decision. "You'll have to wait until he's gone to eat, lover, and to use the facilities."

"I can wait, no problem." The sly grin was back. "In fact, waiting can make it better."

Reluctantly, the black velvet rope in the hidden bag preying on his mind again, Blair said, "I'll tell him you're too out of it, then, and invite him back tomorrow. And tomorrow you'll dress and join us for dinner, right?"

"Yes, I promise." Jim stretched out over the soft floor, feeling for Blair's foot, finding it, then pressed soft kisses on the leather of his shoe. "Thank you, Blair."

On Jim's lips, his name sounded like Master or Beloved, and his dick stirred again. "That," he said with a voice too rough and deep to be his own, "will get you more than a reprieve from visitors if you keep it up."

Jim's hand burned a caress through his jean covered leg. "I think I keep you up very easily, babe. Hurry back?"

With an internal jerk, Blair made himself move back to the door, rubbing at his lips with the back of his hand. On the other side, he heard Simon mutter to himself as he searched through the kitchen for something. "Yes. As soon as I can." His promise was to himself, and he scurried through the door, already formulating his excuses for Simon.

That night he lovingingly unwound Jim's blindfold so that he could watch his lover's eyes as he bound him, then used him.
 
 

Jolted out of sleep as he was unceremoniously plucked away from the flat stomach he'd been using as a pillow, Blair flailed wildly at the punishing hands that dragged him out of their room. Connecting, his punches did nothing except hurt his hands, and he scrabbled after some implement to back up his blows.

Eyes open, nothing to see in the darkened living room except the dizzying whirl of moon-backed shadows, he fought, too breathless from his sudden relocation to scream yet. A lucky blow knocked away the hand in his hair; he skidded across the floor, still groping for a weapon.

From their room Jim's pale shape hurtled at the larger black one that had had hold of Blair, knocking it to the ground. White twisted, smeared into the black. Somehow Blair got his feet under him, got to the phone and the light switch at the same time. Not taking his eyes off the battling figures, he hit speed dial, and snatched up a frying pan, and headed back to the wrestling men.

He hung up the phone automatically, pan drooping to his side, as he stupidly watched Jim wrap the velvet rope around the neck of Simon Banks and began to squeeze the life out him. Astonishment lasted only a second; the next he was beside the two, palms cupping Jim's jaw line, urging his head up.

"Stop, babe. Stop. Right now," he ordered. Jim resisted both the hands and the order, and Blair had to suffer weak slaps at his bare back as Simon tried to suck in breath past Jim's noose and keep on fighting. "Jim!" Sparing a quick glance at Simon's glazing eyes, Blair leaned forward until his lips were against his lover's ear. "Stop now, my Jim, and I'll have something special for you, later. Please, mmmm?"

Under his fingers he could feel the fight in Jim hesitate, and he deliberately thought of the first time he had taken the perfect body, stirring his own, adding his pheromones and scent to his argument. A provocative finger lightly scratched down the middle of the bigger man's back, and Blair breathed another "Please."

Slowly Jim released his hold on the rope, sitting back on his heels. The furious blue burned away into another kind of fire, but banked and controllable. Ignoring the gasping captain on the floor, Jim dabbed at a trace of red coming from Blair's temple. "You're hurt. He hurt you."

"And you hurt him," Blair replied mildly, noticing the sting of the cut for the first time. "Is it bad?" and he titled his head so Jim could see it clearly.

"Just needs to be cleaned and a bandaid," Jim said professionally, then stood, apparently oblivious to his marked nudity and headed for the bathroom.

Hanging his head in relief, holding back a sigh, Blair turned to offer Simon a hand up. Banks slapped it away, unwinding the rope from his neck and throwing it in disgust toward one of the support columns in the loft. Rolling to his side, he sat then wobbled to his feet. Looking down at his bare body, Blair reached for the robe he kept next to their door and shimmied into it. By the time he tightened the belt and turned back to Banks, the other man was sitting on the couch, pointedly not looking at him.

Jim came back with the antiseptic and bandage, just as pointedly keeping his freshly robed back to his friend. When he was done, the three of them sat in thick silence, then Blair nodded toward their room. "Go. I'll deal with it."

The indecision that warred on his partner's strong features both exhilarated and frightened Blair, but he tried to school himself to impassiveness, not wanting to influence Jim one way or the other. At last Jim brushed a kiss over his ear. Still refusing to look at Banks, he returned to their room, shutting the door behind him with a firm click.

Banks still didn't speak, and Blair pulled his hair away from his face, fumbling in a robe pocket for a tie. Tiredly he ran over why Simon would have come unannounced into the loft; surely it wasn't Wednesday, already. That was the day he had set for their dinner, the last time he had postponed it. Sneaking a peek at his books on the table, he tried to remember if it *was* Wednesday. Monday had been the day he'd spent too long at play with Jim and missed the faculty meeting, right, and Tuesday he'd removed Jim's white sound generators.. that was, that was...

He lost his chain of thought as Simon abruptly stood and stomped over to the kitchen. "You need a shower, Sandburg. Smell like you've been rutting for a month!"

Refusing to give into the anger in Simon's voice, too weary to deal with it, Blair said peaceably enough, "You're the one who came in uninvited, Simon, and assaulted me. You're not in a position right now to be criticizing my hygiene."

Looking at the French doors, mouth hard and uncompromising, "You're a fine one to be using that word, Sandburg. Assault. I thought the credo for the kinds of 'games' you're playing in there is safe, sane, and consensual. How can someone in Jim's condition give consent, and how safe or sane is it to lock the two of you away, not even answering the phones."

Blair paled, feeling cold sweat begin at his groin and armpits. "Are you accusing me of rape, Banks?"

"That's what it looks like from here," Simon snapped, not taking his eyes off the door.

"If you're even remotely thinking of charging me," Blair said coldly, hiding his shaking hands in the pockets of his robe. "You had damn well be ready to answer some charges yourself." Simon almost brought his hands up, and Blair warned, "This is the second time you've used your fist before you've used your brain. Do it again, and not even Jim will be able to talk me out of seeing you explaining to a judge."

Simon's focus snapped to Blair's face, and he kept it impassive through sheer terror. Their standoff lasted for a small eternity during which Blair's heart nearly worked its way out of his chest. Doing a reasonable imitation of Jim's jaw clench, Simon finally broke it by standing. "Found a body in what used to be Hell Man's turf. Can't get anybody to identify it; thought maybe you or Jim could come in long enough for that." His voice was empty, but took on serious weight for one last shot. "Would have *called* you in if the phones were on."

Acknowledging the hit with a shrug, he only said, "Give me three minutes to clean up and get some clothes on."

"Going to make sure your... playmate... is securely locked away first?"

Not dignifying that with a reply, Blair went in to swiftly reassure Jim with a hug and kiss, fighting the urge to cling to him and forget one more time that anything but the yielding, accepting man waiting for him. After a hastily whispered conference, Jim guiltily letting Blair convince him that it was okay, he could handle Simon, handle a body on his own, Blair left him curled up in one corner of their room. Without looking at Banks, he snapped the padlock shut and ran upstairs for his clothes, then down to the bath. Two minutes later they were in the car on the way to the station.

Weirdly, it was the hush and hum of traveling that evened out the strain between them, and Blair found himself volunteering, "It started before I left. We didn't really mean to, didn't really want to, it just kinda happened."

At Simon's disbelieving snort, Blair stretched out in his seat, head going to the back of it. "One of the reason I left on that expedition was to let the heat between us die a little. I won't lie; I was hurting worse than Jim and that's probably why he let me go without a fuss.

"When we were on the streets, it was all about survival and didn't come up between us again. Frankly I was too worried about him to want to jump his bones, and he's far too private to do that in that kind of setting."

Breaking in, distaste barely hidden, Banks ground out, "I don't need to hear the details of your love life, Sandburg."

Without heat, Blair said, "Consider it payback for the punches, man. And you *need* to hear this, cause if you try something like that again or if you try to separate us, he'll kill you or whoever lays a hand on me. Or himself."

"Don't exaggerate - it doesn't make what you're doing right."

Blair crashed his fist into the glass next to him and shouted, the suddeness of it making the captain unintentionally swerve. "Listen to me, Damn it!" Breathing hard, trying to get himself under control, Blair managed to bring his voice back down. "He came onto *me,* he's not being coerced or forced or blackmailed or ...." He faded off, not sure himself how to explain how inevitable making love with Jim had been, from the very first.

Confused, Simon tried to divide his attention between the road and his passenger, Blair sank back into silence while the big man tried to process it all. Finally, pulling into a spot in the parking garage, he twisted in his seat and said not unkindly, "Blair, you look like hell. Too thin, unkempt, washed out, strung out - like a man with a monkey on his back!"

"What!" Blair sat up straight, pushing himself as far away from Banks and the car would allow.

Softly, persuasively, Simon told him, "What are the symptoms of addiction, Blair? Lying about where you are and what you're doing, cutting yourself off from friends and family, missing work, skipping meals, spending too much money, spending all your time, all your thoughts on your... habit. Why are you letting Jim hide like this? It isn't like you. It isn't like *him.*"

Caught off guard, as much by the content as the friendship behind it, Blair could only stare at Simon, an innocent beast trapped in the glare of oncoming lights. Cautiously Simon stretched across the car seat and feathered a gentle touch over Blair's madly mussed hair. "Think about it, Blair. Please?"

At that he left the car, waiting patiently for Blair to trail after him. Blair did, head down and mind swirling, not looking up until they were in the morgue and Dan called an off-hand greeting to him. Simply nodding at the ME, Blair went to stand by the indicated gurney and waited for the sheet to be lowered.

The long straight blonde hair was corrupted with blood and bits of brain matter, but the sweet face was still easily distinguished. "I don't know her real name," Blair said numbly. "But we called her Merrileigh. The street people we hung out with took her in after a john literally threw her out of a car and onto the street in front of them. She'd been trying to get out of the business, but like a lot of sexually abused kids, she didn't think much of her body or herself." He took the sheet from Dan and tenderly covered her empty shell. "She was 14."

After that, he stumbled up stairs, Simon's arm half around his waist. He was put into a room, questioned, then given a cup of coffee, a pen and stack of papers to fill out. Life at the precinct, as usual. Before the shock wore off completely, before he had time find a place in his head for everything that had happened in the past few hours, the captain of the vice department crashed into the small room.

"You're Ellison's partner? Where is he? Where is that son of a bitch?"

Though he had met the captain briefly, enough to be able to identify the man when they ran into each other, Blair blinked and asked, "Excuse me. You are?"

That drew up the slender, intense black man, almost making him stumble. "Vinton, Captain, vice."

Offering him a hand and a weak smile, Blair half stood. "I remember now. I'm sorry, man, long night with a bad middle so far. Last I saw Jim he was trying to catch some zzz's. Maybe I can help you?" Stuttering incoherently, Vinton shook a finger at Blair, aiming it like a gun. Tilting his head to one side, feigning confusion - not hard, considering that was his primary state right now. "Captain?"

Banks threw himself through the door, almost hitting the other captain. "What the hell do you mean by putting a warrant out on *my* detective, Vinton! You need him in, you go through channels, you don't just order an arrest. You remember that little official thing called 'procedure?' "

Spinning, lighting up with unholy glee, Vinton spat out, "Fuck procedure. We've got an eye witness nailing him as the killer for that db brought in a few hours ago. The blonde hooker, who apparently he *knew,* according to his own partner. Think he should be given red-carpet treatment cause he was Cop of the Year?"

Taking just enough time to jam a cigar in his mouth, Simon bent down to be nose to nose with his peer. "I expect him to be treated like any other officer under suspicion. He deserves the respect of the PD until you've got more than the word of some alky who can't see straight and probably couldn't remember right if he did!"

"Oh, I see - they're good enough to give Major what they need, but not reliable enough to be murder witnesses." Vinton sneered.

"That's not who we rely on," Blair butted in, "and her name was Merrileigh, which you don't give a fuck about since all you're concerned with is some interdepartmental pecker contest! Well, Captain Vinton, you should have at least taken the time to find out if Jim had an alibi! You could have saved yourself and your men some major dick loss here, since I was just down in the morgue, and I know enough about bodies to know that she hasn't been dead that long, and I know exactly where Jim has been for the last 12 hours, at least!"

He stopped to take a deep breath, and Simon held up his hand before he could start back up. "And since when is a murder a vice case?"

That made Vinton's eyes shift away. "Like you said, prostitute. Asked Homicide to let us start it out, since a john was the most likely suspect."

"More like some uniform trying to get in good with a captain told you who you might get a chance to bust." Simon said crossly. Interdepartmental politics drove him to distraction, and Vinton had been currying just that kind of competition since taking Vice. "In any case, Sandburg is right. You jumped the gun and you know it."

Something about the way Vinton half turned alerted Blair even through his fatigue. "What else did you do, Captain?" he asked simply.

"Don't tell me you sent units after him, Vinton." Banks said flatly, actually making the menace behind the words more real by that.

"Standard procedure for a warrant," the other officer said uneasily.

"Now you worry about procedure!"

Re-grouping, Vinton shot back, "Maybe you should worry more about the fact that no one can find the son-of-a-bitch. Not answering his phones, not at his address, not at any of his usual hangouts."

Ice hard terror threaded through Blair, and he made for the door at top speed. Vinton nailed his forearm as he went past, almost dislocating Blair's arm. "Sit. You're not going off to warn your partner, and since you obviously know where he is, if you don't want to be a guest in one of Cascade PD's finest cells, you'd better talk."

So focused on getting to Jim, he couldn't respond, Blair dug in his heels and yanked out of Vinton's grip. Before he went farther, Simon intercepted him with a placating hand in the center of his chest. "Sandburg," he said calmly, then pressed to urge him back toward his chair. To Vinton, he said as calmly, but with real anger on his face. "Touch him or threaten him again, we'll have a private talk with the mayor, *Captain.* And by the time I've told her a few things I know about this case - like being able to verify at least part of Ellison's alibi - your professional credibility will be non-existent. If not your job.

"If you really want Sandburg's help, I suggest you *ask* for it, because, and I realize this may be a bit of stretch for you, he'll do what's right."

Whirling around in small circle, as if he couldn't decide whether to stalk out of the room or turn the confrontation with Banks into a physical one, Vinton opened and closed his mouth several times. "Just like that he'll help us find Ellison?" he shouted.

From behind them, in his best impassive professional voice, Jim said. "He would. But it isn't necessary." Walking into the room, he handed his gun and badge to Simon, shutting out Vinton as though he didn't exist. "Sir? I understand there's a warrant out for me. I'd like to turn myself in."
 
 

Between the pre-dawn hour and the normal Cascade overcast, the loft was filled with an uncertain gray light when Jim and Blair made it home from the precinct. During the ride, he had filled Simon and his partner in on overhearing the uniforms who came to pick him up, learning about the witness and the warrant. The officers had given their home only a cursory check, apparently not going into Blair's room because it was locked on the outside.

Once they were gone, he had broken out as easily as Blair had once predicted he could and dressed, calling a cab to get to the department. Certain of his own innocence, he had been able to match Blair's carefully edited version of how he had spent the past 12 hours, and Vinton's witness had not been able to pick him out of the line up.

By the time the paper work on that had been waded through, the Vice captain plainly annoyed at the state of things, Dan had sent up the autopsy reports. Skin under Merrileigh's fingernails proved Jim could not have been the killer - preliminary blood type was wrong. Jim had commented placidly, after having seen the body and giving it his own unique once over, that questioning Merrileigh's father might be useful, then provided the name. Swearing heatedly, Vinton had stomped away, leaving three very exhausted men barely standing behind him.

The impassive facade Jim had managed until then fractured around the edges, but he held it together because his partner was almost visibly vibrating from the stress. Simon took one look, summoned patience and strength from some hidden reserve, and volunteered to take them home.

Giving his captain one last thought, edged with prayers, Jim put his key in the basket and took a hard look around the loft. Dusty, neglected, it looked as if it had been abandoned months ago. The only signs of life were a few dishes in the sink and a towel half in and half out of the bathroom door. Upstairs, where Blair had been keeping his clothes, he could see glimpses of chaos and actually smiled at it. It was, at least, some hint that he hadn't totally overwhelmed his partner with his selfishness.

Shoving the shame away - he didn't have the luxury of dealing with it right now, Blair was more important - he looked over his lover as well. The smaller man reflected the general state of the loft very well, looking as forlorn and forgotten as it did. His hair was dry, lifeless and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of weariness that was cell deep.

Which wasn't stopping him from almost scurrying from one side of the living room to the other, clearly torn between opposing demands in his own mind. Resolutely turning his back on the gray room, Jim waited patiently, marshalling his strength, trying to tune into his partner, to *sense* his way into Blair's distress and conflict. Tracking him, feeling all the nuances of scent, sound, presence, he watched his lover, waiting to see what Blair needed. And if he had the courage to provide it.

Blair's movements grew more and more violent, but at the time more self contained, as if he was directing all of his energy inward. With an abrupt sense of surety, Jim knew that was a mistake, the mistake he made, turning in on himself instead of opening, facing his forbidden words. Mumbling to himself, his path expanding out, going closer and closer to the loft door, Blair almost ricocheted through the room.

When at last his trek took him close enough, he suddenly exploded, both verbally and physically. "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't,' he chanted, voice raising into a shout. He scrabbled for the door handle, but before he could turn it, Jim was on him, only intending to put himself between Blair and leaving.

It was the trigger, the target Blair needed. His fists flew, small, hard and powerful, and it took all of Jim's skill and strength to block most of the blows. The rest he endured; he deserved each hit. Hearing in his head Blair plead brokenly, "Don't make me leave," and seeing that his lover wasn't even trying to get past him, Jim acted on his heart. Hooking a foot behind the smaller man's calf, he took Blair's feet out from under him, catching and rolling with him. It put the impact of the fall on his back, and ended with Blair pinned under him, his weight holding the other man in place.

Through the tumble, Blair kept yelling and pummeling, making Jim catch one wrist and slowly force it over the tossing head of his partner as soon as they landed. A minute later he did the same to the other wrist, and lifting slightly, put enough of his weight on them to hold them there while he reached for the rope he saw a few feet away, where Simon had thrown it earlier.

Riding out Blair's frantic bucking, he looped the cord around the support then tied his partner's hands with it, leaving them outstretched over his head. Carefully he scooted back, using his weight to keep Blair flat on the floor, and undid his lover's belt. Pulling it free of the loops, he absently pet the heaving abdomen, then maneuvered himself farther down, undoing his own belt this time. Corralling Blair's well-muscled legs was hard and took several tries, but eventually he had one belt holding the ankles together, with the other fasten it to another support.

Sitting squarely over the still combative man's groin, he took a second to survey his handiwork, checking through each of his senses continually to be sure of his lover's condition. The differences between fear, pain, despair, and hatred in voice, face, and scent were so small, but in Blair he could read them reliably, and he depended on that skill now to guarantee he was not misjudging the desperate man's needs.

For now he had to have this catharsis of furious battle, and under it, Jim believed, was a more important need that Blair might not be aware of himself, yet. Shrugging out of his jacket, then pulling off his sweater, he put them under Blair for padding and warmth from the cold floor. Then he set to work on the front buttons of his partner's shirts, shaking his head in amusement at the number he had to get through to find skin. Once he did, he tugged them as far off as the bound hands would allow, leaving the bunched fabric covering the angrily (nervously?) clenching hands.

It left Blair bare from forearm to stomach, exposing the soft undersides of his arms and the downy pits. The line from hip to elbow was so clean, so pure, Jim froze in place and admired it until a shiver rippled over the pale flesh. With an apologetic smile, he quickly undid his own shirt, leaving it on but hanging open, and laid down gingerly on the cooling chest.

Blair's sharp intake of breath held shock and pleasure, and Jim positioned his weight as comfortably as he could, so he could warm his mate without crushing him. All the fight in the smaller man was concentrated into tension now, a defiance that raised its proud chin and said very clearly to Jim, 'make me.' Scenting again to make absolutely sure he didn't smell fear, Jim began his campaign to do precisely that.

The first step was tiny, but critical. With delicate fingers, he began to card the tangled mass of curls flung about Blair's shoulders. Almost an individual hair at a time, he smooth out the knots and snarls, spreading them into a corona around the wide-eyed face. Blair tried to remain stiff under his administrations, but by the time the last lock was swept back, his lids were heavy and languid, and his head moved easily with the tugs on his curls.

With a contented sigh, Jim lowered his head to nuzzle at Blair's temple, resisting the temptation to do more just yet. "Better?" he murmured. "Or do you still need to fight? Not that it matters, Dear One. You're still going to get raped again tonight."

"Like fuck I am," Blair snapped breathlessly, body bunching and flexing for renewed battle.

Laughing softly, directly into the white shell of his ear, Jim disagreed, "Like fuck I *will,* Dear One. For all that you'll try harder than last time not to gobble up every touch, every lick, every thrust, you know how good it is now. What I can do to this beautiful, beautiful body. Part of you wants it already." He bumped his hip into the hardening shaft hidden under Blair's jeans.

For an answer his Guide reared back as much as possible and spit in his eye.

Delighted, Jim laughed again and dried the moisture on his captive's hair. "For that, Dear One, I'm going to make you beg for my dick up your ass."

"In your dreams," Blair ground out, twisting and pulling on the rope holding his wrists.

"Ah, no, in *yours,*" Jim whispered, keeping his lips so close to his companion's cheek that the motion of the words tickled. "You dream about me finding you again, tormenting you again, pleasuring you again."

Leaning on one arm and side, he began to map the elegant features of his lover with his free hand. Under his feather light touch the brow relaxed marginally, the eyelids trembled, the bristled jaw and cheeks moved with a convulsive swallow, and he praised it all with hushed compliments that sent warm drafts of his breath over and into his lover. When he reached the luscious mouth he paused, lifting his head to met the dark blue eyes staring at him inscrutably.

"Such a perfect mouth," he murmured. "Inviting, lush. Have to fuck it tonight, Dear One." Tapping it with a forefinger, testing its softness, he breathed, "Oh, yes, have to have these wrapped around my cock."

The only warning he got was a sweep of tension racing through Blair, but it was enough. He snatched his finger away, smiling, as the bound man bit at it. "Temper, temper." he mock chastised.

"Put anything in my mouth of yours, and I'll bite it off," Blair blustered.

"I'll remember that," Jim promised still smiling. "But I think I'll get the first bite in." He burrowed into the curve of Blair's neck, found the junction where it met the shoulder, and sucked. Under him, Blair went still, even his restless hands ceasing their struggle. It was all internal now, Jim knew, and he once again cycled through his senses, making sure of Blair's pleasure.

Telling himself that if Blair truly didn't want it, he would be talking a mile a minute, his scent would change, he began to dust his fingertips over the soft underside of Blair's arm, down the line he had been admiring earlier. Worrying and kissing the neck strongly, in direct contrast, he followed the flow of muscles until he bumped into the jeans.

Without pausing, he rolled, transferring his weight so he could free his other hand and repeat his caresses on the other side. When he found the waistband again, he raised himself onto his forearms, no longer worried Blair would get cold. The heat roaring off both them made it unlikely.

Sparing a second to grin wickedly and visually check the ropes to make sure they were confining without hurting, he began nuzzling the firm chest and stomach randomly, keeping the contact teasingly indistinct. Avoiding the pebbled nipples, he added an occasional hard, suckling kiss, going so far as to imprint one on the quivering navel. Rubbing his face over the steely length imprisoned under the pants, he bit at it once, carefully, then painted a line of licks straight up to Blair's breast bone.

Looking up, he saw Blair had his head back, eyes closed, and his Adam's apple was bobbing with stifled sounds. Waiting patiently until Blair's eyelids flickered up, he tauntingly stuck out the tip of his tongue, and gently rested it on one aching nipple. Blair couldn't help himself; he moistened his own lips, moving them in silent entreaty.

Giving into it, Jim tackled the nub roughly, drawing it completely into his mouth all at once. Blair's groan spilled, his back arching up involuntarily to shove the little tit closer. Releasing it, Jim darted to the other, giving it a single hard suck as well, then he returned to the first. Switching back and forth until Blair was moaning continuously, he loved and bit them, his own hips rocking to match the pattern.

When Blair was helplessly doing the same, he stopped, and forced himself to stand to quickly strip. Kneeling by the suddenly wary man, Jim cautiously undid the zipper and lowered Blair's pants. Hiding a grin, he took the small tube he'd expected to find in them from a pocket and set it aside before leaving the jeans tangled around Blair's ankles.

"Do you have any idea how lovely you look like this?" he asked softly. "Stretched out, vulnerable, naked, erect? How could you not expect me to take you?" In one long, smooth, liquid motion, he ran his hand from the outside of Blair's calf all the way up the outside of his thigh, ribs, arm, to his tied wrists, then down again on the other half. His touch was sure and tender, and Blair cried out once through pinched shut lips.

"Lovely," he said again. Sighing, he swiftly turned and knelt astride Blair's head, letting his cock bob gently right over his lover's face. Taking his time, letting Blair anticipate his move, he went on all fours over him, positioning his own mouth inches above the swollen cock standing straight up from Blair's crotch.

Peering between them to make sure he was out of reach, he buried his face in the fragrant curls surrounding the base of the shaft. Hot, moist, redolent with musk, the area tantalized, tempted, and Jim lost himself in tasting, mouthing the springy flesh and downy balls. Under his lips he could feel the accumulation of fluids, heralding Blair's need to come, and he let the straining shaft stroke over his cheek once, before raising back up.

Gracing the seeping eye of Blair's cock with a tiny closed-mouth peck, Jim looked back down his body and tentatively brushed the head of his own tool over Blair's half-open lips. They shut, primly, making him grin, and he swooped down to swallow his lover's hard on down to the root. Before Blair could even cry out, he released it completely, and waited.

"Damn you." Blair groaned out harshly. "I won't."

Again Jim took him, suppressing the shaking in his middle ruthlessly, and letting go before Blair could thrust. This time he licked away the fluid coming out of the head, deftly dodging Blair's attempt to bury it in his mouth. "Won't. Won't." The words were pleading, now, and Jim took advantage of the opening for them to dip in enough to give Blair his flavor, too.

Turning away stubbornly, Blair refused more than that, though his tongue flicked out over and over his lips. Lust rumbling through him, Jim deep throated the swaying tower, swallowing around it once to massage the head.

With a wail, Blair broke and angled his head back to let Jim fuck his face. Expertly, voraciously, he milked Jim's dick with tongue and lips, his hips lifting high to fill Jim's waiting throat. Much as he wanted to do it forever, Jim permitted only so much, then reluctantly stopped and withdrew.

Blair's whimper of frustration spiraled straight into his gut, and he almost relented. But the ragged edge of his lover's breathing and his own trembling limbs convinced him they wouldn't be able to complete the act more than once, tonight. And he had to give his Dear One his seed; tonight that tight pucker had to be taken.

Composing himself, he licked one hipbone in farewell, turned to lay beside the panting, sobbing man. Turning Blair, he spooned up behind him, one arm going over his chest, erection nestling between his pale cheeks.

"Hush, hush," he crooned, rocking them both a little. "Hush. I know you have to come, Dear One, I know you need it. Easy, my own, easy." Retrieving the lube from where he left it, he hurriedly covered his fingers and smoothed two of them over the tight portal. Blair lurched back, almost instinctively, and Jim put the very tips in, working the gel into the opening.

Then he held his hand still, un-noticed by Blair, and let the pumping hips inch the fingers inside until the hot hole had taken them up to the knuckles. Scissoring and stretching the digits, he opened his lover, reining in his desire sharply at the feel of the soft tissues clinging. Withdrawing, hardening his heart at Blair's whimpers, he covered his dick with ky and rubbed it over the hot hole. "Want this?" he growled. "Want to have that hungry channel plowed, Dear One? Want to be used now?"

Blair tried to hold still, to calm his body, but Jim gave him no respite. Leaving his rod pressed against, but not in, he took Blair's cock in hand and squeezed just under the head. "Tell me, *ask* me," he commanded, moving along the throbbing length once.

"No," but it was a pathetic shadow of Blair's defiant words from earlier.

"Beg for it, Dear One. Beg to be taken, fucked, raped." Jim breathed into his ear, his busy hand alternating between languid strokes of Blair's erection and pinching an aching nipple. "Beg."

Squirming back, then away as if worried that would be mistaken for another way to ask, Blair writhed in his arms, mouth open to drag huge gulps of air in. "Nnn.." Blair gasped. Jim dug in a bit, letting his cock head press hard against the spasming bud. "n..." Jim moved away completely, and Blair chased after him, trying to recapture the source of his torment. "Jim! Damn, DAMN! JIM! PLEASE! FUCK ME! PLEASE! FUCKMEFUCKMEFUCKME..."

Jim slammed home on the first plea, plunging in and out of his lover's fiery body in time to Blair's words. Both of them quaked with the impacts, and still Blair tried to shove back harder, get the huge tool in deeper. Driving in frantically, unable to stop now, Jim made a loose tunnel with his fist, sending Blair's shaft into it each time he rammed into his mate. By accident Blair bent slightly, changing the angle, and Jim hit the gland hidden in the wall, making Blair practically twist out of his arms, screaming in ecstasy and spraying semen over Jim's hand and his own belly.

Freed by Blair's climax, Jim let go his own, biting Blair's shoulder and trying to force himself deeper into his lover. "Can't get away from me," he muttered, spasmodically thrusting to drain the last dregs of pleasure and seed. "Take you anytime I want, make you love it, make you *beg* for it, Dear One. Make you mine."

Blair's answer was a last attempt to release more come, a feeble shove back and a tiny sound of happiness.
 
 

The first thing Blair saw when he woke to the early evening sunlight was the black rope knotted around his wrists, the ends trailing over the side of Jim's big bed. For a long time he stared at it, mind and heart tumbling end over end, and finally, he simply sat up, scooting all the way to the head of the bed.

"Good morning, sorta." Jim's words were very matter of fact, but he kept his head down as he climbed the rest of the way up the stairs with a breakfast tray.

The sight of a tall glass of OJ hit Blair's thirst, it's screech overriding any other consideration at that second. Greedily he reached for it, and Jim angled to make it easier to grab. Setting the tray aside, he perched on the edge of the bed and steadied Blair's hands while he gulped the juice. When the glass was empty, he wordlessly took it, refilled it, and helped his partner drink from it again.

Thirst finally quenched, Blair lowered the drink and let Jim take it. Not able to meet the big man's eyes, he restlessly looked around the room, not really seeing it. Several quick glances showed that Jim was in the same shape, save that he was studying his own hands where they rested in his lap.

Something about the implied meekness of folded hands zinged at Blair, and he tried to say ironically, "My turn to be the love-slave, huh?" It came out sad.

Jerking his head up, Jim looked at him blankly, then reached over to the nightstand and took a sharp knife from it. Moving slowly, he put the edge under the knots and cut them off. The rope fell to the sheets, snaking across it limply, and Jim put away the knife to take one of Blair's chaffed wrists in his palm. Tenderly he massaged at the skin around it, watching his fingers as they worked.

"Too tired to cut them off last night, Chief," he explained. "And it seemed too risky to cut them off while you were sleeping and didn't know to hold still."

"Oh." Not knowing what else to say, Blair visually bounced around the room again rather than look at the top of Jim's head while his companion played with his hand. This time what he saw soaked in; the room had been tidied and a stack of laundry was on the top of a chest waiting to be put away. A quick check over the railing showed that progress had been made on the rest of the loft.

Jim's earlier words soaked through, too, and Blair jerked back to catch the other man peering up at him through his lashes. "Chief... you haven't called me that since..." he said slowly.

"Simon introduced you to Hell Man. Yeah, I remember." Jim confessed.

"All of it?" Blair asked.

Letting go of one of Blair's hands to take up the other Jim nodded, eyes still focused on his task. "It's still hitting me, but, yeah, most of the pieces are in place, I think."

"What happened?" Blair asked neutrally, not sure what he felt, but wanting to hide it anyway.

Letting him know that he saw through the pretense by lowering his head even more, almost brushing against the bare shoulder in front of him, Jim answered just as neutrally. "I couldn't protect you. Last night, Simon came in and took you away, hurt you and I didn't even know you were in danger until he did."

The import of their conversation didn't stop Blair from giving a small smile and quipping, "You can't blame yourself for that, man. You were kinda tied up." Jim gave a puff of a laugh, and Blair went on more seriously, "Not to mention you had no reason to think he was a danger; you trust him."

"I know, Chief, I know. It's just that..." He paused, letting their joined hands drop in his lap, his palm still cradling the back of Blair's. "It's happened to me before, you know. I kept flashing on that after you left, seeing you and then not you, then blood..." He took a deep breath, and Blair waited, feeling instinctively that Jim wanted to tell him everything.

"When I started in vice," Jim began softly, "I was so damned tired of stuffing myself into other people's expectations. It got to the point where I was doing things, stupid things, just because I wasn't supposed to want to do them, or because I'd been told not to. For a while there, I was pretty crazy, I guess.

"I met Christopher while I was undercover. He was supposed to show me how to act like a Dom because somebody was killing people who were into that. I came off all attitude, but he flirted with me, made me laugh, didn't care about how wild I was acting or my job or anything but *me,* you know, Chief? First friend I'd had in a while, and for the first time in my life I thought maybe a guy could be more than a friend."

Jaw tight, Jim stopped, and Blair could see him begin to control his breathing. By now he had recognized Christopher's name as the man who had been killed in front of Jim in that last bad Vice assignment, and had a good idea what was to follow. Hurting for his lover, not sure how much he wanted to know, he kept listening.

"Anyway," Jim practically blurted, forcing the words out, "We were doing a scene, and I let him talk me into subbing for the first time, and the client, someone he trusted, ah, shit, Sandburg, it was too late after I got free to stop his death. He died because I was indulging in petty rebellion instead of doing the job.

"It could have happened again last night. *You* could have died because I was thinking of nothing but myself. And from the looks of things," he swept a tender thumb over Blair's jaw, "it's been going on way too long."

He started to stand, face filled with self-disgust, but Blair put pressure on the hand under his, and hitched forward so that their knees touched. Almost panting, Jim let the action restrain him, though his long form became painfully rigid. "You loved him, Jim?" Blair asked to draw him back to him verbally, as well.

Jim's head shot up, surprise at the question clear on his features. Then his eyes clouded and became distant, though some of the tension in his body left. "I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe I was learning to. When he died, it was like something in me died, too, corny as that sounds. My heart, maybe; I've felt so empty and used up since then. I swore I'd quit fighting, let Jack shape me into the image of a good, straight, conservative cop. Never again *be* anything but that image."

Hearing Jim's melancholy words, ***Why did you have to find this old whore now, dear one? When I'm too used up and empty to be more than a living dildo for you?*** drift through his mind, Blair shuddered. His reaction made Jim try to move away again, head dropping as did. Taking advantage of that, Blair leaned forward until their foreheads were touching, holding him in place.

"I can see why you remembered, I guess. But, Jim, why did you forget?" he asked softly.

"I wanted to," Jim mumbled. "Part of me knew how, I've done it before, so I tried to on purpose."

"That's not an answer." Blair scolded gently. "What happened that was so terrible you had to forget it?"

"Not terrible," Jim denied with a half shake of his head, "Painful. So painful..." Gulping, he began explaining woodenly, "Everyone I've ever needed has left me, no matter what I said or did. Saying 'I love you' or 'please don't go' never got me anything but pity or anger or... " He cut himself off, shrugged. "I didn't want to need again, didn't want to step outside the image, but I did, so I tried to make myself forget, but it was too late. I'd made love to you, had you inside me, carried the feel of you inside and out. I tore myself into pieces trying to erase the memories I thought made it up, but the feelings, the hunger was still there. You were still there, even when I didn't know *who* you were, only that I was yours."

That went straight through Blair, putting Jim's actions after that first disastrous time into a revealing light. Blair bumped foreheads once, encouraging his partner, wanting to hear the rest.

Shyly Jim leaned into Blair's space a little more, diminishing the distance between them. "Weird; when we lived on the street, it never occurred to me that you would leave and not come back. But once we were home... I had to keep you with me, and the only way I had to do that was with the sex. If I was submissive, dependent on you, you had to keep coming back. "

"Oh, God," Blair breathed. "Oh, God. And I needed you so bad I didn't question why you were doing it. I was afraid to, afraid it would stop and I'd go back to hopelessly hungering for you."

Wincing, Jim began a soothing rubbing of Blair's palms. "I let you carry both of us, too afraid to really look at see what I was doing. Last night... Last night was a promise, Chief, to take care of you, give you what you need. I don't want you to have to do more than your share anymore."

Slowly, so slowly, Blair turned his hand in Jim's until they were palm to palm, fingers entwined. "So, where do we go from here?"

"I don't know," Jim said honestly. "Back to the department, back to the street, back to our room downstairs if that's what we want. But that's what it's got to be, Chief. What *we* want, what we work out together."

"Together." Blair brought their joined hands up, kissing Jim's as his lover kissed his. "Yeah, we can do that."

"Yeah, I think we can."

The End