My name is Blair Sandburg, my mother, Naomi, loves me very much, and Jim will find me. My name is Blair Sandburg, my mother, Naomi, loves me very much, and Jim will find me. My name....
Chanting the words over and over in his head in time to the beat of his heart, Blair rocked against the unforgiving steel of the cage, clutching the images the words provoked with all his strength. In the infinity of silent, dark pain that he suffered through, the internal sound of his mantra and heart were all he had to hang onto, though their actual meaning had been lost an eternity ago. Vaguely, he knew that somewhere in the recesses of his drugged and starved mind he could understand them if he wanted, but it was important that he not. The why to that had been lost, too, but it didn't matter.
What mattered was: My name is Blair Sandburg, my mother Naomi loves me very much, and Jim will find me. My name....
The minor clicking and snicks that heralded the next round of agony crashed through his mental litany, but all he did was curl in tighter on himself, locking his arms around his knees, hiding his face in the 'v' of his arms. My name is Blair Sandburg... A woman's soft laugh made him shudder, lose his place for a split second, but he doggedly picked it up again. My mother Naomi loves me very much.... The first stab of the needle came, but he was too used to it to care much. It was the burning of the fluid inside it that he dreaded. And Jim will find me.
In the last tiny corner of his sanity, his voice pleaded, "Please, Jim, soon. Soon."
* * *
Giving the homeless man a look so evil, he staggered away crossing himself, Jim let his truck coast forward another hundred yards. Bracing himself, he savagely twisted all his dials up yet again, sorting automatically through the deluge for what he wanted. Once he was sure there was no trace of Blair in the flood, he dropped them all again, trying not to pass out from the strain. When his head stopped reeling, he let the truck glide forward another hundred yards and repeated the process.
Dimly, he was glad Banks hadn't found out he was doing this. At the very best, his captain would order him not to, to stay at home and get some rest. The entire department was doing the best it could to find his missing partner, and it was pointless for Jim to be out every night, all night, making like some super-human bloodhound in a futile attempt to find some trace of Sandburg.
At the very worst, he'd have Jim hospitalized for a psych evaluation. And Jim wasn't so sure he shouldn't have one. On some level of his soul, he knew Blair was in deep trouble and that he was still in Cascade. But he had no evidence to convince Simon of that, and when it had been suggested a time or two early on, gently or jokingly depending on the person, that maybe Blair was just shacking up or had taken off for an impromptu trip, all Jim could do was shake his head. His conviction that Sandburg wouldn't desert him without warning was based on more than their friendship or even their partnership, but he couldn't very well explain that he was a sentinel and Blair was his shaman and guide.
So, every night he cruised the streets of Cascade, looking for some sensory sign of his friend and roommate, all because of a single clue found by Sentinel-keen senses almost by accident. He had tried dialing up Blair's cell phone early on the day he went missing, and it had rung endlessly. On impulse, he'd dialed again after Sandburg hadn't turned up, just in case he had been over-reacting in being so worried, and he had simply forgot to tell him of a change in plans. Another person's cell phone had gone off at the same time, reminding Jim of the echo he'd picked up any time he'd call someone physically within range of his hearing.
With that tidbit of knowledge in mind, Ellison had driven out to the university, punched in Blair's cell number, let it ring three times, then disconnected to try again a few blocks away. Eventually, more by luck than anything else, he was sure, he'd heard the echo, and found Blair's phone in a dumpster, along with all his clothes, pack, and other possessions he normally carried. It was enough evidence to kick a search into high gear, despite the occasional doubt as the days passed and no other leads turned up. There were no ransom demands, no perpetrators from previous cases out on bail or escaped from jail, no bad guy calling up to gloat that he had Ellison's partner.
Just a missing Sandburg, and Jim's hope that somehow his senses could provide him with what he needed to locate him. Starting with the dumpster where Blair's things had been found, Jim spiraled out in tight circles, traveling only at night to minimize the impact of other people on his sensory input. In the six days Sandburg had been gone, the sentinel had covered most of that part of the city and was beginning to worry he had missed something and should start over. One thing was for certain; Jim had run as far as he could in this direction. Two more blocks and all there would be was the harbor.
Jaw muscle bouncing manically with tension, he drove to the next intersection, spun his dials all the way up, sorted, and sat bolt upright in his seat. A door had opened, there had been a burst of vaguely Blair-like sound, the door had shut, and now a woman was walking away from that door, toward him. On the wind he scented not only her, but a pungent whiff reminiscent of his partner, and he automatically parked the truck to let her pass. Police procedure forgotten, he stealthily left his Ford and prowled after her.
There was nothing particularly exceptional about her, except for her size. Dressed in the barely not-rags of a coat and jeans that fit into this neighborhood, she was taller and more pumped up than the average woman. She wore her bleached blonde hair practically sawed off at the skull, close to the buzz cut that Jim favored. It wasn't until she took her hands out of her pocket to unlock a junky Dodge, that he saw the prison tattoos on her knuckles that marked her as potential hired muscle. Waiting for her to get distracted by opening the door and putting her purse inside, Jim pounced, knocking her unconscious and easing her into the vehicle, nearly in one move. Quickly, he rifled through her pockets, finding nothing of interest, except a key on its own ring that he hoped would be to the door he'd heard open and shut.
Leaving her locked in her car, handcuffed to the steering wheel and slumped down to be unseen by passersby, Jim backtracked along her trail, finding her exit without much trouble. The trace of Blair's scent was there as well, changed though it was, and much stronger.
Head pressed against the metal, he had to concentrate his hearing far more than he should have for a warehouse door. Soundproofed? Maybe. There wasn't much from inside: a repetitive creak, whispering footsteps, and an occasional muffled cry of pain. The voice for the latter was recognizably Blair's, but Jim controlled his urge to dash in until he was sure there was only one other person in there with him.
He eased inside silently, not alerting the occupants of the room. Immediately he plastered his back to the wall beside the door, hand on the knob to keep it from slamming locked. Even for him it was nearly impossible to see; the darkness was that complete. The large space - eighteen feet square, at least - was empty, except for one chair, an animal cage suspended at waist height in the middle of it, and a woman who might have been a clone of the first, wearing night-vision glasses and tiptoeing around the cage. As Jim watched, she hurriedly poked her hand through the bars, apparently at random, and pinched the huddled man in the middle.
Grinding his teeth so hard he could feel the enamel give, Jim forced himself to wait. That it was Blair she was tormenting he had no doubt; it was whether or not she was armed that bothered him. Once he started moving, there would be no way for her to miss his presence, and he couldn't risk her killing her victim before he took her out. One way or another.
She slithered into a different position, this time punching her naked prey, grinning both maliciously and triumphantly when he gave a muffled yelp. But her movement showed Jim all sides clearly; her only weapon was her vicious temperament. Again, he waited, this time until her back was completely to him, and then jumped her. She went down as easily as the first, but two of them clattered into the chair, spilling the syringes and bottles sitting on it. At the crash, Blair shot into a sitting position, grabbing the bars over his head and pulling himself up, lifting off the bars of the cage floor to hook into the top ones to get as far away as he could from the new threat. He twisted his head continuously, eyes wide and terrified, uselessly trying to see into the inky blackness.
"Easy, buddy, easy," Jim said softly, getting up after giving a cursory check to be sure the woman was out. Despite the fact he knew his partner couldn't see him, he moved slowly, instinctively gearing himself to deal with a man out of his mind on fear and drugs. "Easy, only me, Chief. Only me." He kept talking as he drew close enough to the cage door to open it, picking the simple lock in a matter of seconds.
Blair tried to back farther away, wedging himself into an upper corner. Jim reached in as far as he could, hoping to calm with touch, but Blair was beyond his reach. Reluctantly, he gave up and looked around the room, spotting the button to the winch suspending the cage from the ceiling. "I found the hoist switch and I'm going to lower the cage, okay, Blair? I'm going to walk to the wall, then you'll hear the winch start and feel it drop. Don't panic if it lurches a little at first."
There was no answer, not even a movement that could be interpreted as Blair listening to him. Keeping up the dialogue if only to give the terrified man a reference of his location in the blackened room, Jim did as he said he was going to, glad that the cage fell slowly. Again, Blair gave no visible reaction other than to begin to shake violently.
Taking out his cell phone, Jim called for back-up and paramedics, double-checked the woman, then crept in with his friend, all the while talking, talking.
Not sure what else to do, he carefully laid his fingers on Blair's closest ankle, feeling for the pulse out of habit. Bad, racing erratically, Jim had time to discover, before Blair exploded into violent kicks and punches. Snatching his hand away and dodging with some effort, Jim retreated, waiting until he stopped fighting. He went back to murmuring soft reassurances, hoping that sooner or later his voice would sink through to what might be left of Blair's mind enough for him to identify it as Jim's. Eventually, breathing heavily, his partner calmed, staring into the dark warily. Long minutes passed, then Blair just as warily reached out with one hand, feeling his way along the floor.
Putting his hand in the path of Blair's, Jim somehow garnered the patience needed to let his friend take things at his own pace. Seconds later, Blair's fingers spidered over his, jerked away, then came back tentatively when nothing happened, feeling out the individual knuckles and lines of Jim's hand. Staying motionless, unintentionally holding his breath, the sentinel let the timid exploration go on, almost flinching when Blair's hand abruptly skated up his arm to find his face.
"Jim?" The combination of fear and hope in that single word nearly killed Jim, and he bowed his head to prevent Blair from feeling under trembling fingers the angry, worried words he was holding at bay with a locked jaw. Everything that had happened so far told him that Blair was in no shape to deal with anything but his own needs right now.
"Yeah, it's me, Chief," he finally managed to whisper.
"Jim?" The tone was wondering, half-joyful, and Blair carefully lifted his other hand to cradle Jim's between them.
Not knowing what else to do, completely beyond the capacity for words, he nodded, despite the darkness.
"Jim, Jim, Jim," Blair murmured, creeping close and laying his head on Jim's shoulder, hardly letting his weight rest there.
Moving as cautiously, Jim raised his arms, hoping Blair would interpret the movement correctly, and hugged the naked form to him, molding the trembling body until it was sitting across his lap. "Jesus, Sandburg," he muttered, "You're freezing here!"
Blair's answer was an audible sniff at the well of his collar bone, and a puff of warm air threaded under Jim's shirt, making Jim shiver strangely. Dismissing the weird feeling, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Blair, glad for the size difference that allowed it to almost completely cover the smaller man's torso. His partner gave another sniff, this time at the junction of Jim's neck and shoulder, nuzzled the spot, and repeated the action just under his ear. The same sweet chill hit Jim each time, and he lightly cupped the back of the moving head, putting barely enough pressure on it to tell Sandburg to stop.
With a sobbing sigh, Blair collapsed limply into Jim's warmth. Thinking he was unconscious, Jim gingerly felt along the lightly haired limbs, checking for breaks or open wounds, but found only a multitude of bruises and scratches, and the beginnings of pressure sores. Thinking that the latter had been caused by being forced to sit or lay endlessly on the bars, probably for the entire time he'd been held captive, Jim forced down a wall of rage, and concentrated on making his friend as comfortable as possible until help arrived.
The wait for the medics was both endless and too short. It was very comforting, after nearly a week of searching and worry, to hold the living weight of his shaman against him. The child-like innocence of Blair cuddling in an animal-driven need for heat created a tidal force of tenderness that easily countered Jim's stifled fury, which made the delay more bearable, as well.
It was the minute punctures dotting Blair's body, and the minor folds of sagging skin indicating that he hadn't been fed, that made Jim mentally curse the slowness of the EMTs' response and his own delay at finding him. From experience, he knew that starvation by itself could cause hallucinations, even unbalance an untrained mind. With the unknown drugs and physical torture added into the mixture, Jim was past worried for his guide. He was as close to terrified as he had ever been for his friend, or anyone else for that fact. It didn't help that though he had relaxed utterly, Blair's heartbeat and respiration were erratic.
By the time the officers and paramedic unit arrived, Jim was nearly homicidal, barking out orders as fast as he could, even while personally bundling Blair into the ambulance. Leaving the two suspects and the forensics work to the uniforms, he rode with his partner, blatantly ignoring the EMTs. They ignored him back, doing what little they could during the trip. At one point, Blair started to fight, digging at the IV in his arm, but Jim quieted him with more soft murmurs before the attendants even had a chance to reach for the restraints.
At the hospital, Jim geared up for a fight with officious medical people who didn't understand the priorities in this situation. Two seconds later he was short-circuited when the attending doctor took one look at the surviving bottles in the EMT's gloved hand and how Blair was clutching at Jim's sleeve, then ushered them into a room at the back of the ER.
"He's responding to you?" the tall, lanky man asked briskly.
"When he's aware. He's been drifting in and out," Jim answered shortly, daring him to make a case of it.
"Good. Keep him calm. Until we find out what he's been given, we can't risk more drugs, and using restraints would only make matters worse." The doctor called for the appropriate blood tests, listened to the brief descriptions from the medics and Jim on Blair's condition, nodding thoughtfully, doing his examination as they talked. Ordering the cop to stand by the head of the bed, the doctor did what was necessary, deftly maneuvering around the nurses putting on the monitors. Occasionally, Blair would pull away, or try to curl up, but Jim, bending over so that he could keep his lips near his ear, would whisper assurances and hold him steady.
A nurse, taking pity on a tall man bending for so long, found him a chair, and Jim sat gratefully, flashing her a smile in thanks. At last, they were all done, the doctor draped his stethoscope over his stooped shoulders, and lightly touched Blair's eyelids, waiting for them to slide up. "We can give you some topical ointment for the worse of the sores, Mr. Sandburg, and we're feeding you intravenously," he said clearly, precisely, as if that would allow his meaning to slice through Blair's daze. "You're in pretty good shape on the whole, but you'll feel a lot better when the drugs have run their course. I'm going to keep you down here until they've identified the contents of the hypodermics, in case we need to worry about withdrawal. Can you tell me if you were injected the entire time you were missing? Mr. Sandburg?"
Blair stared at him blankly, tilted back his head to meet Jim's eyes, then closed his own, sighing a little as he did. His chest began to rise and fall shallowly, but steadily. "Guess that's as much of an answer as I'm going to get," the doctor said dryly. "Detective Ellison, did he say anything to you that could help us?"
Slowly, Jim shook his head. "No, no, he didn't. In fact, he hasn't said anything but my name since I found him. Which is kind of odd; Sandburg's a talker."
"It's probably a form of shock, which he is very much entitled to. I take it you're going to stay here a while longer?"
Jim let his best impassive face answer for him, and he folded his arms over the edge of the mattress at the top of his partner's head. "Until he comes down, at least," he acknowledged.
"I'll warn the staff." With a last glance at the monitors, he left, not giving Jim a chance to ask exactly what he meant by that.
For the first time since Blair had vanished, Jim released his discipline fractionally and let himself feel how tired and hungry he was. He put his chin on his crossed arms, bypassing the monitors in favor of what he could sense for himself. The steady shwoosh of blood through the heart and veins, and unhurried flow of air into and out of lungs mixed hypnotically with the bleeps and whir of the machinery in the room. Thinking it couldn't hurt to rest his eyes, just for a second, Jim nodded off, his own deep respirations gently stirring the curls swirled over the white sheets.
An unmeasured time later, he leaped to his feet, automatically reaching for his weapon and Blair at the same time. His partner whimpered, trying to fold in on himself, and Jim put a steadying hand on his shoulder even as the sleep cleared from his mind. He blinked, lowered his gun slightly, blinked again, then growled, "Damnit, Simon, you should know better than to sneak up on me like that!"
Eying the gun dropping down to Jim's side, Simon barked, "I'm your captain, not a mind reader. How the hell was I supposed to know you'd dropped off?"
Scrubbing at his eyes with his fingertips, Jim re-holstered his gun. "Sorry, sir. I guess I'm still on edge," he said apologetically.
Looking at the bruises and sores marring Blair's skin, Banks gentled his own response. "I guess you have reason to be. Any explanation for how he wound up like this?"
"You talk to the uniforms or doctors, yet?" Jim lowered himself back into his chair tiredly, leaving his hand where it was. At his captain's head shake no and explanation that he'd been called by the E. R. admissions desk, Jim filled Simon in, not leaving out this time how he'd been searching for Blair or how he'd found him.
"Jim," Banks began quietly, earnestly, leaning over the hospital bed to poke a scolding finger in the general direction of his officer, "Damnit, you shouldn't have taken a risk like that! I know those neighborhoods! You could have zoned or gotten so wrapped up in your senses, you couldn't see a bad situation develop until too late!"
"Then you would have had the pleasure of identifying my body, if it was ever found," Jim said flatly. "Don't bother tearing me a new one, Simon; Sandburg will do it better and with more imagination when he finds out."
"Can I watch?" Banks bit out, chewing on his unlit cigar.
That forced out a partial smile. "You'll have to ask him when he wakes up, but I wouldn't be surprised if he wants to video tape it to add to his treasury of sentinel research."
Chuckling, Banks idly smoothed the sheet over one corner of the bed, letting go of some of his irritation. "Have to ask him to make me a copy. How much longer do you think before they take him upstairs?"
"Depends on what was in the bottles," Jim answered absently, trying to stretch a few kinks out of his neck.
Catching the action, Simon came around to stand beside him, waving at the door in dismissal. "Why don't you go for a walk, get a bite to eat, or at least, some coffee? I'll wait here until you get back, in case Sandburg wakes up."
"Not going to try to send me home?" Jim asked, smiling for real.
"Why waste the breath? Go on, get out of here and clear your head a little."
"I think I'll wait until they get back to us on those tests, Simon. But thanks." Shifting in his seat, Jim pretended he was perfectly at ease, but his captain wasn't fooled.
"Don't even try, Detective," he said dryly, using his 'boss' voice. "The next person who innocently comes through that door doesn't deserve to have his head shot off because you're cranky from being stiff and hungry. Get. Now. Consider it an order!"
Wavering, knowing Banks was making sense, but deeply unwilling to leave, no matter for how short a time, Jim scrounged for excuses. Then Simon softened in expression and tone. "I'll watch over him and call if he so much as rolls over in his sleep, okay?"
A sharp stab from his stomach put in the final argument, and Jim hefted himself out of his chair, wincing at the creak of his back as he did. "All right, all right, Simon. You win. I'll be back in ten minutes."
Simon made shooing motions, dropping into Jim's place behind him. "Too late for the hospital cafeteria. Isn't there an all-night diner a block or so away?"
"Want anything?" Jim asked automatically.
"Biggest cup of coffee they have. Morning's not far away and I get the feeling I'm not going to be going back to sleep tonight." Simon got comfortable and pulled out a magazine from the pocket of his overcoat. "Not the first missed sleep, either, thanks to you two."
Acknowledging the jibe with a fake grimace, Jim left, waving a hand as he did. He paused to orient himself, spotted the exit, and was almost through it when he heard a crash of metal and animalistic shouts from Blair's room. Spinning on his heel, he ran back the way he had come, passing nurses appearing to investigate the increasing racket in their hushed domain. Hurtling through the door, gun half-drawn again, he was amazed to find his partner standing in a corner of the room, brandishing an instrument tray at a totally bewildered Banks.
The huge captain had both hands up, patting at the air, saying calmly, "It's okay, kid, it's okay. It's Simon Banks. No need to panic, nobody's going to hurt you here."
If the pounding of Blair's heart or the wild look in his eyes was any indication, Sandburg didn't believe a word of that. And to Jim's trained eye, he was going to attack and attack ferociously. Jim threw himself between the two men, pinning Blair to the wall with his chest, catching his partner's arms between them, still holding the tray. He brought his own hands up, framing the frantically tossing head and forcing it to be still.
Then he waited wordlessly for the madly roving gaze to meet his own, willing Blair to look at him. The panicked man struggled weakly against him, trying to shove him away, but Jim dug in his heels, murmuring. "Shhh, shhh, Chief. I'm here, I'm here. No enemy, no needles, no pain, just me, shhhh, shhh."
At the sound of his voice Blair froze and finally returned his gaze. "Jim?" he asked plaintively.
"Yes, it's me, it's Jim."
"Jim." Blair sagged, nearly falling despite the pressure of Jim's body holding him up. "Jim."
"That's right, Jim." He manhandled his partner back toward the hospital bed, getting little assistance from Blair on the way.
Banks tried to help, reaching to take hold of the injured man's upper arm, but Blair shrank away violently, turning a desperate face up to his partner. "I don't think he wants you to touch him, Simon," Jim ground out, hoisting him onto the mattress. "What happened, anyway?"
Looking more baffled than Jim had ever seen his captain, Banks said, "All I did was pull the blanket up over his shoulders; he looked cold."
"Did he say anything?"
A nurse popped through the door, wearing a threatening face, and Jim scowled at her, tucking the blankets around his partner. She popped back out, but Jim knew it was only to bring orderlies and doctors back with her. Carefully looking over where the IV needle had been before Blair had ripped away from it, he pressed a clean piece of gauze he took from a nearby table onto the new wound.
Coming to stand beside the bed again, making sure he didn't get too close, Simon answered, "No, just scrambled off the bed, making that inhuman noise you heard."
Though he was not that near, Blair squirmed away from that part of his bed, almost falling off with the effort. Sure that the tip of the IV needle hadn't been left in, Jim bent over his friend, bringing them almost nose-to- nose. "Shhhh," he whispered, anxious to calm Sandburg before the people he heard coming up the hall arrived. "Shhh, Chief." The look of trust, confusion, fear, and weariness Blair gave him burned into the back of the sentinel's brain, but his guide listened to him, and settled down, one hand twisted into Jim's shirt at the shoulder.
His pupils were also extremely dilated, floating in tears, and Jim suddenly remembered how painful and blinding light could be for him after he'd been in the dark for a while. "Simon, can you hit the overhead? I'm an idiot; he was probably in that black hellhole nearly the entire time he was gone. Chances are he can't see a thing even if he weren't out of it."
With a soft curse, Simon did as asked, and Jim felt the soft moan of relief his partner made at the partial dimness. "Sorry about that, partner. Better?"
Not answering, Blair turned his head toward the door as several people came through it. Simon intercepted them, holding up his badge and asking for the doctor who originally worked on his friend. With a few words, he had the whole bunch back out in the hallway, and the door shut behind them. Blair watched all the way, then said questioningly, "Simon?"
Coming back to the bed, Simon grinned widely at him. "Now you recognize me. Pity you couldn't have done that before you terrified half the hospital staff."
"Simon," Blair said simply, giving a hint of his own smile in return. Letting go of Jim's shirt, he shrugged back under the blankets, yawned hugely, and went back to sleep as abruptly as he had awakened.
Over him, the two cops exchanged a worried and confused look, then Simon asked with forced casualness, "What do you want from that diner, Jim?"
Resigned, Jim righted the chair that had gotten overturned and slumped into it. "The usual, Simon, and take your time."
* * *
Two days later Blair stepped through the door to the loft, sighing loudly and happily as he did. Behind him, carrying the few things they'd brought from the hospital, Jim did the same, but without uttering a sound. For a while it had looked as if he were going to have to start a legal fight with the doctors. They had been reluctant to release his partner, citing that, given the condition he had been in when he arrived, two days was not enough time to recover.
While Jim conceded readily that they were right, he was positive that the busy, intrusive, annoying atmosphere of the hospital would slow Blair's return to health more than it would help. And he was desperate to get his Guide out of there before the medical staff discovered that their patient hadn't spoken to anyone since his arrival. If that happened, the psych ward would be the next step, and despite having his partner's medical power of attorney, Jim wasn't sure he could prevent it. Especially once the drugs used on him had been analyzed and proven to be an insane mixture of mescaline, hallucinogenics and sedatives apparently designed to drive a human out of his mind. No, it was better to remove Blair and decide for himself how deep his friend's silence lay.
Blair did smile in happy recognition of people he knew, responding to their hello with their names in a cheerful greeting of his own. But then he would feign being too sleepy or drugged to visit with them, withdrawing wordlessly behind closed eyes. Though he stopped blatantly fighting, he tolerated the administrations of the nurses and physicians with stoic endurance an army ranger could admire. Only his racing heartbeat gave him away, only to Jim, and it was only Jim's touch that he permitted. And he permitted that infrequently, with never with a word of either acceptance or rejection.
Jim accepted damage had been done, but was sure that the secure, peaceful surroundings of the loft would do far, far more to heal than any hospital, well- meaning therapist, or common psychiatrist could do. The comforts of home were what Sandburg needed in his opinion. If Blair's instantaneous grab for clothes when Jim offered them at the hospital was any indication, his partner agreed, too.
Unsurprisingly, his roommate arrowed straight toward the bath, shedding shirts as he went. Smiling ruefully, Jim trailed after him to pick them up and toss them in the hamper, deciding not to make an issue of it. He was as eager to get the stink of that place off as Blair was. That task done, he went into the kitchen to defrost and reheat some of the homemade soup from the freezer. Heeding the instructions to feed Sandburg small, frequent meals until he felt ready for more, Jim put bread in the toaster and checked the cupboards for the ingredients for similar fare.
Automatically he tuned in on Blair's progress, noting without thinking about it that Blair was moving carefully in the shower. A tendril of scent told him that hair was being washed, confirmed with the nearly ecstatic mmmmm's accompanying the smell of shampoo. It made sense to Jim. If he could get disgusted by how filthy *his* near stubble got, it must be a thousand times worse for someone with long curls. Of course, it probably felt great when it was clean. Nearly alive with softness and warmth, moving at the least excuse in gentle wafts....
From long habit that Jim no longer even subconsciously acknowledged, he pushed that train of thought below his awareness and headed for the fireplace. He doubted that Sandburg would be able to stay on his feet long enough to blow- dry, and all that wetness would chill him badly. A fire was called for. Putting it together satisfied some basic impulse inside him, too, like always, and for the first time since his partner vanished, most of his tension bled out. Deciding that he would go upstairs and catch up on his sleep as soon as Blair was taken care of, he yawned. That damn cot hadn't been good for more than catnaps, but at least he'd been able to talk the doctors into letting him stay in the room. Maybe now that he was home, Sandburg would sleep the night through, too, without waking to wide-eyed, shivering fright.
The bathroom door opened, and from the corner of his eye he saw Blair in his robe, leaning on the doorframe, obviously more than a little shaky on his feet. Watch was all he did. If Blair needed him he'd ask with a wry look, otherwise he got pissed off at being hovered over. Sure enough, in a moment or two he pulled himself upright and slowly walked down the hall, using the wall for support occasionally.
Leaving the cushions by the fire for him, Jim went into the kitchen to put the food on a tray and was surprised when his heat-seeking partner dropped onto the couch instead. Schooling it away from his features, he gave Blair the meal, receiving a sunny grin in exchange. Jim used a version of it on his own lips, and threw himself down onto the floor cushions, eyes already half closed.
The hush of the loft was broken only by the random sounds of eating, the snap and jitter of the fire, and the rare intrusion of noise from the outside world. Jim drifted in it, lazily watching the flames from under his lowered lids. The disciplined part of him kept trying to intrude with reminders of chores that needed done after a week of neglect and calls that should be made to the department to check on his caseload. For once he ignored it; peace was too precious.
Behind him he heard a contented sigh and he turned his head in time to see Blair set aside his dishes and put his arms over his head in a back-cracking arch. That sent his curls spilling over the back of the couch in a compelling pattern of dark onto light that Jim traced visually, almost becoming lost in it. On the verge of a zone that could be blamed as much on fatigue as the intriguing whorls, Jim yanked himself back, meeting Blair's eyes in mutual confusion.
"You're soaking the fabric, Sandburg," he complained roughly.
Instantly Blair dropped his eyes, contrition in his expression.
"I know," Jim answered, moderating his tone. "Too tired to dry it. Hang on." Not letting himself reconsider, he got up and went to stand behind Blair, snatching up one of the towels he had brought into the living room with him. With no more than that, Jim gathered up the dripping mass, gently squeezing and patting to soak up the wetness from it. There was a minute of startled breathing and stiffness, then Blair went with it, letting his head bob slightly on his elegant neck from Jim's pulls and tugs.
Intending to deal with it quickly, he found himself lingering over the job, distracted by the way strands kept escaping the towel to cling to his wrists and forearms. For such fragile bonds they had a powerful hold on him, and if Blair hadn't glided into slumber, Jim might have spent the evening enthralled by the delicate touch. As it was, when Blair slumped forward, pulling his hair free from Jim's hands, he stepped back abruptly, shaking his head hard.
Thinking that he *had* to have some sleep soon, if he was zoning that easily and that often, Jim picked up the dishes and took them into the kitchen to clean. While Blair napped he took care of the basics around the loft, then gratefully took his own shower. On the way out, he hesitated by the French doors to the small bedroom. Other than Simon dropping in for clothes for the trip home, it hadn't been entered all the while Blair had been gone. Though his partner probably wouldn't either notice or care, Jim didn't think it would be a good idea for him to sleep on the same dusty, dirty sheets left behind.
With a promise to himself and Blair that all he would do would be to freshen the bedding, Jim went in to do exactly that. Once done, he looked at the chaos on the floor, hesitated, then rationalized that it would be safer if Sandburg didn't have to worry about obstacles. Carefully keeping stacks intact and resolutely *not* straightening or tidying them, he cleared the floor as much as possible, setting a basket of clean laundry just inside the doorway, rather than take the chance of having it topple from an unsteady perch. That done, he stood in the middle of the space, fighting down the itch to work on the rest, and looked around to see if there were any other hazards a man weakened by illness might have to worry about.
In one corner of a shelf he noticed Blair's photo albums - one of the few personal possessions he had kept with him in all his moves. Remembering laying on his big bed with him and Naomi, laughing and talking about the people and stories behind the photos, Jim scooped two of them up on impulse and took them into the living room. Placing them on the coffee table where Blair would see them as soon as he woke, Jim noticed that the fire had died down considerably.
With a quick glance at Blair, who seemed fine hidden in his blankets, Jim decided to build it up anyway, so that the room would be warm when Blair woke up. He did so, and, as he stood dusting his hands, he realized the time. Blair really should eat some more soon, so instead of going upstairs to sleep, Jim went into the kitchen to make another meal, fixing enough for himself as well.
At times it occurred to him to wonder why he hadn't simply gone to bed, especially when his eyes burned and itched from his weariness. Always he shrugged it away as the natural restlessness that could set in from staying up too long. Puttering around in the kitchen until he heard the faint rustles that meant Blair was waking up, Jim put their meal on a tray, and was picking it up when he heard his friend crow in delight.
Blair had the albums hugged to his chest and was beaming a billion megawatts of happiness Jim's way. Refusing to consider that he'd been waiting and hoping for that reaction, he smiled back and came to sit by his friend. Close enough that he could see the photos himself, Jim ate and watched Blair try to split his attention between filling himself and flipping through the pages of the books. Disappointingly, he didn't talk about any of them, other than to point to individuals and name them with varying degrees of pleasure, nostalgia or off-hand recognition.
The meal, the warm fire, and the simple joy of seeing his friend looking so pleased did what common sense could not. Jim started falling asleep. When he caught himself from toppling over just before he could spill his cup of soup, he conceded defeat and stood, giving Blair a fast pat on the shoulder good night. Blair answered it by trapping that hand with his own for a second, lifting the album with a significant air to tell Jim thank you. With a nod of acceptance and a try at a smile before the yawn distorted it, Jim gave a last squeeze and headed upstairs.
Surprisingly, he didn't pass out as soon as he hit the sheets. Instead he had time to listen to his roommate roam around the loft, at one point taking clothes from the basket and dressing. Generally, though, Sandburg's travels seemed somewhat aimless to his way of thinking, Jim decided blearily before he finally lost the battle and slept.
In the small hours of the morning when even a sentinel has trouble hauling himself out of slumber, Jim rolled over and couldn't take his blankets with him as he did. It was enough of an annoyance that the sentry part of his senses that was *always* alert took notice and nudged at his conscious mind, waking it enough to wonder what was wrong. Without moving he automatically did a fast sensory survey of his home - and found nothing amiss. It wasn't until the same sweep told him that Blair wasn't where he should be that he jolted himself completely awake.
Sitting up, intending to pay closer attention to another check, he found something heavy was weighing his bed down, blocking the foot of it. He blinked, adjusted to the light level, and saw that it was Blair, tightly curled into a ball, fully dressed and out cold. "Chief?" he asked worriedly.
He didn't stir, not even picking up his breathing in response to his name.
"Come on, Sandburg. You've got your own room, and your own bed." He waited impatiently, then reached out to press his fingertips into the half hidden neck. Slow, steady - but the skin over it was much too cold for his taste. "Sandburg!" he barked, and gave a hard shove, but not even that did more than get his bedmate to mutter wordlessly into his own chest.
Resigned, half annoyed, Jim gave up. With a few judicious shoves and pushes, he got Blair into a better position for sharing the bed, and covered him without bothering to take off any of the layers he wore. As soon as the blankets hit him, Blair burrowed under them until only a few escaping locks could be seen. With a shake of his head completely negated by the soft smile he wore, Jim crawled back into bed himself, dug through the intervening material until he found a wrist and pulse to hang onto. He was asleep again almost before the next beat of the life under his fingertips.
* * *
Blair's eyes snapped open, taking in the brightly lit fabric over his head with just enough confusion to hold him steady while he puzzled out where he was. Only rarely did he sleep over at a lover's house, mostly preferring his own bed to morning-after awkwardness. It had happened often enough, though, that he was able to accept the strange location and wake himself completely without bothering his bedmate. Drawing a blank on who he was sleeping with, he cautiously pulled the comforter away from his face and found himself chest to nose with his sentinel.
His first reaction was a pure, heart wrenching emotion - one that he steadfastly refused to name. With bed head, pillow creases on his cheeks, and a line of drool from his open mouth, Jim looked sweet enough and beautiful enough to tempt the Pope. Blair grinned widely, grateful that not only had Jim told him that he was completely straight, but that he was absolutely, positively, *not* his type. Otherwise he would be tempted to make a complete fool of himself and kiss the big lump.
Vaguely he recalled not being able to settle last night, finding the shifting shadows of a night filled loft disturbing and being completely unable to face the reality of his own room for some unknown reason. Relying on Jim's lingering guilt and protective nature to ease the way, Blair had climbed upstairs when he didn't have the strength to wander around any more. When his partner hadn't even stopped snoring, he'd picked a corner of the bed and puddled on it, trying to formulate how to apologize for the intrusion.
Somewhere in the night the sentinel must have awakened long enough to pull him into bed - that or he'd done it himself without becoming aware enough to know what he was doing. Either way it looked like Blair was going to be spared the explanations just yet.
With a stealth that was almost shameful in its perfection, he slid from the bed and eased down the stairs. At the door to his room he stopped, fidgeting, not sure why he didn't want to go in there but willing to accept without question that he didn't. Detouring to the kitchen he made himself an algae shake, and that simple routine task put him into a comfortable groove.
After drinking it, he headed into the bath for his morning ablutions, dragging his fingers over his stubble without really thinking about it. Stripping down to his shorts and tee-shirt, he stood in front of the sink, relieved that the fogged up mirror prevented him from seeing the evidence of his lost days. He shaved carefully, using experience to guide him through the motions. The whisk of the hot metal over his chin, his cheeks, his jaw was soothing, nearly sensual. Not for the first, and most likely not for the last, he wondered what this and so many other daily, normal things felt like to Jim. Was this a great pleasure to the sentinel; an unavoidable annoyance; a stoically endured discomfort?
It was a well-worn groove in his thoughts; he ran along with it, dropping into a nearly hypnotic state that flowed and dipped as the razor moved over his face. He was done, looking for missed spots and rinsing the blade off under the running faucet when he inadvertently put his hand too far into the rushing stream. The impact of the water on his skin knocked him out of the reality of his home and back into the nightmare of his cage.
***Punishing torrents of icy water slamming into him, pinning him brutally against the bars, leeching away any warmth, any *feeling* in his body. Lapping at his wet flesh for the moisture that he couldn't capture from the flood without choking. Sharp-clawed hands holding him fast, letting the edge of the razor bite him threateningly. Body wastes scrubbed away with rough brushes, scratching and ripping at the most tender parts of him. Through it all hissed cruelties, insults and unbelievable lies. Unbearable, hideous, vicious lies!***
Blindly, heart and lungs screaming, but making no other sound save for harsh pants, Blair stumbled away from the sound and feel of the water, groping for the steel of the bars to cling to. Mentally he groped for his talisman, My name is Blair Sandburg, my mother Naomi loves me very much, and Jim will find me. My name is... holding onto it the same way he would hold onto the bars to brace himself against the impact of the water. It helped, but it was not strong enough, not powerful enough, he knew, to work for much longer and he despaired, wailing and falling.
He was caught, swept up in living arms that were shocking in their loving warmth. His eyes popped open, catching sight of Jim's worried blue gaze just before he was gathered close to his partner's bare chest. If the flesh of those arms were a jolt, the acres and acres of chest that Jim held him against was astounding. He huddled against it, hands palm down in the center, face between them, and sucked in its very existence.
The flesh under his touch would put rose petals for shame for its tender softness despite the well-formed muscle under laying it, and the heat could contribute to global warming. Without thinking he darted out the very tip of his tongue, hoping for only the tiniest of tastes, and was delighted at the salty, rich flavor that went so well with the well-known scent of his friend. It was the last bit needed to convince him that it *was* Jim, real, alive and here. Jim found me, Jim found me, Jim found me. Changed, the mantra had the power to seal away the blackness again, holding it in place behind the barriers he constructed, and he drooped in relief, suddenly boneless.
Catching Jim off guard, Blair dropped to his knees, scrabbling to hang onto the man in front of him. He found one of the pillars Jim used for a leg, wrapped his arms around it, and leaned into it with all he had left. From above he could hear the worry in the other man's voice, and a tentative hand gently fit itself into his hair at the back of his neck, securing a place for itself there. Eyes closed again, he forced himself to breathe regularly, deeply in and out, letting each movement of his lungs take away more of what had panicked him until all that was left was a vague impression of having freaked.
Beside his cheek there was a lazy stirring and quiver, tickling and drawing his attention to it. Under the cover of black silk boxers, Jim's manhood was taking an interest in the intimate contact, wondering idly if it was time for it to come out and take a peek at what was going on. The silly notion made Blair smile - and realize just how the two of them must look.
Apologetically he looked up - and up and up - and gave an embarrassed shrug at Jim's quizzical expression. It really *is* a good thing, he thought deep in the recesses of his mind, that Jim is so straight. Because kneeling in front of him like this, head cupped as if to keep him there, was the most erotic thing that had happened to him in far too long. His own maleness took interest in the idea, and Blair hurriedly stomped on it, trying shakily to get to his feet.
Shrugging back, a suggestion of color on his cheeks and ears, Jim stooped to get both hands into Blair's armpits and helped him stand. He asked something, probably what had happened, but all Blair wanted to do was be alone, make sure he was steady again. Pulling away with a pat of assurance to his partner, he went back to the sink to finish shaving, avoiding looking at his reflection and Jim's as he did.
* * *
As bad as the day had started for Jim, he knew with the cynical experience of a long-time soldier that it was bound to get worse. Starting with Sandburg feeling he had to sneak away instead of facing him, to waking to his guide's terrified heartbeat and breathing, to having Blair act as if nothing had happened at all, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that another shoe was going to drop. He went through his morning routine, then started in on neglected chores, all with an air of waiting that Sandburg either didn't catch onto - or was ignoring.
For his own part, Blair seemed content to sit in one corner of the couch, drowsily staring into the fire or desultorily flicking through his albums. As far as Jim could see, he had never gone into his own room last night, and hadn't even approached his laptop or many stacks of books. Which was very hard for him to accept; it would be easier to believe that Sandburg had lost all interest in food than that he had given up reading or researching.
Maybe that was the shoe that he was waiting for, Jim decided, pen in hand as he balanced his checkbook, paying the bills. He wasn't going to be able to give Blair the chance to bounce back on his own much longer. If he didn't show some sign that he was beginning to recover mentally from what happened to him, Jim was going to have to step in and force the issue. Despite the jokes in the past about being in and out of therapy, he doubted Sandburg was going to be pleased with the idea of seeing a shrink.
When the phone rang, he was actually relieved, to a point. Resigned, he answered, "Ellison."
*Hey, Jim,* Banks said tiredly. *Promised I'd keep you up to date on the kid's case. I am not looking forward this.*
Pinching at his eyes, he said tiredly. "Just get it over with it, sir. I take it the news is bad?"
*We had to let them go,* Simon told him bluntly. *Their stories checked out. The personal ad was traced back to a mailbox; when subpoenaed, the forms showed the name Blair Sandburg. Money for the warehouse rent was in cash, but the owner picked Sandburg's photo out as the person who did the paying.*
"Can't we at least hold them on prostitution charges, if they were paid?" Impotent rage, the same that had never left from when he searched methodically for his guide, came out of hiding, and Jim's voice tightened incrementally as he spoke.
*Can't. No law against being paid by a man to hurt him. If there were, chiropractors and dentists could be considered criminals.*
Not rising to the attempt at humor, Jim snapped, "So we're at a dead end? Giving up?"
From the corner of his eye he saw Blair rise from the couch and head toward him, alarm clear on his face. Tempted not to let him share the news, Jim still met him half way, angling the phone so that Blair could hear Banks. *No! Aside from the fact that I know the kid's too poor to afford that set-up, it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't give you a cover story to keep you from interrupting the fun and games.*
Not bothering to listen to the either end of the conversation, Blair put his hand palm down in the center of Jim's chest, leaning into his body with his own, his dark blue eyes peering up at him filled with deep compassion and concern. Of its own violation, the rage fled before that balm, and Jim calmed despite himself. In the relative peace that remained, he told Simon, almost absently, "Not to mention I don't think he could or would have hid a life-style choice like that from me, Simon. Hard to conceal the marks from rough sex games from someone who can count your hair follicles."
With a snort of amusement, Banks agreed. *There is that.*
Jim hardly heard him. When his mind had cleared, Blair had noticeably relaxed, but not moved or looked away. But he hadn't reacted to Jim's quip either; not so much as a flash of humor or irritation at the invasion of his privacy, or curiosity at just how closely *did* the sentinel watch him. No reaction at all.
The detective's mind raced over possibilities, discarding them as quickly as he thought of them, then settled on one that he didn't like, but which fit everything he'd observed since finding Blair. Dropping his head to hide his expression, he asked his captain perfunctorily, "Are you going to ask Sandburg for his statement now?"
He searched around, eyes on the counter, as if looking for a pen and paper to write on, not looking at the man so close to him. Trying to keep all inflection from his words, he asked Blair, "Could you get me a drink, Chief? I'm really thirsty here."
From the receiver he heard, *Yeah, we do. I'm sorry, Jim, I know he's shaky and I've tried to stall and give him time, but what's in his head is all we've got now to go on. Has he told you anything, talked about it at all?*
At the same time, Blair popped open the junk drawer and handed Jim a pen, as if that had been what he asked for. Speaking to Banks, distantly amazed at his juggling act, Jim said, "No, not yet. For the most part all he's done is eat and sleep, which is what the doctor ordered, anyway." On the paper he wrote for Blair to read, 'I'm burning all your dissertation research as soon as I get off the phone.'
Watching him write over his shoulder, Blair didn't even so much as flinch and when Jim handed it to him, he didn't look at it, but folded the paper and put it in a pocket. Hanging his head even further, not wanting Blair to pick up on the dread he felt, Jim said as normally as ever, though he wasn't sure what Banks had said last, "Look, Simon, I'll get him down to the station as soon as possible, I promise. In the meantime, tell Joel that the easiest way to find a double for someone is through an acting agency. Have him show around Sandburg's photo and see if anybody else has, too, say in the last year or so."
Somehow he got through the rest of the conversation with his boss, relying on training and habit to help him hide his distress from his perceptive partner. It didn't work completely, if the puzzled looks Blair kept darting at him were any indication, but he honestly needed to think. When he hung up the phone, he paused, then dialed information. "May I have the number for Dr. Elizabeth Arroway, please?" Warily he studied his partner, then said to the operator, "Try under Psychiatrists."
* * *
With a crash that shook the glass in the skylight, Blair threw open the loft door and stalked through it. So angry he was vibrating from it, he slammed through the rest of their home, randomly punching walls or picking up non-breakable things to hurl at the floor. Behind him Jim quietly closed the door, and took station in front of it, leaning back with arms crossed over his chest. Not that he expected his roomie to try to leave; he simply thought he might need to exit quickly himself.
Keeping a gimlet eye on the rampage, Jim heard Dr. Arroway's diagnosis echoing through his head. "Traumatic aphasia caused by extreme mental and physical duress. In other words, Jim, he can't understand words, either written or spoken, because he's associating his pain with the ability to understand language. Given that he is not alarmed or confused about his inability to communicate directly indicates that he may have even chosen to suppress his language skills as a way to survive."
The tall, slender black woman had delivered her verdict bluntly, as Jim had expected her to, and in front of Sandburg, that being how she operated. He'd known that when he'd taken his partner to see her. Hell, he'd known that before he'd gone to the civilian psychiatrist himself, at the orders of his commanding officer immediately after returning from Peru.
With piercing eyes that burned out of a half-ruined face, Elizabeth Arroway could deal with the worst cases of burn-out, guilt tripping, post traumatic stress, or even torture survival that the armed services could throw at her without so much as flinching. Never afraid, always honest, calm and straight forward, she seemed to say without ever opening her mouth that she had been there personally, that she really could understand, and no matter how bad it was, she'd probably lived through worse herself.
It had saved more than one good soldier. It had even saved Jim, though he had stubbornly, steadfastly refused to talk to her himself. He'd gone to each session, as per orders, but when she understood that he wasn't going to open up, she'd let him sit there and read or casually chat about the weather or even *just* sit there for the prescribed hour. The visits had ended when she'd looked up from her journal and said conversationally. "The army is killing the good man you are, Jim Ellison. It's time to get out."
He'd resigned that same day.
Asking her to take on Sandburg immediately as an emergency patient had been risky. He'd had no guarantee she'd agree to help at all, let alone work under the restrictions she'd have to deal with. But miraculously she'd remembered him, knew that he had become a cop, and was more than willing to help Detective Ellison's partner so that there wouldn't be official notice of the visits.
He'd gotten Blair there by the simple expedient of putting on his coat and offering the other man his. Puzzled, his roomie had followed the silent request, going so far as to trail after Jim into Arroway's office. It wasn't until he'd sat down in front of the desk that what she was must have begun to sunk in, her bland professional face and manner a dead giveaway. Sandburg had hastily gotten up to leave, remaining only because Jim pleaded with him with sharp blue eyes and honest fear on his face.
Leaving Blair alone with her at Arroway's request had physically hurt. He'd spent the entire time in the waiting room sightlessly staring out a window, fists hard, jaw aching and refusing to use his sentinel hearing to know what was going on. Whether Blair had worked his magic or the psychiatrist hers, the two of them had come out of the inner office laughing, Arroway chatting to the younger man as if they had been casual friends for years.
Since the waiting room was empty she'd delivered her verdict - and her treatment - without preamble. "Traumatic aphasia...." Standing between them suspiciously, Blair had volleyed back and forth between their faces, his own set hard and stony. "The best advice I can give, if hospitalization is not an option, is to give him time. All things considered, as harsh as it sounds, he wasn't in that environment that long.
"And his ability to understand and use names indicates that there's already considerable seepage around the blocks he's thrown up. If he's given a safe environment, they'll erode even more as he automatically reaches for the comprehension he needs to survive on a daily basis.
"Very importantly, give him a way out of all situations where he's expected to talk or read. That's why he's avoiding his room. The very presence of his books and papers is not only a reminder of his ordeal, but of the blocks themselves, making him confront their reality instead of allowing them to fade naturally.
"Don't pressure him or create circumstances where it's impossible for him to avoid or sidestep his handicap. If you allow him to approach things at his own speed, face his difficulties when he's up to it, he'll dismantle those barriers himself, as needed."
"How do I help?" Jim had wanted to know, desperately. "What do I do? Stay silent myself, leave him on his own, act as his interpreter, what?"
The long, cool assessing regard of the psychiatrist had made him squirm, way, way down where he hardly acknowledged he *could* squirm. It reminded him far too much of his father's penetrating glares when he'd been caught being a 'freak' as a kid. Then her face had softened and softened so much that the beauty inside her totally blanked out her damaged form. "Be his ladder to climb on, Jim. The knot he ties in his rope to hang onto. The fulcrum for the lever he uses to move his personal mountain. Only Blair can get out of the pit he's created for himself out of whatever misguided or half reasoned idea he had during his torment. His own strength, and we both know he has plenty, is more than enough, but like *anybody* else, he can use a source to depend on while he heals."
"I can do that," Jim had told her simply.
"It's going to hurt like hell."
Not needing the warning, Jim had repeated, "I can do it."
They'd exchanged the customary parting pleasantries with Blair's expression growing more and more stormy as they did. He'd managed to convey his own farewells, getting a smile out of Dr. Arroway as he did, but was so stiff with Jim that he thought his friend might crack into pieces when they finally go in the truck.
Bringing himself back to the outburst he'd expected all during the ride, Jim eyed the mess his partner had made, at least as much to deliberately annoy him as to express his fury at being taken to a psychiatrist without his consent or knowledge. Intuitively sure that his Shaman/Guide was depending very heavily on body language and emotional clues to guess what was going on, Jim debated returning anger for anger to let his partner get it out of his system. God knew there was enough that they could have one hell of a fight.
But Blair without words was Blair without his best weapon. While he was bound to be able to more than hold his own, Jim couldn't shake the feeling that it would be too close to pushing him into the sort of blind alley that Elizabeth Arroway had warned against. That left something that Jim didn't do well, even with language at his disposal: share what he was thinking and feeling.
When the miniature whirlwind finally paused, glaring at him defiantly, Jim crossed over to Blair slowly, giving his partner room and time to avoid him. Determinedly he let himself feel his remorse at what he had had to do, let it show on his face, but didn't back down at the renewed fury in his friend. As if touching a fragile crystal, Jim laid his hand in the center of Blair's chest, as Blair had done to him earlier. Carefully, carefully, the sentinel leaned first into his guide's space, then into the compact body, letting his head drop until they were forehead to forehead.
Hoping that if the words didn't mean anything now, they would later, Jim murmured, "I'm sorry, Chief, but I didn't know what else to do."
Almost imperceptibly, at first, Blair softened and he gradually allowed himself to rest against the support waiting for him. He gave a bark of laughter mixed with aggravation, and hugged Jim hard, once, then backed off, shaking his head. Still not looking at him, he threw himself onto the couch and huddled into a corner, knees up and arms around them.
Reading the 'do not disturb' clearly, Jim sighed in resignation, gave the chaos he was *not* going to fix a weary glare, and climbed to his bedroom. In the back of his mind he had half a plan, and he needed a few props to help him implement it. Going into his drawers for a few things - ill-fitting gifts or clothes he simply didn't want right now - he filled a box and carried it back downstairs. Hopefully his roommate would understand his unspoken intent to go down into the basement storeroom.
Literally leaving a bit of himself behind to listen for trouble, Jim did as he thought Sandburg would assume, but once down there, carelessly set the carton aside to head straight for his real goal. In one corner, hidden under a chair that was in too good of a condition to be tossed but too ugly to foist off on someone, was a box of books that he hadn't wanted to be casually seen. Not that they were particularly revealing, it was only that he didn't like the sentimental implications of keeping his college texts. Wondering what Sandburg would make of them - some of his course choices had been eclectic to say the least - Jim found the one he'd actually come down for and pulled it from its box.
Though the Joy of Signing wasn't a text, strictly speaking, he preferred it over the book he had really used for that class. Besides it had been a gift from Melody, the fourteen-year-old sister of one of his patrol. Deaf since birth, she had gotten wicked enjoyment from correcting Jim's half-assed attempts to sign with her based on what he'd learned in that course and the few deaf acquaintances he'd had. Smiling at the memory of her mischievousness when she had oh-so-innocently showed him the sign for 'water', not guessing that Jim already knew that it was the one for 'whore,' Jim stood, absently dusting his knees.
Absorbed in the book, he made his way back to their loft, locking the door behind him out of habit. Not consciously avoiding Sandburg, he flopped down on the other end of the couch and kept reading.
He couldn't have found a better way to pique Blair's interest if he'd planned it.
Within minutes, apparently forgetting he wasn't reading currently or hoping he'd garner something from the cover, Blair had scrunched down to try to get a peek. Genuinely not noticing, Jim flipped through the pages, wondering how much he had retained and how fast it would take to pick it back up. American Sign Language was built on gestures that were very vivid, logical visual symbols for the English words they stood for, easy to remember and to make. He'd gotten relatively fluid at the motions, but was better at interpreting them.
With microscopic fidgets Blair hitched closer, trying for nonchalant. Putting the open book in one hand, Jim turned toward the page for finger-spelling and ran through the alphabet quickly, pleased that the configurations flowed smoothly. Starting again at 'a', letting his fingers run on their own, he scanned the text to refresh himself on some of the quirks of finger-spelling, like how to do double letters.
Like snow being pushed around by the wind, Blair's fidgets drifted him across the couch until he collided into Jim's side, where he pooled up, unabashedly looking over Jim's shoulder. Automatically shifting so that it was easier for his partner to see the illustrations, Jim turned to the index, intending to double check on some basic words and their signs to that he thought he remembered.
Looking at the picture describing 'teach' and at Jim attempting to duplicate the gesture, Blair turned a completely baffled face up to his roomie and sighed in exasperation.
Taking it as a question, Jim handed Sandburg the book, put his palms together, thumbs up, then opened his palms, hands still touching at the sides - book - then tapped it and took it back, waiting expectantly. After a pause, obviously furiously thinking, the Blair clumsily copied the action. Immediately Jim gave him back the text, and repeated the sign wearing an enthusiastic grin. "That's right, Chief. Book."
Eyes down, lips pursed as he thought, Blair looked at the pictures on the pages in front of him, and moved his own hands more surely to repeat the sign. The instant he did, Jim took away Joy of Signs, then duplicated the motions for word. "Book." This time he waited more anxiously, smile firmly in place, but counting on the fact that Sandburg had to have encountered people who used sign language before.
There was a dawning wonder and elation in Blair as he made the connection that was incredible to see, a new kind of beauty that Jim knew only a rare few ever witness in their entire lives. Enthusiastically Blair made the sign for book again, and Jim gave it to him, grinning stupidly and not caring a bit. "Give me the book," he said, carrying on the lesson and demonstrating the correct way to sign the phrase, thinking, 'a way out, yeah!'
* * *
Again making a decision for Blair, knowing he was going to have to suffer the outfall from it but truly believing it unavoidable, Jim called and told Simon everything, immediately after their first lesson. The aphasia, the office visit, the prognosis - and what he was doing to help his partner. There had been horrified silence on the other end of the line, then Simon had quietly said, "Do what you have to. I'll handle things from this end: his statement, both of your absences, the university, all of it. I don't know how long I can hold things off, but I'll do my best. You take care of Sandburg."
He did just that. He stayed by Blair's side constantly, working out a sort of pigeon sign with him and doing what needed to be done to adapt their lives to this fundamental change. They were the most intense, taxing, and revealing days of his life, boot camp and Ranger training not withstanding.
Jim realized very quickly that language hadn't just been Blair's weapon of choice, it had been his shield and buckler as well. The grad student had defended, deflected, *hid* his true self behind his never ceasing words. Jim had known that all along, on some level, the way a person knows people are starving in other countries. But seeing him without his barriers - naked, Blair in his purest, undiluted form - drove that basic fact past all walls Jim had erected around his heart.
Vulnerable as a child, his guide *knew* he could not protect himself, and still stood with his head up, eyes clear and open. It was humbling to witness such raw courage, and Jim had to fight his own shame at the cowardly times he'd hidden or sealed off parts of himself from his partner. Privately vowing never to do it again, he tried to meet and match Blair's vulnerability, even while striving to protect and shelter him. Focusing on his guide until his awareness of him was a second skin, Jim was astounded when the same was done to him.
Though he had had the researcher's eye or the friend's intent, probing regard directed at him many times, he had never before been the center of Blair's universe. There had always been the university or the job or women or whatever to distract or interrupt when they were together. Even when sharing a vacation or camping trip, there were outside matters to consider and attend to, necessities that kept them busy. With only the two of them sheltering in their haven, their lives became more intimate and interdependent than the honeymoon he'd shared with Carolyn.
And much more fun. The two of them stumbled through language lessons, laughing and making fun of their mistakes. They watched the tube, Jim trying to translate, and Blair making faces or tickling the Sentinel to distract him into making goofs. Meals were cooked, the loft was cleaned and minor repairs made with them working in concert as efficiently as when they could speak to each other. They lived a normal, mundane life made enchanted by simple enjoyment and pleasure in each other's company.
One flaw disturbed their effortless co-habitation. Blair continued to avoid his bedroom and its many books, endlessly wandering the loft when he should have been sleeping. The couch worked for short naps, but when night darkened the loft, even that refuge was denied him. Like his first night home from the hospital, Blair eventually had to steal upstairs and claim a small corner of Jim's bed when he was too tired to go on. The third night spent roaming, Jim waited until his partner came upstairs then snagged a hand to yank him under the covers when Blair tried to curl up. Since he knew that was where he'd been waking up anyway, he didn't fight or protest, though he did use his new skill at sign to apologize.
With a gruff, "How the hell else am I going get any sleep?" Jim rolled over to give Blair a chance to nod off. Once he was sure he was out, he cautiously gathered the lean form into his arms, resting his cheek on the high forehead. Despite the depth of his slumber, Blair didn't relax completely until Jim had soothed and coaxed each limb, like Dorothy oiling the Tin Man until he was free. Not until his partner was limp as a noodle did Jim surrender to his own fatigue.
* * *
Groggily thinking he could get addicted to waking up next to Jim, Blair swam up from strange, disjointed dreams, and snuggled into the hot, hot man beside him. Taking a minute to savor the comfort, he let himself drift in simple animal awareness of his surroundings, idly running down the list of nice things. Firm mattress, warm comforter, sound of raindrops on the skylight, Jim's breathing, satin skin on his, gentle motion of chest rising and falling with his own, fragrant male musk, cradling arm draped over him, powerful leg between his - unbidden his body reminded him that the last few were more than nice. They were, well, great. Erotic, even. Very, very erotic.
His morning erection succeeded in breaking the muzzy contentment of his mind, putting in a very definite opinion about just how erotic it was to be held by Jim. It throbbed hungrily, straining at the jeans confining it, wanting to get closer, maybe see if it could find another of its kind. Killing a groan before it was more than a convulsive spasm in his chest, Blair slithered out of his bedmate's hold, painfully grabbing his hard-on as soon as he was on his feet.
Desperately hoping the scent of his arousal would fade before his partner woke up, Blair got himself down stairs as fast as he could and into the relative privacy of the bathroom. Taking out his manhood before he hurt himself from the cramped confines of his pants, he shook the stupid thing, reminding himself over and over Jim was not his type. Big, buff men didn't do it for him, who the hell wanted to be squashed under all that mass, he liked a man who could laugh and share before and after sex, and besides all that, Jim wasn't remotely interested in him. His sentinel had made it clear when Blair had let him know that he was bi, that he was strictly het.
At the time Blair had sighed in relief, not knowing how he would have handled a pass from Jim since he wasn't interested. Or how to tell him that if push came to shove. Staying first in the sentinel's good graces, then secondly in his loft had been upper most then. Aside from Naomi's opinion of cops coloring his attitude, his past experience was that men who were as ripped as Jim either had a narcissistic streak which was a total turn off, or they were way too willing to use that body for intimidation. His second meeting with Jim had done nothing to assure him that Ellison wasn't different, but he had felt at the time he could deal with it as long as it would take for him to do his research.
Though he had very quickly learned *how* different Jim was from his misconceptions - to Jim his workouts were the same as keeping his gun clean, part of keeping the equipment ready for the job - he'd pretty much gotten used to not thinking of his partner in those terms. Somewhere along the way, though, Mr. One Eye had obviously developed his own opinions about just how appealing his friend was. Irritated with it, with himself, Blair leaned over the sink and regulated his breathing, concentrating on reviewing the signs for all the furnishings in the bathroom.
It worked well enough that he was able to decide it'd just been a while since he'd had the satisfaction of a male lover and went on with his morning. There hadn't really been a man in a long time, he realized, in the middle of fixing a big breakfast for the both of them, that *had* appealed to him. Not that it mattered; girls were so much fun, and he *liked* the feel and smell of them so much. Different from the slightly rough and raw way another guy was, of course, not that one was better than the other. Just different. Happily contemplating that, Blair bustled around the kitchen and waited for his roomie to wake up.
* * *
Far too in tune with his partner to sleep through his distress, Jim had let Blair slip away from the bed, not wanting to cause him any more embarrassment. Glad that his guide had healed enough for natural male needs to be announcing themselves, he laid there staring at where Blair had been, almost as if he could see him. A warm Blair-shaped ghost still lay beside Jim: the faint impression left by the pressure and heat of the now absent body. Whimsically the sentinel lifted a hand and floated it over the contours, miming out the shape of the missing man with what was nearly a lover's touch.
Against his will his nostrils flared, deeply drawing in Blair's scent, now so mixed with his own that a brand new aroma had been created here in his bed. He liked it, liked the idea that the two of them made something unique, liked the notion of Blair carrying it around with him and other people picking up on it however subconsciously. My guide, he thought dreamily, not at all bothered by the idea of being overly possessive about the role his friend played in his life. Or that no one knew that but himself. In fact, he liked that, too. Mine. They think they know him, that they have a hold on him, but they don't *I* do. I've seen the still, calm shaman that rests at the center of that blur of motion, touched the power there. Mine.
Idly he wondered if he could mark Blair in other ways, subtle ways that only he and his partner would know about. Of course, in a way that already happened. Blair liked his clothes baggy, and had no qualms about borrowing Jim's shirts or sweaters if the opportunity or need arose. It had never bothered Jim, though it used to drive him crazy when his ex-wife had done the same thing. But then, he'd never been anywhere near as much in love with Carolyn as he was with Blair.
Eyes flying open, fists suddenly balling into the fabric of the comforter, Jim repeated that to himself slowly. He had never been as much in love with anyone as he was with Blair. He was in love with Blair. His infuriating, frustrating, aggravating, hot water hogging, way too impulsive, impossible to repress partner had moved into a place in his heart that he had never thought to be filled at all. Let alone filled by a man.
Fighting for air that seemed abruptly scarce, Jim tried to reason with himself. Yes, he loved Blair, didn't believe it was possible for anyone who had a real chance to know the younger man *not* to love him. Okay, it wasn't like the love he had for Simon or Stephen. It was deeper, more intense, more... necessary to him, but that was because Blair *was* more to him. Why would being 'in love' be such a bad way to describe that? Because being in love meant sex, too?
Hesitantly, he reached down to touch himself, though he was already sure he wasn't erect. Finding only lax and disinterested genitals, he exhaled strongly, letting himself relax. Okay, in love doesn't equal lust, necessarily then, he decided. I don't know of any examples of that, off hand, but there were bound to be a few. A person in love with someone physically incapable, or perhaps someone truly devout, like a nun? Guide/Shaman and Sentinel could be an example of it, too. Sandburg would probably say I'm genetically predisposed toward it, to guarantee I have someone to watch my back.
His explanation made so much sense to himself that he let go of the last of his concern over the matter, smiling at the thought of Blair's excitement at the discovery. That brought another worry to mind, and Jim sat up in bed. What *is* Sandburg going to think? he thought, not noticing he was assuming Blair would learn somehow. Automatically using sound to target his sight he located his partner bopping around the kitchen. Will he expect me to make a pass at him? Or would he feel free to make one of his own? I kinda thought he might work his way up to it when he told me he was bi.
Not likely, Jim decided ruefully. I've seen the kind of man that attracts him: they're invariably someone Blair can see eye to eye with, not only physically, but mentally. I'm too much of a plodder to keep up with the kind of lightening shifts and sharp corners he can make when thinking or debating. He'd never look at me that way, like a potential lover.
Shaking his head at himself, Jim got up. In fact, knowing Sandburg, he's probably already anticipated something like this happening and has been waiting for me to catch up with the program. I can see him now, hands flying, mouth going a mile a minute, lecturing me on the love life of primitive sentinels and their guides, and explaining oh so carefully that it wouldn't apply to a modern ones like us. The thought both depressed and relieved Jim, and he went downstairs teetering between the two emotions.
Waving a spatula in the air, Blair signed, **Food. Eat. Not cold,** distractedly and flipped the pancakes on the griddle.
Why that tipped Jim over into relieved he didn't know, but he said aloud, signing the key words he knew. "I'll be ready for breakfast before it gets cold, Sandburg. Don't worry."
Something in his tone must have caught the other man's attention; Blair looked up and blinked at him, then began to glow with happiness. Beautiful, Jim couldn't help but think, and he glowed back, despite the hint of feeling foolish just under the surface of it. They stood like that for long seconds, then the smell of over-cooked pancakes yanked his roomie's attention back to his task.
**Go wash,**he signed after salvaging them, shooing Jim off.
Yeah, definitely waiting for me to catch up, Jim sighed to himself as he went into the bath. Better get both of us out of the house for a while and give Blair a chance to put some space between us. Let him chase a few girls or whatever, rag him about it like I always do, and he'll know that he doesn't have to worry about me putting the moves on him. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he was surprised at the sadness sitting on his features. Stubbornly he dismissed it, and went about his business.
* * *
While Sandburg finished cooking, Jim went through the cupboards and made up a grocery list, occasionally asking him if they should get this ingredient or that for meals they made consistently, but weren't on this week's menu. That done, they ate and cleaned up, then Jim gingerly brought up Blair going with him. Without hesitating he agreed cheerfully, telling Jim as best he could that he was more than ready to get out for a while.
Even more cautiously Jim mentioned taking precautions to allow Blair to navigate securely on his own if the necessity arose. To his surprise, his suggestions were agreed on without argument, and even improved on in a couple of instances. When they were almost ready to leave, Blair ducked into the bathroom and came out with the first aid kit. Miming having his throat bandaged, to give him an excuse not to talk if they ran into someone Blair knew, he handed it to Jim. Seeing the distress on Jim's face at the need to do that, Blair laid a hand in the middle of the sentinel's chest in what had become their sign for reassurance.
One handed he gestured, **Know not well. Will get okay.**
"You're entitled, Sandburg. What you went through, the fact that the scum behind it is still loose...." Jim said gruffly, hands moving in concert with his words. "You'll heal when you heal. Time doesn't matter or how much progress you make or even if you make any at all. You're covered as long as it takes. Understand?"
**Understand.** Blair laid his head on the hand between them, resting comfortably against Jim for a split second. Giving him a quick one-armed hug, Jim stepped away and opened the kit, schooling his face to hide his pleasure at the intimate contact between them.
* * *
Late that evening Jim sat behind some ferns at a coffee bar near the campus and wondered why he'd been worried in the first place. In pure Blair style his guide had sailed through the entire day of shopping, errands and chance meetings without so much as a bobble, being his usual energetic self effortlessly. Originally Jim had thought that he'd be the one dragging his partner around, but he had soon found himself being towed along by a manic Sandburg who seemed determined to make up for being inside so long.
In fact, it had been Sandburg's idea to stop by this restaurant, knowing full well he was bound to bump into people that he knew. Within minutes he'd been noticed, first by one acquaintance, then by a girl he had casually dated. Though Jim had stayed close for a bit, translating and ad-libbing excuses as necessary while they ate, he'd gotten up some time ago, supposedly to get creamer, and simply had never gone back when yet another fellow student stopped by their table to exchange hello's with Blair.
From his post Jim could guard unobtrusively and give Blair a chance to interact without him running interference, something he sincerely hoped would help wear away at the walls in Blair's mind. Mindful of Arroway's warning, he watched for signs that Sandburg was feeling cornered or pressured even as the cop part of him scanned the people laughing and chatting at that table to make sure they were as harmless as they seemed.
It was hard for him to keep his distance, though he would have felt like a garbage truck at a drag race had he stayed beside Blair. Reminding himself that being dumped in a strange land where he couldn't speak the language was part of what an anthropologist did, part of what his guide had done his entire life, it was still amazing how well Blair handled the situation. Somehow he was a part of the laughing, chatting group even as he sat on the edge of it, studying everyone intently for cues as to what the conversations were about.
Beside Blair a lovely brunette used a more primitive form of communication to let the him know exactly what was on her mind, and Jim shut down what he admitted might be jealousy and worried instead how to give his partner privacy if needed while keeping him safe. Before he could formulate either a way to do it or a plausible excuse to get rid of Blair's admirer, his guide caught his eyes.
Tenting his first two fingers on either hand together, the sign for 'home,' Blair inclined his head toward the door.
Puzzled, Jim signed, "Lady?"
Shrugging, Blair looked away, out the window. **Not ready,** he flashed, hands close to his body.
That didn't ring true, but too glad to have Blair with him to question it, Jim rose and went to the exit to wait for him. Silently they walked to the truck, got in, and headed for home. Though they weren't far from the loft, the trip seemed long with the silence between them fitting strangely for the first time since Blair's return. Debating on whether or not to check him out with his senses, Jim kept flashing sidelong glances at him, taking in his remote profile and air. Distracted by that, he didn't see the kid on the bike dart out of an alley onto the unlit back street they were traveling, and had to punch hard on his brakes to keep from hitting him. They squealed, working unevenly and sending the vehicle into a half spin that Jim barely controlled into a stomach dropping halt at the curb near a tall building.
Without thinking he threw out an arm to steady Blair, miscalculating the amount the sudden stop would toss the smaller body forward. Chest and arm hit each other with more force than intended, the latter knocking out a grunt from the former. Swearing at the now distant biker, Jim twisted in his seat to make sure he hadn't accidentally hurt Blair.
Face contorted into a mask of fear, Blair was scrunched into a tight ball in the corner of the truck, moaning wordlessly in pain. A burst of agony scattered through Jim, but he didn't reach for the terrified man, recognizing that Sandburg was in the throes of a flashback similar to the one he'd had in the bathroom his first day home. Having seen them before in soldiers and war survivors, he knew there was little he could do but wait it out.
Crooning Blair's name softly, he inched across the seat until he could brush his fingers lightly over a denim-covered knee. "You're safe now, it's okay, it's okay," he murmured when the overly tense body jerked harshly.
"Jim?"
There was a quaver in the voice that was physically harmful to Jim, but he never faltered in his soothing tones. "Yeah, it's me, Chief. It's me. Breathe for me, buddy. Nice long breath in; nice long breath out. Breathe for me."
With a surprising flurry of motion, Blair hurled himself across the truck, winding both arms around Jim's waist, sitting sideways on the seat. Digging his nose into Jim's breast bone to the point it *had* to be uncomfortable, he murmured, "Oh God, oh God, oh God," shaking all the while. Without hesitation Jim enclosed the trembling shoulders with strong arms, following his own advice and regulating his inhalations.
Thankfully the side street stayed deserted while they sat there, Blair's body gradually quieting, going limp in Jim's embrace. Wanting very badly to pet and stroke the long curls, he had to satisfy himself with loosely gathering a handful of strands at the back of Blair's head, holding them in a fist resting on the vulnerable nape. From time to time he would stroke his cheek over Blair's temple, or nuzzle at an ear to whisper more calming promises. When Blair gave an all-over shudder and slumped bonelessly, Jim cautiously began to push him away enough to be able to drive.
Blair wasn't having any of it. He tightened his arms and dug in harder, hitching up to press himself into Jim with almost punishing strength. "Hey, easy there, easy," Jim warned, his mouth so close to a shell-fragile ear that he could feel the whirl of air currents return the shape of the words to him. "Just want to get us home, Chief. Let go, so I can drive, okay?"
With a single shake of his head, Blair refused, putting his entire weight into holding onto Jim. "Blair...." Jim began tiredly, but his guide turned toward him at the last second and the name was whispered millimeters from shivering lips.
"Jim," Blair answered, and the trickle of noise tingled into the tender flesh of the sentinel's mouth.
Neither moved, yet somehow both did, and their first kiss was shy, nearly not one at all, their mutual touch was so hesitant. It lasted for a thought, dissolved back into those few millimeters of space, devastating to both of them for all its gentleness.
This time when Jim urged him away, Blair went willingly, though from the near awe on his face it was more because he couldn't think to resist than because he wanted to move. On Jim's part, all he could think of was 'don't lick your lips, don't lick your lips.' By pure instinct he was positive that if he tasted what he had just touched, they wouldn't leave this dark, quiet spot until things happened that neither of them were ready for.
Getting home was a thrumming blur of confusion and worry; they both kept furtively checking each other out of the corners of their eyes. Once parked, Blair raced upstairs, Jim following more slowly, wanting to take a few breaths that weren't filled with Blair's scent, feel air move over him not warmed from that strong body. He deliberately climbed the stairs, concentrating on the play of muscle and bone in his legs as he did, refusing to think of what might happen when he got to his home.
At the door he hesitated, sweeping the rooms beyond with his hearing, finding Blair's frantic heartbeat weaving a torturous path through them. Leaving him alone wasn't an option, not with a flashback so close to his partner's mind and the agitation that the dark brought lurking in the wings. Standing in the hallway wasn't much better; sooner or later the neighbors would notice and complain that there was a crazy cop stalking the place. That left going in and convincing both himself and Blair that what had happened was only from the emotion of the minute, a result of their enforced closeness from the last few days.
Pushing open the door, he entered as he would at any other time, taking off his jacket and putting his keys in their usual spot. Blair came to a dead stop in front of the fireplace, his eyes flying to Jim's. Catching them as gently as he had his guide's body earlier, the sentinel held them, holding nothing back.
"No pity fuck," Blair signed furiously.
"Good!" Jim shot back, both with hands and voice. "I don't *do* pity fucks."
Dazed, anger short-circuited, Blair sank down to the floor, still staring at Jim. **Why?**
"I'm not really sure why," Jim said honestly, startling himself. "As an antidote to what those bitches did to you, I think; to give you a touch of love and warmth to hang onto while you're fighting off the memories of what happened."
That made Blair lower his lashes, finding the fire suddenly fascinating. **Not much remember.**
Coming to sit by him, snagging a cushion on the way to give to him, Jim asked, "Do you know how you wound up in that cage?" Like Blair he studied the flames, pretending a calmness about the subject he didn't feel, either.
Using the cushion as something to hang onto instead to sit on, Blair answered, **Know everything. Just not many different things to remember. Dark. Cold. Pain. Water hitting. Mean hands. Hungry. Thirsty.**
Knees up, arms looped around them, Jim rocked a bit on his backside, battling the sudden return of his anger brought on by those nearly off-hand gestures. "Can you," he started hesitantly, but was stopped by Sandburg's hand on his arm. He turned his head, searching that worried face, feeling his rage die yet again at the tentative pressure.
"Do you feel up to giving a statement, Chief?" he asked, truly feeling calm grow and seeing it begin in his partner, as well. "Legalities aside, we need to know *who* to be sure they're not planning on a repeat performance. And the info locked in that head of yours is nearly all we have to go on right now."
Sighing, wrapping himself around the pillow, Blair shook his head. **Will do. But, what good?**
"You've worked with the department long enough to have learned that sometimes the break you need on a case is the name of a perfume or a glimpse of a car. Don't discount your testimony just yet, okay?" Jim persuaded gently.
**You speak for me?** Blair signed.
"No," Jim said regretfully, hands sketching his words carefully. "It would be better if you have a translator; that way, later I can't be accused of creating your testimony to fit a suspect. At the very least, even if you confirm it on the stand, it'd throw suspicion on your statement, since you're not only my partner but your roommate as well."
Blair turned his face down into his arms, shoulders rounding as he huddled in on himself. Guessing that he hated the idea of anyone hearing about his ordeal, Jim scooted closer, until their thighs bumped. Taking that bit of comfort from each other, they sat in front of the fire until all that was left was embers.
* * *
Staring up at the skylight over his bed, Jim sharpened his sight, trying to pierce smog and light pollution from the city to see a star. He had no particular reason to do so; it was simply a better past time than listening to Blair ramble aimlessly through the loft. Not that he blamed him. Today had murderous for both of them.
They had spent all of the night before in quiet companionship in the living room, each lost in their own thoughts. When the morning had gotten old enough, Jim had called Simon to arrange for the interpreter and help smooth the way for Sandburg's return to the department. It had all gone well with Blair catching up on the gossip and being treated by all and sundry as though they noticed nothing wrong.
The hell of it was, maybe they hadn't. Using the bandage as an excuse again, Blair had bluffed, laughed, and mimed his way through each encounter, never once turning to Jim for backup. That didn't stop Jim from staying as close as he legitimately could and tracking him with all his senses whenever he was out of reach.
It wasn't until they were in the briefing room with the translator, video and audio running, that his guide had begun nervously seeking him out with his eyes. Jim made damned sure that every time that blue, blue gaze lifted, he was there, his own eyes pinned on his Blair. Every time, his partner would go on as if he had never looked, but his vital signs would settle by just that much more.
As he had told Jim, there wasn't much for them to go on. He had bumped into an old friend of his mother's on the way out of Hargrove and to the station, gone to lunch with her. She'd offered him a ride, and the last thing remembered from the trip was fastening his seat belt. After that was the hideous monotony of near silence, absolute dark, hunger, thirst, and punishment that came out of the void in completely unpredictable bouts.
In the end all they could do was contact Edith Johnson to find out what she knew about Blair's abduction. That proved to be a dead end as well; Mrs. Johnson had died of a long-standing heart ailment a few days after the disappearance. Her personal secretary had said that it was not unexpected, and that, in fact, Mrs. Johnson had been very pleased about running into Naomi's son that morning. He was such a charming and well-bred young man, the elderly lady had said as she had chatted with her secretary when she had gone home.
It was hard for him to say which had bothered Jim more from that bleak interview: his own mounting anger and frustration, or his guide's equally rising disappointment and depression. On impulse he called Dr. Arroway, somehow sure that she would see Blair again, unscheduled. She'd agreed, and to his consternation, so had his friend when Jim had cautiously suggested it. How they managed to communicate, he didn't know, but Blair came out of her inner office looking so much better, he actually considered talking to her himself.
The psychiatrist had been very pleased at the improvised sign language and pointed out what Jim had begun to suspect after Blair's effortless interactions at the station. With the crutch of signing to help him, there was more and more leakage around the blocks he had thrown up in his mind. As much as he was interpreting the signs, Blair was understanding some of what was *said* as well, easing his way back toward speech.
Police business done, they had procrastinated going home, and it was obvious to both of them that what had happened in the truck the night before had been at least part of the reason. Finally, unable to bear having Blair spooked by him, Jim had offered to spend the night elsewhere. His partner had looked so horrified that Jim had recanted immediately, and Blair had insisted on heading back to the loft that second.
Which brought them to their current impasse. Jim upstairs way too early to sleep, trying to find well-hidden stars over head and an exhausted Blair unable to find peace downstairs.
Maybe I should take matters into my own hands - again! he thought tiredly. I'm pretty sure it's not me he doesn't trust in this bed, it's himself. How do I convince him.... The sound of heavy respiration and hesitant footfalls at the bottom of the steps interrupted his chain of thought, and Jim leaned up on one elbow to look down the stairs in time to see Blair begin to come up them.
Stopping when his head was level with the top riser and he was able to see into the room, Blair wavered there a long, long time. Then, with eyes too big for his face, Blair climbed one more step, looking more like he wanted to run the other way. Wanting to encourage him, wanting to make it easier, Jim rolled over, giving him his back, driving down the leap of panic in his middle. Stubbornly he didn't listen, didn't concentrate his sense of touch to track him by the shift of air currents. He waited like any other man waited, not sure even as he did what he was waiting for.
Too many heartbeats later the mattress dipped, shook, the blankets moved. There was a sigh that sounded as if it hurt when it escaped, then Blair's still clad body nestled gingerly into his own. Swallowing hard, Jim didn't move, letting his frightened friend find his own way, much as he wanted to turn and gather him close. In time a tug at his shoulder told him Blair wanted to be held as much as Jim wanted to hold him, and he stopped fighting his heart.
Shifting until they were face-to-face, his own head pillowed on his arm, Jim gingerly slid his free hand over his bedmate's waist, then stroked up his back, soothing, calming. Gesturing in the small space between them, Blair told him, smiling wryly, **Changed mind. Pity fuck good idea.**
Softly, still petting, Jim said, "Told you I don't do that, Chief." Quickly, before Blair had a chance to misunderstand, he added, "I've been known to help a friend out, on occasion."
Swallowing hard, Blair scrunched his eyes close and tilted his head back, offering up his mouth as though he expected it to be punched. With the very tips of his fingers, Jim swept a delicate touch over Blair's lashes and eyelids, waiting until they reluctantly raised. "This is supposed to make you feel better," he chided, a tiny smile ducking in and out of the corner of his mouth. "Not give you a panic attack."
A lot of the fear faded at that, and Jim coaxed his bedmate closer, until they were nestled chest-to-chest. For a second he left his senses up, savoring the warm presence in his arms, then unwillingly turned them down again past normal so he could give Blair whatever he needed without losing his own control. This was for his guide, not an experiment in his own sexuality.
With a meaningless murmur, Blair pressed his lips to the pulse point in Jim's throat, kissing the spot tenderly. Despite having his dials down, the sensation raced through him and he gave a muffled groan, with only that small sound to give away his urgent response as he reined it in.
It seemed to be the encouragement Blair needed, though, and he began a methodical survey with his mouth of that bit of Jim's body, keeping his hands between them, palms flat on the Jim's chest. Lifting his chin to give him better access, Jim barely held himself still as chills swarmed away from those roaming licks and bites, bringing up goose bumps and his nipples to hard little points. Feeling the reaction, Blair chased the shivers with tiny nips, finding a taut nub to latch onto it.
He couldn't muffle his groan this time, and needing to distract himself, he rolled them until Blair was on top and he had full use of both hands. Digging under the many layers of shirts until he found satiny skin, Jim began his own explorations, moving from the sharp bone of the wide shoulders, down to the first swell of the slender hips in broad sweeps. Squirming until their groins met, Blair began to rock into him, moaning faintly at the pleasure of it.
Without warning Blair sat up, straddling Jim's hips, tossing off his shirts and undoing his pants. "Beautiful, lover," Jim murmured, sending his hands over the planes of the nicely defined torso. The hairs there clung, the same way the longer locks on Blair's head had done in the past, holding onto his fingers as if reluctant to have them leave. Finding dark rose-colored tips hiding amidst the springy strands, Jim thumbed them carefully, watching them pebble up and reach for him.
"Oh, oh, oh, oh!" Blair whimpered, trying to both lean into that attention and wiggle out of his pants at the same time.
Thinking naked was a good idea, Jim left off his teasing, cherishing the disappointed cry from his lover, and squirmed out of his boxers. Before he had even kicked them all the way off, Blair fell down on top of him, burying his face in the curve of Jim's shoulder and keening deep in his throat. There was an air of desperation in the grinding of Blair's erection onto his belly that Jim didn't like, and he sucked in a breath, trying to clear his head enough to pinpoint what had sent Blair from timid to wild so quickly.
Cautiously he sent up his senses; nothing there but the physical signs of a man far gone in the throes of passion. Hastily dialing them down again before he could be drawn into the heady maelstrom of heat, scent, slick, hard, bare flesh, he angled his head to get a peek at Blair's face. Tears were seeping from eyes tightly screwed shut, and the lush lips were pinched into a white line that denied Blair was taking joy in their loving.
Jolted away from his awakening arousal, Jim reminded himself harshly that this was supposed to be giving a hurting man an outlet for all the chaotic emotions and problems driving him. Refusing to consider what fantasy was being conjured to help Blair get through this unwanted but needed sex act, Jim opened his thighs, wiggled until he could capture the amazingly hard erection stabbing at him between them, then closed them just enough to give his lover a channel to pump into.
"Jim!" Blair shouted, immediately thrusting raggedly, lifting up on locked arms to get better leverage.
The sight of Blair's wonderful face, streaked with tears, twisted in hunger, penetrated his disappointment and let Jim cherish what he could from this act. Sliding his hands down in a sensuous counter point to the next shove, he cupped the driving cheeks, adding his strength to the movement.
"Oh! Oh!!!" Moving faster, harder, Blair used the willing flesh, not noticing Jim's lack of excitement or silent acceptance of what was happening. Within a few strokes he stiffened, making a choked noise, and sent his seed into the crevasse holding him.
If possible Blair was more beautiful than ever while lost in ecstasy, and despite the disappointment, the frustration, the worry taking place of the desire he wanted to share and feel, Jim fell in love with his guide all over again. With incredible gentleness he lowered the convulsing form down to his body, cradling Blair while the last of his semen drained out, taking all his strength and wakefullness with it.
Cherishing the weight on him and the breathy snores into his neck, Jim went back to staring through his skylight, refusing to admit to the bitter bite of tears or the languorous roll of hunger in his middle.
* * *
"You don't have to come in, Sandburg," Jim said testily, making himself meet his partner's eyes. At the set look there, he back-tracked, softening his suggestion with humor. "But if you like, I'll order you to stay in the truck so you can ignore me and do want you damn well want." He gestured vaguely at the vehicle in question, currently parked outside the warehouse where Blair had been found.
It didn't work, and Blair shot him an irritated look, turning in his seat to do it. **Why?** he signed.
"Cause we're out of leads, and this is the only thing I haven't tried. How many times has my sentinel ability found something forensics over looked or couldn't pick up on?" With an effort Jim kept his voice level. Since last night, his impotent rage at what had been done to his partner had steadily eroded away at his control, and not even Blair's magic touch was helping. Maybe it was because Blair wasn't touching all that much. He had kept a careful, casual distance between them, as if to reassure Jim that he wasn't going to make presumptions on what happened between them in bed.
Wanting to call him on it, to promise him that it *didn't* matter, Jim held his tongue, not sure he could stifle the insane mix of emotions seething just under his surface. Besides it did matter. How much more ironic could life get than for him to discover that he wasn't as straight as he thought at the exact same time Blair confirmed past all arguing that he wasn't turned on by tall, anal cops? It drove home, too, exactly how much his guide had been hurting, to have overcome his need for independence and self-reliance to turn to Jim for what meager comfort he could get. The anger crept up a notch, and Jim closed his eyes to be able to force it down better.
A touch in the center of his chest made him snap them back open again, and he met Blair's apologetic smile. Feeling the tension in the muscles that heralded the hand being removed, Jim suddenly reached out to place his own in the same spot on Blair. "Please," he said very quietly. "Don't be afraid to touch me. Or embarrassed. I wanted to help. I feel...." His voice cracked, but he steadied it. "... Honored that you trust me so much. That you'd turn to me for something that personal. I know you don't let many people that close."
His partner's smile became pinched at that, but he studied Jim, looking for sincerity maybe, and when he found whatever it was, the smile faded completely. Sighing, Blair rested his forehead on the fingers slightly curled into Jim, and just like that, everything was okay between them. All the tightness in his spine and neck vanished, leaving him almost dizzy in relief, and there was an equal rush of limberness in the body so near to his, the disappearance of tenseness clearly felt. Gingerly he touched the nape of Blair's neck so that he could take a few strands of hair between his fingers - a gesture which was rapidly becoming as common between them as their pigeon sign for reassurance was.
It lasted only a second, then Blair drew back, genuinely smiling now. **You need go in. *I* need go in. Do it.**
Letting him get on with life without a debate was beyond Jim. "Who says you have to face those demons now? Wasn't yesterday enough?"
**Want it done. No more life on hold.** His signs were emphatic, leaving no room for hedging on Jim's part.
"Stubborn anthropologist," Jim mock grumbled, opening his door.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw, **Pig headed cop**
"Aggravating grad student."
**Anal sentinel.**
They continued their mock insults, ignoring the reactions from passerbys at the odd looking and sounding conversation.
Once inside Jim expected Blair to falter, perhaps to prefer to remain in the doorway where the sunlight could reach him. But he ducked under the police tape without any hesitation, and looked around the basically featureless room calmly. Going up to the cage, he hooked three fingers over a bar, then studied the four blank walls wearing an equally blank expression.
"Chief?" Jim couldn't help but ask.
**Nothing. Feel nothing; *means* nothing. Never saw here, saw only night. Night always comes; here is nothing.** Blair signed absently, as if understanding for the first time what drove him so mercilessly when the sun went down.
Giving him plenty of time to avoid him, Jim came up behind Blair, fighting the urge to hold him yet again. "Night is nothing, too, Chief. There's nothing in it that isn't there in the light; there's nothing that happens in the night that can't happen just as easily in the day. I know that sounds like what you'd say to comfort a kid having a nightmare, but it's the truth. A very simple truth."
Blair spun on him, gesturing fiercely. **Know that here!** He thumped his head with a punishing fist. **Can't feel that here!** and he smacked his sternum. Before Jim could react to that pronouncement, not that he was sure what to say or do, Blair swept his hands through the air in front of him, as if bundling together a great many things into one spot, then 'tossed' those things over his shoulder, consigning them to the past. Turning to Jim, he signed emphatically, **Work!**
With a nod of acceptance, Jim did as he was told, picking a place at random to begin his sweep. In the back of his mind as he methodically covered the room with his senses, he wondered if he would ever find words to explain to Sandburg how they worked when he used them like this. In part, it was like unleashing some wild beast to run as it would, but behind the beast was some mechanical, analytical thing that sorted and sifted what the animal picked up on, discarding or double checking information as they moved in unison. And all of it was done below where Jim himself was, as if he were merely a bystander waiting for the results.
This time the animal picked up on a top corner of the room where a high wattage light fixture hung in front of intersection of the air duct, two walls, and the emergency fire hose cabinet. There was something wrong with that corner, an irregularity of color/texture that the calculating mind said shouldn't be there. The beast fixated, and sound was added to the anomaly; a very high-pitched, very faint electronic hum.
Grabbing the chair, Jim shoved it under the corner and stood on it until he could reach the duct. It wasn't metal like it should be. It was extremely fine fabric mesh colored to match its surroundings, and behind the material was a surveillance camera. Behind him he heard Blair's indrawn breath, but couldn't afford to acknowledge it because of his precarious perch. With sensitive fingers he probed the cavity, found the cords to the camera, and traced them to where they disappeared into the wall. Momentarily stumped, he tugged at the electrical lines, heard them bump inside the wall. With another yank he decided there wasn't enough resistance or noise for the wires to be very long; he slapped the wall itself and heard the dull thump of the concussion of another room beyond it.
Going on automatic pilot, with only the observer part of his mind truly aware of his guide, Jim leaped down, felt along the interior until he hit the outside wall, then left the room entirely. A few yards up from that entrance he found another door, this one set so that it wouldn't show on casual inspection. It was locked, but gave way to a good kick, opening into what was little more than a windowless alcove, furnished with only a table. On it were three VCR's, one of which was actively running; the other two were blinking that they had been programmed to go on at a certain time. Chillingly, the only other objects present were blank tapes, carefully labeled with dates and times, stacked at the farthest end of the table.
"Sick son-of-a-bitch was *recording* it," Jim breathed, more disgusted than he thought he was capable of being.
From behind him came a ghastly sound, and he spun, whipping both arms around his guide before Blair had time to do more than gulp greenly. Immediately dismissing the evidence from mind, Jim hustled him out into the sunshine, hanging onto him while Blair fought to keep his lunch down, shaking hard enough to force Jim to lean on the building to keep them upright. Winning the battle with his stomach, Blair finally drew away, insisting on standing on his own. From a few feet away Jim watched, heart and arms empty and aching, as Blair stood there with his head down, hair obscuring his face, struggling with another battle all together.
When he looked up, his expression was hard, filled with anger and bitterness. **Want Answers!** he shouted with his hands and body language. **Damnit, damnit, damit - Want Answers, Jim!**
Giving him a sharp nod, Jim agreed readily, hiding deep inside him what he intended to do when he had whoever had them. "I have to go back inside, Chief, to learn what I can."
**Go!**
His lengthy examination turned up two important pieces of information. Each machine held an eight-hour tape and would automatically turn off when it was full, letting the next machine take over. The used tapes were being taken out so new ones could be put in, to judge by the debris and lack of boxes to go with it. And they were still running; there was a chance that who ever was behind the set up didn't know he'd lost his prisoner. Why else keep returning to take the used ones and put in new?
A short call to Simon got the door fixed and the stake-out set up, leaving the two of them in the truck, each lost in their own minds. For all the mental distance, though, they sat close enough for legs to bump or ankles to brush, and several times Jim daringly left his hand on Blair's thigh, taking as much comfort from it as his partner did. Shortly after noon a messenger service pulled up, and a driver hopped out, clipboard and mailing bag in hand. In Jim's opinion, the man really *was* only a delivery driver, and everything about him pointed to that being the case.
Another call, and it was confirmed that this service had been contracted to make this particular pick up, once a day, until the stack of tapes ran out. The name on the contract was Blair Sandburg, and Jim didn't even give that the credibility of a snort of derision. He thanked Brown, and focused in on the label on the mailing bag as the driver came back out.
Feeling the blood drain out of his face, and the give away tic in his jaw start up like a metronome, Jim read it aloud. "Naomi Sandburg, c/o Sutter's Gallery, 118 Fairaway Drive, Seattle WA."
**No,** Blair signed, turning ghostly white. **No, no, no, no, no....** His lips moved in the shape of the repeated word, a thread of sound coming with it.
Catching his trembling hands, Jim told him flatly, "Your name has been used all along; maybe they needed a woman's for some reason. And she hasn't seen those tapes; you know Naomi's still in India, out of touch, and all her mail is being held at the gallery for her. Hell, Chief, *I *couldn't even get in contact with her when you were missing!
That didn't sound too great to him, but the shaking stopped, and Blair nodded. Sitting back in his seat, Jim started the truck to follow the delivery van. "Just to be on the safe side I want to follow this guy; see if he makes any more stops or meets up with anyone. Okay?" Not waiting for an answer, Jim put the truck in gear and settled down into hunter mode.
Following what seemed to be a logical route for the pickups he had scheduled, the driver took them over much of Cascade before stopping in front of a private packaging and mailing company located in a mini-mall. Carrying the mailbag with Naomi's name on it, he got out of the van and vanished inside, coming out moments later making a notation on his clipboard. Without thinking, Jim hopped out, Blair doggedly at his side, going into the same building and taking out his badge as he entered.
"Detective Ellison, Cascade PD," he said shortly. "A courier just came in with a package addressed to Naomi Sandburg. May I see it, please?"
"I'm sorry Detective," the girl behind the counter said, giving the badge in Jim's hand a suspicious look, "This may not be the post office but it's still private mail. I can't just hand it to you."
"Can you tell me if that package has anything special about it, then?" Jim asked intently. "Any unusual feel or weight or maybe handling instructions?"
A tap on his arm brought his attention to his partner, and Blair began to sign, smiling his best 'helllloooo lovely lady,' smile. Jim translated Blair's signs into proper English as he'd been taught, taking care to stand to one side so the clerk wouldn't focus on him. "My name is Blair Sandburg, and Naomi is my mom. I have ID if you need to see it, but she's been getting hate mail from an old boy friend and I'm worried about it escalating. That's why I took it to the cops. We won't open the package, if that's what you're worried about. We just want to look it over, and make sure it's legit. Okay?"
"I don't know," the clerk started doubtfully.
Blair leaned onto the counter, getting closer to her without actually invading her personal space. The wattage on his smile went up another couple of hundred points, and he stared into her eyes. "Please? We'll stand right here and if it even looks like we're up to no good, you can snatch the package back and sue the hell out of the department."
Blinking, looking very bemused, the young lady ran a hand through her hair, and murmured, "I guess it can't hurt to let you examine it. As long as you stay right here," she tacked on hastily.
"I promise." He made a cross over his heart for good measure, winning an answering smile from the clerk.
She half turned, digging into a bin, and asked, "You want to check out the others, too?"
Only Jim saw the flash of pure panic and surprise. Blair carefully hid it away and signed casually. "If you don't mind."
Stomping down his own reaction, Jim waited as she put enough bags on the counter to account for each day since Blair's disappearance, then picked up the top one. Beside him, Blair kept the woman distracted while he looked it over. Stapled to it was a list of addresses and a set of instructions dated to be put into effect the same day Jim estimated the last tape would be used. They were fairly straight forward. On the date the last delivery was made to the mailing center, each package would be individually put into another mail bag and sent to a differing branches of the service, with a note inside to send the original inside on to the addressee.
The end result was that Naomi would have received virtually a tape a day, with no way to stop them, even when traced back to the source. Grimly Jim noted that there was about three weeks worth; about as much time as it would take a healthy man to starve to death. Pulling out his cell, he called his Captain. They were going to need a warrant to secure the tapes.
Apparently anticipating him, Blair tugged gently on his elbow. **Paid first. My name, maybe?**
Jaw tight, Jim considered. Chances were very good that whoever was behind this wouldn't leave enough evidence behind for the tapes to be used in court. Besides, he didn't *want* to subject Blair to having the contents made public, even if only to judges and lawyers. He nodded, then said carefully to the clerk, "I think these are all the packages Mr. Sandburg sent to his mother himself. Would you check the invoices, please?"
Apparently seriously mellowed out by Blair's brand of charm, she turned to a file cabinet and flipped through it, quickly pulling out a sheet of paper. She ran down the list, comparing the numbers on it to the bags on the counter. "Yep, these are all his."
"Given what's happening, I don't think Ms. Sandburg will enjoy getting anything in the mail for a while. Is it all right if he reclaims these, and simply gives them to her himself?"
Looking doubtful, she tapped her upper lip, "The money...."
"Is unimportant. His mother's mental state is very, very important to Mr. Sandburg. If you were in her shoes, receiving obscene and disgusting mail, wouldn't you prefer not to have a gift from your son tainted by that association?" To Jim it seemed as if he was laying it on a little thick, and maybe to her, too. But Blair was doing that earnest wide-eyed thing of his, and she crumbled almost without resistance.
"Well, as long as he's not going to ask for a refund or anything, and since he does have ID...." She hesitated, then finished, "I don't see why not."
Dealing with his impatience internally, Jim translated for Blair as he gracefully disengaged them from the clerk, scooping up the mail bags as best he could all the while. In the end, it took both of them to get it all out to the truck, and they went right to the loft, only making one call to Simon to let him know where they were but not much else. Once in the seclusion of their home, Blair went directly to where he stored his mediation candles, for once not hesitating at the threshold to his room.
Understanding the unspoken message that he needed time to center himself for what lay ahead, Jim reluctantly gave Blair room, taking himself up to his bedroom to open and sort the packages. When at last they all stood in a row in front of him, dates and times glaring at him from the labels on the spines, he did his own kind of meditation, using his army K-bar unearthed from the closet to shred mailing bag after mailing bag after mailing bag.
There was quite a mess in his trash can, overflowing heedlessly onto the floor by the time he heard Blair heave an enormous sigh and stretch almost out of his skin. Taking that as his cue and making a mental note to clean up before Blair could find the destroyed material, he went downstairs with the first two tapes, fairly sure that all they needed would be on them.
The calm Blair presented him with was only surface deep, he knew, but he didn't stall turning on his VCR and cuing up the tape. Blair remained where he'd meditated, still sitting cross-legged and Jim sat on the couch behind him, trying to find a compromise between hovering and being protectively close.
Handing the remote to Blair, he watched the TV screen flicker, then shimmy before settling into the image of elderly woman, regally erect in an old-fashioned wing chair, back not touching her seat. "Edith Johnson," Jim murmured, identifying her.
"Good evening, Naomi," the weeks old recording began. "I'll be brief, because I'm sure you have much more pressing matters on your mind than listening to the ramblings of an old friend, but I *do* think you want to hear this, my dear." The venom underlying her cultured accent made Blair shudder, and Jim slid down to sit behind him, knees going up on either side to form a protective barrier around his partner.
"I had the most delightful lunch with your son today. He really is a most charming young man: intelligent, thoughtful, courteous, sensitive. Much like my Lewis. You remember him, I'm sure, Naomi. You were both so young, and Lewis was *so* much in love with you. His whole world rose and set by your smile. Even with as many lovers as you've had come and go over the years, you have to remember someone as devoted and wonderful as my Lewis. He followed you into that dreadful hippie lifestyle of yours, followed your example of carefree, guilt-free sex and drugs.
"When you discarded him, he stayed in that life because it was all he had of you. Stayed in it, and eventually, it killed him. Oh, nothing so nice and neat as an overdose or drunk driving accident of course. He had one bad trip too many, and had to be institutionalized in a place where very strong nurses tended to his every need. None too gently I'm afraid; he was rather violent during those last years. Not much left of the gentle, caring boy I gave birth to; your young Blair really is so much like him....
"In fact, I thought perhaps he might have been Lewis' son; the timing was right. He could have been another son for me to raise and cherish, to keep well and safe this time. Unfortunately for Blair, that was not the case. You have *no* idea how easy it was to get a blood sample of his for testing by the way. Hospitals really should have better security, don't you think?
"So he wasn't Lewis' child, and I had no child because of you, so it only seemed fair that you shouldn't have one either. And that you should loose your son as slowly and cruelly as I lost mine. That you should have to watch, as I did. See your Blair slowly dissolve into madness, treated like an animal at the hands of his keepers.
"Yes, Naomi, I'm the one who stole your precious child. He had no reason not to trust me and walked into my snare without so much as thinking twice. And since I knew that police officer friend of his would move heaven and earth to find him, I decided I would have to wait until his last, shall we say mortal struggles, were over to prevent the authorities from interfering too soon. So it is already too late; Blair is dead and no matter what evidence can be had from this - and the other deliveries you can expect for the next three weeks - you have no hope of saving him. Nor will it do you any particular good to give this to the police. I shall confess quite readily; after all, the point is moot now, isn't it? He is dead and shortly so shall I be. That heart complaint of mine, you know.
"At least I shall have the satisfaction in my death of knowing that the books between us are balanced. That justice was done for my poor Lewis.
"One last thing, Naomi. I wonder if you will have the courage to face all that is ahead of you. To watch every last minute of every last tape, because, even though you are watching him in pain and insanity and humiliation, Blair is at least *alive* for those minutes. You can hear his voice, see his face, as distorted as they may be.
"Or will you turn away; consign them unviewed to a police evidence locker? I wonder, Naomi. I truly wonder."
The television went blank, and before it the static could clear into a new picture, Jim snatched up the remote and turned it off. "You don't need to see anymore," he told Blair gruffly. "You were there." There was no response, not even a quiver in the compact body resting back against him so securely. "Chief?" Cautiously Jim shook one shoulder, but his partner moved with the motion limply - lifelessly. "BLAIR!"
Jim toppled him backwards, across his arm so he could bend over him, fingers of his other hand going to the pulse point. Not that he couldn't tell that the heart was beating steadily and evenly, or that the chest was rising and falling normally, but to give himself the kind of reassurance only touch could. "Blair," he whispered this time, studying the empty face worriedly. "Come on, buddy, don't do this to me. Come on, come on."
Rocking both of them, wondering if he should call an ambulance and afraid of what the verdict might be if he did, Jim simply held him, murmuring his name over and over. Gradually he became aware Blair was murmuring, too. Or trying to. What made it past his lips was barely more than shaped air, and within a few minutes the fine muscles of both the square capable hands began to move with the words. After a few tries Jim translated to himself, out loud, **My name is Blair Sandburg, my mother Naomi loves me very much, and Jim will find me. My name is Blair Sandburg, my mother Naomi loves me very much, and Jim will find me. My name....**
Blair's eyes suddenly focused on him, locking onto his lips as he spoke. "That's right, Chief." Jim said hastily. "Your name is Blair Sandburg, Naomi loves you very much, and I found you." They said the words together, the guide silently and the sentinel through nearly numb lips, then again, and again, and again until Blair finally fell into sleep, his lips and fingers still convulsively moving.
How long he sat there, cradling him close, Jim didn't bother to keep track. When he was sure Blair was deeply under, he dragged a blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over him, folding a corner over his face to keep out light. Then Jim used the remote to turn the TV and VCR back on, sound so low that he had trouble hearing it.
Between the state-of-the-art night vision camera and Jim's own sight, the images were very clear. Too clear. He was only able to endure about an hour before the need to pick up the set and throw it off the balcony - without opening the door first - over came the professional detachment he'd tried to use.
He was surprised he made it that long.
Tenaciously he forced away the idea of selling his soul to the devil not only for as punishment for not taking care of his Blair properly, but so that he could have the pleasure of making sure Edith Johnsons' stay in hell was as bad as a failed sentinel could make it. He'd get what he deserved later. Right now he had to take care of Blair. The whole reason for watching the tape had been in hopes of finding the causes of his partner's behavior, not so he could lean the depth of his stupidity.
He had the information; the question was, how to use it.
Thinking back to the first tape and Mrs. Johnson's taunt to Naomi about watching all of the tapes, Jim asked himself, Did *you* watch *your* son's death? What you did to Blair was more a parody of what happens to a violently insane person; the Hollywood version. Even the worse asylum the treatment is more humane.
Did you imagine it was that bad for your son because you didn't have the courage to visit him? Or did you deliberately make it that bad to punish him for being less than a perfect son to you?
There could never be an answer to his questions. All he could know was that Blair had awakened in the dark, mind filled with distorted sensations and thoughts, and told ceaselessly in the most vile language possible that he was worthless, unwanted, and unloved. That Naomi wanted him to suffer; she hated him for what he had done to her life. No one was looking for him, no one cared what happened to him. He was a nameless nothing that would vanish from the face of the earth, un-mourned and unmissed.
And since words were *Blair's* weapon of choice, he'd fought back, arguing, coaxing, denying, shouting, screaming, moaning and whispering. For six days the lies continued. Sometime during them he'd become silent, but only because Blair had chosen to disarm himself, keeping the few weapons he'd needed most.
"My name is Blair Sandburg," Jim whispered, nearly crushing his guide to his chest, "My mother Naomi loves me very much, and..." His voice broke, clogged on bitterest vile. Those were the only words you would believe in, huh, Chief? If you couldn't shut the rest up or drown them out, you could lock them away. Soldiers trained to withstand brainwashing couldn't have done as well as you, using nothing but your own sense of self and determination.
Blair squirmed in his grasp, automatically protesting the bruising strength holding him, and Jim instantly relaxed as much as he could. Brushing a kiss over the wide brow to calm the sleeping man and coax him back under, Jim carefully turned his partner under him so that his forearm pillowed the curly head. With his Blair flat on his back, Jim lay on his side next to him, fingers of his free hand stealing a single lock of hair.
It clung to his fingertip determinedly, the silken fibers coiling enticingly around it and urging him to do more. Determinedly he kept his hand out of the mass spilling over his arm, and he pressed another kiss to Blair's forehead, almost expecting to feel the brain under it whirling. Smiling at his own whimsy, he began to pull away but then stopped completely when infinitesimal air currents told him that closed lids were fluttering. Holding his breath, he waited for Blair to go completely back to sleep, but instead butterfly kisses from long lashes tantalized his cheeks.
He lifted his head enough to try to meet Blair's eyes, deliberately adjusting his sight to normal so that he would be able to see no more than Blair could. With the blinds down and no fire, the living room was dark, with not much of the city lights making it through the double barrier of Cascade's perpetual overcast and the glass of the skylights. The furniture was only vague shapes, the walls hidden in a distance made great by blackness. Half expecting his partner to stiffen with panic or fight the half-seen mass looming over him, Jim was surprised when Blair nuzzled at his face, pressing his own tiny, closed-mouth kiss onto his jaw.
Sighing, Jim returned it, aiming for the little spot right between his lover's eyebrows, then let his lips drag down over the bridge of his nose. With his own sigh, Blair tilted back his head and met Jim's mouth, the touch as tentative and careful as the delicate sweep from his lashes moments earlier.
Jim drew back a fraction of an inch, then irresistibly returned to kiss his lover again, lingering this time to savor the lushness of the rich fullness waiting for him. When Blair hesitantly opened for him, he delved between the parted lips, scarcely penetrating, wanting only to steal a taste. The flavor was as succulent as the guardians to it, and he helplessly returned again and again, taking humming bird sips that gradually grew deeper and deeper. Lured by the waiting inhabitant, Jim's tongue began an evocative dance with its counterpart that was languidly reflected by involuntary movement of their hips into each other.
A soft cry of passion from his partner made Jim ease away from his feasting to stare down into the shadows that made up Blair's face. He could barely make out the pools concealing Blair's gaze, the blue that should be there swallowed up by both desire and the night. For a moment he teetered, torn between the need to comfort and console his wounded guide and the necessity of making love to the one person he would always cherish above all others.
Then Blair reached up to curl his fingers into the nape of Jim's neck, pulling him back down for more kisses. Love won as effortlessly as that and he covered the trembling lips waiting for him, but only for a moment. With a last peck as a promise to return, he sat up and unhurriedly removed his clothes, folding them clothes onto one corner of the couch next to him. As he did, Blair undressed as well, carelessly setting his aside, and flowing into Jim's arms when he was done.
Jim knew to a millimeter how tall his lover was, to the pound how heavy. But in the dark with only touch to go by, there seemed to be enough Blair for him to wear over every inch of himself, with no place on his skin without its share. They glided over each other in hushed silence, twining together without rhyme or reason, hands and mouths floating to random locations to gently touch down for a moment before moving on to a new spot. Their caresses were nearly innocent, fueled by curiosity living hand in hand with need, and went on until dawn began to brighten the loft.
With the light came the natural urgency of the body, and Jim found his way back to Blair's mouth even as his hand made it way instinctively toward his lover's aching shaft. As he stroked, his own need was taken in hand by Blair, and they matched tempo in the first shared thrust. A few were all that was needed, and Jim breathed his cry of completion into his partner, where it mixed with Blair's as the seed from their bodies mixed on their bellies. They milked each other of both pleasured cries and come, then they cuddled together, seeping into a nearly perfect fit.
Head pillowed in the sweet curve of shoulder, completely sated, Jim smiled contentedly, shrouded in the scent and presence of his lover. With one arm draped over him, Blair signed clumsily, **Thank you. Forgot night had good things, too.**
"I liked reminding you." Jim didn't bother to correct his misconception. If Blair wanted to think that he'd been seduced to counter act his fear of the dark, so be it. His guide was far too perceptive to delude himself about that for long, and he had enough to deal with at the moment. Until then Jim was more than happy to wait for Blair to admit that he was in love with him.
* * *
Rotating his shoulder, Jim absently shifted his pack, giving most of his attention to the mountains around them. He and Sandburg had been hiking for the better part of the morning toward one of their favorite camp sites, following the trail in thoughtful silence. Around them the Washington forest was taking advantage of a sunny day, so rare to this part of the country, by sparkling and glowing beautifully in the bright rays, almost visibly growing from them.
The weight of the pack, the plastic clicking and ticking of its shifting contents, wouldn't let Jim share in that innocent enjoyment. It nagged and dragged at him, making it an effort to keep pace with his guide. Though Blair's pack was similarly weighted, it seemed no burden to him; he was traveling over the rough trail as efficiently as any Army Ranger. Or maybe it wasn't that the burden was nothing, but that the goal was that important. Mutely agreeing, he matched his partner's step with a will, spotting the clearing that was their destination only fifteen minutes of hiking away.
When they arrived, Blair stood in the center of it, turning in a slow circle and wearing a studious expression. "Yes," he signed/said, as he'd been doing sporadically since they found the tapes two days ago, not able yet to give up his crutch just yet. "I like this place, but it won't bother me if I can't come back again. We can do this here."
"Are you sure this is how you want to handle it?" Jim couldn't help but ask, though they had hashed it all out before going to Simon Banks with what they had.
"The only justice I'm going to get, Jim," Blair said gently, hands punctuating the important words, "is by denying her the vengeance she wanted. Yes, I could sue her estate and get rich; yes, I could see how much damage I could do to what was left of her family, or to those poor suckers she tricked into helping her: the actor or my keepers. But that won't hurt *her* and won't help *me.* Destroying these tapes undoes everything she so carefully set into place. Naomi will never be hurt by them; she'll never even *know* about them. It's the right thing, and you know it."
"It doesn't feel right to me," Jim disagreed. "It's like those cases where a good cop puts in hours and hours of legwork and brain sweat, only to have some smart assed PD get the crook off on a technicality."
"Well, this is as good as it's going to get," Blair shot back, unperturbed by Jim's thunderous mood. "And if I do it right, let the fear and anger go with the tapes, it'll be enough to at least let me get *on* with it. Jim, I'm tired of letting Edith Johnson's vengeance dominate my life."
There wasn't anything he could say to that, so he went about setting up their meager camp, carefully scraping an extra-deep, extra wide fire pit. While he did that, Blair prepared for this private ritual, obviously taking time and care to get things exactly so for himself. Finally both were done, and Blair signed/said, "Are you going to watch? Or make yourself scarce for a while?"
That was the crux of it for Jim. For him, letting go of feelings that ran so deep and violently was nearly impossible. But if he carried around the baggage Edith Johnson bequeathed him, how on Earth was he going to be able to accept that Blair could turn it loose? *Had* to turn it loose? Much as guilt and failure crushed him, it was his guide that had suffered. He had no business standing in the way of whatever Blair needed to heal.
**Stay,** he chopped out, not willing to trust his voice.
**Good.**
Offering Jim a rubber mallet, Blair picked up one for himself and hefted it as if to test its sturdiness for what was coming. Satisfied he put one of the tapes on a flat rock Jim had located for him, and brought the hammer down with a grunt of effort. Shattering, the case spewed its contents out, but Blair continued beating on the plastic until the shards had cut the ribbon of tape into chaotic fragments.
Jim watched him for a few minutes, taking in his intense concentration and rising vitals. By the time Blair was satisfied with the destruction he'd wrought on his first victim, his grunts were becoming fragments of words. Short, hard, furious words that spurred Jim into acting himself, and he selected his own tape to destroy.
To him seeing the neat little cases become so much garbage didn't effect him so much as the release it was giving his guide did. By the time they had reduced all of the evidence to a mound of fragments, Blair was shouting wordlessly each time the mallet came down, and he was putting so much force into the blows that they both wore minor scratches from the flying pieces.
Last one done, Blair threw the hammer away violently and shoved the mess into the fire pit. Panting, he sat back on his heels, watching as Jim poured a small amount of jet fuel on it. Snagging Blair's arm, Jim pulled them both back a couple of yards, broke open a flare to activate it, then tossed it into the pit. A whomp! of air and fire shot up, then the pit settled down into burning victoriously.
Blair studied it for a minute, then whirled around, throwing his arms around Jim's neck and sealing his lips to the sentinel's.
The move was so unexpected Jim had no chance to prepare his senses, and the flood of erotic input nearly sent him to his knees. Locking both joints out of necessity, he dove straight into the heart of the torrent, filling Blair's mouth with his tongue and trying to steal every molecule of the wondrous, wondrous taste. Barely hearing the deep-chested groans bouncing around inside himself, he did what he had subconsciously wanted *forever* and buried one hand in the wind-blown mane whipping around his face. The curls clung to him, holding onto him as insistently as Blair's sturdy arms, lashing at him with hundreds of individual silken caresses. He was trapped as surely as if he'd handed the man his gun and handcuffs, and for once in his life, truly didn't care.
Anchoring his lover to him with an arm around a slender waist, Jim felt a strong leg hook over his hip as Blair pressed closer, his erection scoring a long trail over Jim's stomach. His own manhood rose in answer to it, eagerly seeking its companion through the many layers of fabric between them. Suddenly the obstacle was too much for his skin to bear, and it screeched at him, interrupting his single-minded pursuit of tongue fucking Blair's mouth. Nearly whimpering, he broke their kiss, filling his starved lungs reflexively, targeted the necessary buttons, and went back to devouring Blair.
Meeting him half way, Blair demanded his own opportunity to plunder; he thrust past the intruder, intending to ravish him and took his share of Jim's flavors. He helped clumsily with getting his shirts off, not caring where they went as long as they were gone, then went after Jim's clothes. Giving only as much thought to their garments as needed to get the job done, Jim devoted what few coherent cells he had left to bracing himself for the impact of naked skin to naked skin.
It was a wasted effort. The second the soft chest hairs collided with his own bare flesh, twining over it and creating yet another million satin grips on him, he went down, barely able to keep them from crashing onto the forest floor. With a gentleness that mixed strangely with the urgency of his kiss, he lowered Blair onto his back on an improvised pallet of clothing. Keeping his weight on one elbow, he stretched over the writhing body and fought with the opening of Blair's jeans.
The hard-on that burst out was as sturdy and powerful looking at the rest of Blair, but the cap was nearly purple from need and weeping pre-ejaculate steadily. Tearing his lips away from Blair's, Jim meant only to glance at it to be sure it was safe from metal teeth, but he found himself practically zoning on a clear, crystal droplet hovering at the very tip of the spongy head. Unconsciously he licked his lips; millions of years of genetics insisted to his own aching need that satisfaction could be found in sampling that drop of fluid.
He bent to lick it off, instantly discovering that he was indeed programmed to love and want this taste of his mate, like all others Blair produced. Above him he heard a thin wail, then Blair scrabbled at his shoulders, looking for a safe place for his hands. Heedless of that he scooted down to capture as much of the thrumming shaft in his throat as he could. Wailing again, Blair began to thrust, barely holding back enough so that he wouldn't choke him. Jim went with it, learning from the involuntary flexing of Blair's hips exactly what pattern pleased most. Within moments the sensitive pads of his fingers picked up a new level of heat and pressure in the rod he held steady, but before he could interpret this new bit of data, Blair came. Though it only had a deep gasp to mark it, he convulsed with the force of it, nearly knocking Jim away from him in his mindless completion.
His own passion partially derailed, Jim rode it out, carefully milking the cock to make sure the release was thorough. That done, Blair's muscles gradually going liquid under him, Jim sat up on his heels to fumble out his own hunger.
Eyes shut to keep him from finishing instantly at the sight of a sated, blissful Blair sprawled out in front of him, he pumped himself urgently, letting the last of his lover's semen roll over his tongue. Despite the odd texture, he loved the salty-bitter tang of it, knew it would always mean desire to him from this point on. The hand he was using to work himself was wet from the overflow from Blair, and he spread it over his dick hurriedly, so that he could bring the remainder up to lick off his own fingers.
From a great distance he heard a strangled, "Oh! My! God! JIM!!!!" Then there was soft wetness encompassing the head of his cock, closing over it with a tender suction that spiked into his groin, making his eyes fly open. Blair was curled around his kneeling form, head in his lap, voraciously sucking at what he could of Jim's hard-on.
"Yes," he hissed, "taste me, taste me!" Hand moving in a blur, he mindlessly sped for his finish, only wanting Blair to know him as intimately has he knew his lover. The force of his climax caught him as off guard as the kiss that started their lovemaking, sending his mind off and leaving his body to Blair's care.
When his head cleared, their position hadn't changed much, though Jim had no idea how it was possible for him to still be upright when he felt like he was made of dry sand stuffed into a gunny sack. What was even more surprising was that he was still erect too, and that Blair was bobbing his head up and down eagerly on his length, humming deep inside himself in pleasure. The vibrations did interesting things to Jim's innards, rolling and bumping around in his gut until he *had* to pump carefully in time to his lover's administrations.
That made Blair moan, doubling the effect of the sound echoing in him, and doubling his hunger for him. Not sure how far they were going to go, Jim hesitated, enjoying what was being done to him, but enjoying the sight of Blair doing it as well. Apparently Blair really loved this form of love making; he was completely hard again and squirming onto whatever part of Jim his cock happened to bump onto. He shifted position, and the movement along with a gust of wind spilled the hair Blair had carefully pulled to one side onto Jim's balls and shaft, wrapping the base in a glove of silky fibers that Jim was already addicted to.
Shouting, he reached down to dig both hands into that mass of teasing, wonderful, curls, intending only to sweep it over more of his flesh, but Blair moaned hungrily and went after Jim's dick harder, reaching for his own as he did. The sight of him pleasuring himself so needily was too much for Jim; he wanted to be the one to make Blair come, and he wanted to do it in the best way possible.
Gathering a few tatters of his control, he tugged the busy head up from his groin, fastening his lips onto Blair's as soon as he could reach. Moaning a protest, Blair tried to pull away, but Jim gently pushed him down onto their nest of clothes, sending questioning fingers down Blair's spine to the cleft between his cheeks.
Understanding what Jim wanted, Blair mumbled, "Yes, yes," and turned himself over, bringing his knees up to his chest so that he was open and available.
Instead of enflaming Jim, the sight of the vulnerable pucker made him hesitate. There was no doubt he had to bury himself in that tight ass; his cock was practically tearing itself off him unaided to do so. But there was something needed here first, something important, and he clutched after a few more threads of control to be able to think.
Impatient, or maybe thinking that Jim was having second thoughts about this kind of loving, Blair reared back, trying to impale himself on the dripping cock, chanting, "Please, please, please."
The head of it skimmed over the tiny opening, but that reminded Jim of what was needed. Concentrating, he looked over their clothes, saw the lump in a jacket pocket he was looking for, and unearthed the tiny pot of aloe lip balm that he carried when hiking. It wasn't much, and wasn't really made to be lube, but it would do. It would have to do. That brief intimacy had spun his hormones into over drive, and he was literally shaking with lust.
Hastily he dug the container out. "Hang on, babe," he muttered as Blair tried again to take what he wanted. "This first, okay? Lube first."
"Hurry!" and the demand in his guide's voice was nearly his undoing.
Groaning almost continuously, Jim scooped out a fingerful of the balm and gently slipped it into the painfully tight hole. "God! How is this possible?" he muttered, relishing the clinging softness.
That surprised a bark of laughter out of Blair. "Trust me, Jim. It is. And great as one is, two are better." He rocked back onto the small invader, then pulled completely away. Taking the hint, Jim pressed in two trembling fingers, and began a rhythm of in and out that he had learned from Blair earlier.
It was good for his lover; very, very good if the soft cries and driving hips were any indication. Momentarily distracted by that, Jim was able to open Blair thoroughly, stretching and relaxing the tight ring until it was taking three fingers easily. An unusually powerful shove sent them in farther than he had managed so far, and Blair shouted, immediately lunging back again for more, his channel spasming around the probes inside him.
Withdrawing his hand Jim used the last of the balm to coat his hard-on, then set himself at the rim of the heated portal. "Can't wait any more," he moaned. "Gotta get in, babe. Gotta."
"Want it!" was all Blair said, but he calmed his restless pumping, fists tight and back tense to help him wait.
Jim didn't make him wait long; he pressed forward slowly, keeping up the pressure until his cock breached the small ring. He and Blair both groaned, but there was a note of pain in Blair's that kept him from moving until an impatient sound told him it was time to thrust again. With one more steady push he claimed the hot channel.
The feel of it was more intense than any orgasm Jim had ever had in his life, and he abruptly lost any chance he had to stay gentle. "I... I can't hold... Blair, I'm *sorry*," he whispered. With that he drew all the way out then rammed back in as fast as he could. Beyond all belief it was even better, and he surrendered to the feel of his lover around him.
They worked together, both giving and taking, as fast as they could force their bodies to move, hating each withdrawal, loving each return, punctuating all of it with soft cries and low shouts. It truly didn't matter if lasted for seconds or hours. What mattered was that they held nothing back either physically or emotionally, and their mutual roar of triumph when they shot was a declaration of far more than release.
When the last echo was absorbed into the disinterested forest, they fell, rolling to their sides, automatically fitting Jim's front to Blair's back and tangling their legs together. Putting an arm under his lover's head for a pillow, Jim cushioned his own with a jacket, and buried his face in the curls so close to him.
Content to simply nose around in the curls obscuring the back of Blair's neck, Jim mentally began marking time, betting with himself that it would take less than five minutes for his lover to begin talking. When he won by two, he grinned widely, carefully hiding it in the tangle of locks, just in case Blair looked back over his shoulder.
"That wasn't a pity fuck," Blair said bluntly, hands not moving at all for the first time since he learned sign.
"Nope." Jim bit gently at the rise of a tendon, then sucked at it, comparing the bitterness of sweat to that of semen.
"It wasn't a buddy fuck, either."
"Nope," Jim said disinterestedly.
"It wasn't even sentinel laying claim to shaman, was it?"
"Un uh." Still totally disinterested.
"That was Jim making love to Blair." Under the level words was a combination of nervousness and surety that Jim found endearing, not that he could ever mention that to Blair.
"Yes, it was. And if you'll give me a few more minutes, I'll do it again so that you'll be sure of your facts, here, Chief." Jim gave a little nudge to the firm backside in his lap to show that he was serious, regardless of the off-hand way he made his promise.
"God, you mean that!"
"Uh, huh," Jim affirmed blandly.
"Since when has your orientation changed!" Exasperated, Blair twisted in Jim's arms until they were face-to-face.
"I don't suppose I could interest you putting this off until we've done it again?" Jim asked, only half teasing.
"Jim," Blair began threateningly.
"Okay, okay. Jesus, Sandburg. Don't you believe in post coital snuggling?" At the glare he got, Jim relented and said, "I haven't changed my orientation. Guys don't give me boners, only girls. I've just added one particular individual to my orientation. You. A minute ago you didn't seem to have a problem with that."
"Just like that? No way; impulse is not a word in your vocabulary," Blair argued.
"No, not just like that. Look, haven't you ever met a woman, and maybe weren't particularly attracted to her at first, but then you got to know her a little and maybe found out she was really interesting and next thing you know you're wondering how she kisses."
To his credit Blair thought about it, nodding his head slowly. "That's more how it usually happens with guys with me though. I spend time with them and develop a taste, sorta."
"Is that what happened with me?" His lover tried to look innocent, but Jim pressed. "Turn about, Chief."
The words came slowly, and his eyes were turned inward, seeing into himself, but Blair answered honestly, "No, not even close.
"You see, everybody has this mental landscape, the part that supports all the thinking and learning and stuff. It's the really basic stuff. Trees have leaves, they're usually green, sky is up, fire is bad. You were probably told all that when you were little, but you don't remember it; it's just there and it holds the rest of your mind up.
"All of mine was torn away, Jim. All of the mental landscape reduced to a couple of words. "My name is Blair Sandburg, my...."
Jim joined in with him, reciting softly, "..mother Naomi loves me very much, and Jim will find me."
"That's right," Blair agreed. "Maybe it's not much, but it was all I had to hold all the destruction at bay, and let me survive. Thing is, they're all basic truths to my existence that I've never had to be told. And the reason that I knew you would find me is because I love you and you love me, and anything else was simply impossible for me to disbelieve."
Chuckling, Jim admitted, "When it finally sunk through my head, virtually the next thought I had was that you already knew. Why didn't you ever say or do anything?"
"What was to say or do? You were, are straight, and I accepted that fact the same way you'd accept that your blind lover wasn't ever going to know what your face looked like or see your love in your eyes. It just was. No problem."
"Then I kissed you. Sort of," Jim pointed out. "Must have really shook that landscape of yours."
"Man, you have no idea... if I had been sure then that it was because you wanted me...."
"Blair, I'm really sorry about that. I wasn't trying to take advantage, really..." Jim interrupted.
"No, it was me; too damned weak to turn down...."
Before Blair could finish the statement, Jim heard a 'pop' from the completely forgotten fire. Tucking his lover close, he hastily rolled so that they were farther away from the fire pit and he could see into it. Wanting to see what the sentinel was reacting to, Blair twisted to look at the fire, himself.
It was nearly out, having burned hot and fast, leaving behind a sludge of melted plastic that would probably take far too long to biodegrade. "Pinecone must have gotten into it," Jim decided.
Losing interest, Blair snuggled into the bigger body. "Probably."
"That's all you have to say about it when we trekked all the way up here for the sole purpose of making that fire?" Jim asked incredulously.
"Actually no," Blair said slyly, deliberately shaking his head so that his hair pelted softly onto Jim's body. "Because of those damned tapes I'm lying here naked with you. Somewhere in eternity Edith Johnson is having a *fit*."
finis