STALKING

***This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong, he thought desperately. Watching him like I have been is bad, but this is wrong, this is wrong. He shifted back further into the shadows, never moving his eyes from the entrance of Hargrove. I won't do it, not this time, I'll just watch again. I won't do it. His hands worried the roll of duct tape he held, giving proof of his lie to himself. It's wrong, I won't do it, I'll only watch.... He lost his chain of thought as the door to the building opened.

Heart leaping, he looked carefully, not really needing to, to make sure it was *him* coming out. Yes, unmistakable. Even at this late hour, he was bounding down the stairs, full of energy, swinging his pack, dancing to some tune in his head. His hair swung and swayed with his steps, teasing by hiding, then revealing, the shape of his face, the line of his jaw.

It was too much for the watcher. Reason shut down; his hand automatically tore a strip of the tape and readied it. Swiftly he scanned the area - no one near, no sign of anyone in any of the other buildings. He crouched, waiting, then, as the young man walked past, he pounced.***

Blair boogied down the sidewalk, on his way to his car. He had devoted the entire evening to his dissertation, and the writing had gone very, very well. In a mood to celebrate, he mentally reviewed his list of available ladies, wondering which could be talked into a late night dinner and maybe dancing. Better call Jim while he was at it, unless he wanted an APB put out on him. Blair felt more comfortable with Jim about that sort of joking since their recent return from Peru, but better safe than sorry when dealing with a by-the-rules cop.

Without warning, a massive arm wrapped around his chest, lifting him effortlessly and pinning both of his arms to his sides. Before he could yell, tape was slapped over his mouth. Kicking, he squirmed, making what noise he could.

He didn't even put his captor off balance. They moved back away from the sidewalk, and Blair tried to twist enough to get a look at who was holding him. No luck, and then they were behind the campus buildings, into the woods that ringed that side of the university. Panicked, he struggled harder. He may as well have been tied in that dentist's chair again for all the good it did. The very idea sent him into overdrive.

For a second he thought he might have succeeded; he could feel they were falling. Instead, whoever it was sat, taking Blair down with him. Before Blair could use the change to get more leverage to fight, large legs draped over his from behind, holding him in place. The hold on him shifted, and his wrists were taken into hard hands before being pulled over his head.

Both hands held in one of the attacker's, he heard before he felt the handcuffs snap into place. Using the chain, the man behind him forced him backwards, onto his back. From the feel of it, the chain was secured to something anchored in the ground, above him. Sunglasses, the kind that wrapped all the way round, were carefully placed over his eyes. He blinked at a sudden lack of vision; the lenses had been painted over. All he could see was a ring of dim light around the periphery.

Breathing hard, now, Blair didn't give up his attempt to get loose, but the other man moved out from behind him, leaving Blair only the cuffs to battle. Fully expecting his feet to be bound next, Blair tensed, knees up, ready to kick at the slightest opportunity. It did him no good. Sitting astride Blair's upper thighs, the man put his weight onto the raised knees, and leaned. Though Blair twisted and bucked, there was no chance of holding against him. Legs flat to the ground, Blair felt heavy bags of sand or something similar placed on his ankles. It didn't hurt, but there was no way for him to move his feet more than a wiggle or two.

His attacker stood, and Blair heard him moving around, not far away. Effectively immobilized, Blair stilled himself, and tried to quiet his terror to brace himself for whatever came next.

Nothing happened. Listening intently for some clue as to what the man was up to, Blair tilted his head. Damn it, he knew the guy was still there; he would have heard him leave, right? Double damn it, the bastard wasn't even panting from the fight. He began to rub his face at his arm to dislodge the glasses.

"Don't." The voice was electronically distorted; the guy had to be wearing some kind of microphone. Great. Assuming he survived this, the only description Blair was going to be able to give was that the assailant was big and strong. And prepared. For some reason that thought sent a chill through him, and he couldn't contain a shudder from it.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The voice was closer now, and Blair had the impression the man was kneeling beside him, hovering over him without touching. "I swear, that was the worst of it."

Unable to speak, Blair mumbled his disbelief through the tape. Why go to all this bother if there wasn't some sort of agenda?

As if reading his mind, the man answered, "I didn't say I was going to do *nothing.*" Somehow there was a note of humor in the distortion. "I'm going to lie down next to you and... touch... you. That's all, I promise. If it will help, I'll tell you before I move my hands. Yes or no?"

Oh, great, a considerate mad man. Nevertheless, Blair thought hard. He wanted to get this over with as fast as possible, and taking time to relay what was happening would slow things down. Not to mention knowing about it before hand wasn't going to make it any easier. He shook his head no.

There was a shuffling, a grunt, then a large, hard chest was pressed to his side, and a tentative hand began to explore the top of his head. Carefully, as if he were being brailled, Blair was stroked with light, finger-tip touches. His captor was thorough, and though his touch was more personal than a doctor's, it was less so than a lover's. Despite his earlier fear and current worry, Blair relaxed, not quite giving in, but not fighting any more, either.

It helped that his captor didn't seem to be getting off on the contact. His breathing remained steady, even, and the warmth that soaked into Blair from him never got past normal human-to-human level. Even when his nipples got their share of attention, naturally tightening, the touch never changed. Almost reflexively, Blair tensed when he came close to his genitals, but, though the soft bulge was given its share, the fingers didn't linger or caress.

Finally, the man shifted to be able to continue down Blair's legs, and Blair couldn't help but wonder what would come when he ran out of body to go over. To his surprise - somehow it was the most tender, intimate part of the whole thing - his shoes were removed and his feet and toes were handled. It seemed to him that the hand was removed regretfully, then all contact with the attacker was gone.

Something cold and hard was pressed into his hand, and he heard the sound of steps on soft earth as the man left. He concentrated on the object; it was a key. It only took a minute to confirm that it was to the cuffs, and to free himself. Throwing them away angrily, ripping off the tape and snatching off the glasses, he looked around hurriedly, fear roaring up again. Surely that couldn't be all!

But he was alone, under a tree that he recognized. It was a huge, overgrown maple that had branches drooping all the way to he ground. Hundreds of students on the campus knew the discrete path that would bring someone under those branches and into the hidden shelter they created next to the trunk. Called the lovers' tree, almost everybody knew security only patrolled by it once or twice a night, making it a good place for making out if there wasn't anywhere else available. He had a few good memories of the spot, himself.

Shuddering, thinking he was going to detour around it for the rest of his time on the campus, Blair freed his feet and pulled on his socks and shoes. When he was done, he cautiously snuck out. No one was there, and his pack was on the remnant of wall that jutted into the path - the common signal that the tree had company, already.

Try as he might, he could see no sign of anyone or of what had happened to him. If it weren't for the slight irritation from the cuffs, and the dirt on the back of him, he would have been hard put to prove that it had. Feeling paranoid, and deservedly so in his opinion, he made his way to his car, jumping at every hint of motion. Even when safely in it, the engine running, he tried to keep ultra-alert. Once going, he tried to catch one of the thoughts scrambling around in his head. Where to go? The station and report it?

He winced. Most of the guys there had let up on the hazing and teasing they'd treated him with when he first started, and were beginning to actually show him some respect. Imagining their reaction to this little episode, he shook his head. Uh uh, no way.

Tell Jim? Absolutely not, and he clamped down on his reasons for it with a strength of will that would have astounded him if he had paid attention to it.

Which left forgetting about it. It wasn't as though he had been hurt, aside from some *major* male ego bashing. And the guy had done anything, really. In fact, being in a mosh pit was more brutal and involved more intimate contact. Queasy, but sure that since he knew that guy was out there, he could avoid another attack, Blair decided to ignore it. Well, as best he could, anyway.

For the most part, he succeeded. By the end of a month, he wasn't anxious when someone big approached him unexpectedly, and he had quit parking the Corvair in bright, public places. After a while, some of the situations he found himself as Jim's partner made him dismiss the groper as completely harmless. The entire incident faded to the point that he made out with a girl under the lovers' tree and didn't think of it until he took her home.

Months later, he woke unexpectedly in the middle of the night, and the whole thing flashed through his mind. Disoriented, he sat up, staring wildly around him. It wasn't his bedroom, it was Jim's, and he had no memory of coming up here. He was fully dressed, except for his shoes, and wearing his heavy coat. His blankets were spread over the ones already on Jim's bed, and his roommate was on his side, facing away, snoring softly.

*What* am I doing up here? He shivered, and automatically slid back under the blankets, And why am I so cold? Cautiously, he checked out Jim: definitely sound asleep. We must have lost the heat or power or something. Did Jim bring me up here to keep me warm? Why not wake me? He searched his memory, but he clearly remembered undressing and going to bed, rather early for him.

Huddling carefully against Jim's back, not quite touching - oh yeah, he was warm enough to cook on, almost - Blair drifted back towards sleep. He must have gotten cold and walked in his sleep. As a child he'd done that a few times, usually acting out some need, and knew from experience a sleepwalker could do almost anything without waking. Blair yawned. Jim owns the place; let him get up in the middle of the night to fix the furnace. Weird he didn't wake up when I crawled into bed with him. And it's not *my* fault he didn't. Like I am going to try to shake him awake to complain. Rooming with cov-ops ex-ranger rule number uno - don't startle awake said sleeping ranger. It hurts when you hit the wall.

Blair yawned again. Or maybe that should be dos, uno being don't use all the hot water. As he was falling back asleep, Blair wondered idly why the groper would haunt him, and not some of the other nut cases he had dealt with lately.

When he woke again, Jim was downstairs, talking to a repairman on the phone. He stuck his nose out far enough to decide it was *way* too cold to get out of his nice, warm nest. Contentedly, he snuggled deeper into the blanket and listened to Jim make a fire, then breakfast.

"Come on down, Sandburg. I'm not going to bite," Jim called from the kitchen, after the toast was done.

"I'll take a sworn affidavit to that, officer," Blair muttered, and pulled the blankets over his head.

"If I did, it beats being thrown across the room, doesn't it?" Jim's voice grew softer as he came up the steps. "Look, you couldn't wake me. I had to learn to *not* hear you when I'm sleeping, or I'd never get any rest with the schedule you keep."

"S'ok," Blair grumbled sleepily, pulling down one edge and peeking over his covers. "Figured it out. Key on my heartbeat, don't you? To know if everything's all right." Not really seeing Jim's nod, Blair braced himself and tossed the blankets aside. "Cold sucks, sucks, sucks." He raced downstairs and planted himself in front of the fire. "Let me know if you don't get the furnace fixed. I'll sleep at my office or something."

"I don't snore *that* loud, Sandburg."

"True, but you take *all* the blankets, man."

"Blankets are for wimps. I was trying to toughen you up some."

"Hypothermia is for rock heads. I'll be a wimp, thank you. One rock head in the loft...." He ducked, laughed, and added, "Hey, I wanted to eat that toast."

The stalker was gone completely from Blair's mind after that. Then he came back with a vengeance a little over six months after his first attack.

As per his norm, Blair was working late, trying to catch up on his university paper work after a long day of doing the exact same thing at the station. Even if the first attack had been fresh on his mind, he was too wrapped up in his own head notice that the door to the janitor's closet was open when it should have been shut and locked.

Absentmindedly, he detoured around it, only to be caught from behind exactly like before. Tape already in place, he was shoved into the dark closet, face first against the wall, and pinned there.

Furious at himself for being easy prey again, furious at this asshole for daring to touch him, Blair fought as hard as he could. He simply didn't have the strength necessary to dislodge the man, and he was pinned too effectively to bring into play kicks or punches. Despite knowing the floor was empty and the sound would never carry to another one, he made what noise he could, banging and grunting furiously.

The man behind him waited it out, until Blair had to stop to catch his breath. He renewed his fight when the attacker grabbed one wrist and brought it up to the handcuffs already attached to a pipe in the wall. Despite Blair's best efforts, both hands were soon secured, the play of the chain and the height of the pipe leaving them at chest height.

Aggravated, he banged his fists into the wall, only to have the stalker put his hands underneath them, cushioning the blows. "I don't care about the sound," the electronically altered voice said, "but please, don't hurt yourself."

He paused, moving away slightly as Blair stilled under him. "We've been through this before. You know I won't harm you, and that I keep my word. In five minutes you'll be free. Still don't want me to tell you when I'm going to move my hands?" Waiting for Blair's answer, he brushed back Blair's curls, and tied them back. As he did, he snagged one ear, and Blair felt a tug as an earring came free.

Refusing to cooperate, Blair stubbornly didn't acknowledge the comment. It didn't make a difference. After a moment, the assault began as carefully as it had the first time. The back of him, starting with his hands, was touched completely and thoroughly. As if he needed a complete map of Blair's body, he only handled the parts he didn't previously, the exception being Blair's face. There, he lingered - the only place where his touch was more *personal* - on the tape covering Blair's mouth.

Tense, waiting for the tiniest opening, or at least a chance to learn something about his attacker, Blair endured it all. As abruptly as it started, it ended, with the keys to the cuffs pressed into his hands as a light was shone into his face, effectively blinding him until the door was shut. The only real information he had gotten was that the man was Caucasian.

As soon as he freed himself and ripped off the tape, he slammed out of the closet and to his office. Angry to the point of incoherency, he crashed around, muttering under his breath, No way, *no way,* was he going to take this, again. He had no idea what he was going to do about it, but he *was not* going to let some pervert grab him on any passing whim.

Ok, ok, think about this, think about this. First plan of attack is to know what you're up against, right? Recon, info gathering, intelligence, Calming marginally, he thought. What exactly do you know about stalkers in general, and how can that help you with this one in particular? Blair settled down, sat at his desk, picked up a pen. This was something he knew, and knew well. Research. And you have one of the best resources available living with you.

That drew him up short. No. I *am not* telling Jim about this. The thought was unreasoning and immovable, and Blair's mind fumbled, scrambling to rationalize it. If he follows his pattern, it'll be months before he does something. There's nothing Jim can do, except try to talk Simon into putting a watch on me, and for something this minor, he can't spend the man-power on it. *Jim* can't spare the man-power on it. It's not like I'm in danger, but he'll react that way. Over protective I don't need. And I am not going to get in the habit of turning to my friend-and-roomie-the-cop every time I get into a scrape. I can handle this.

Opening a notebook to a fresh page, he repeated out loud, firmly. "I can handle this."

His utter conviction in that lasted until he woke up in Jim's bed, curled up next to his back, fully dressed, about three weeks later. Moving cautiously, glad beyond words that Jim had learned to ignore his presence, Blair climbed out of the bed and crept down the stairs. In his own room, he sat on the edge of his bed and thought hard.

All right, time to stop with the research on stalkers if it's making you look for security when you're sleeping. Besides, the only thing you've learned is that yours doesn't fit any of the established patterns. Great; in the lottery for nutcases, you draw the creative one.

Undressing again, he got back into his own bed. Over the weeks his anger had faded at his attacker, and he had discovered a certain small amount of pity for the man. All in all, his actions spoke of a pretty pathetic person, and Blair had come to the unshakable conclusion that he meant it when he said he wasn't going to hurt him. In fact, Blair's worse concern was that this man *knew* him: knew his habits, knew his schedule, knew his life. If he was being watched that closely, why hadn't he noticed? Or Jim?

Purposefully, Blair dropped his line of thought and started building a fantasy to help him back to sleep. Between concentrating on pleasant things (a red-head, this time, maybe) and dropping his stalker research he should be able to sleep peacefully. Besides, he had months to go before he had to worry about it again.

Unfortunately, Blair couldn't seem to convince his subconscious of that. The next time he woke up in Jim's bedroom, he hadn't gotten all the way into the bed before the ringing of the phone jerked him out of his sleep. Instinctively his hand shot out to where the cordless was sitting on the nightstand, beating Jim's to it.

Jim opened a gimlet eye and stared at him, taking in his kneeling position on floor beside the bed. "Praying I don't kill you for having one of your women call at this hour?"

"More like trying to avoid getting hit by it when you throw it after the sound finally sinks in. Are you wearing your white sound generators?"

Looking only slightly shame-faced, Jim pulled them out, and answered the phone. Needing no other invitation to escape, thanking various gods in random order that they had provided an excuse for him, Blair ran back down to his room. Man, this was going way, way too far. It's been weeks since I thought of that guy, and things haven't been that bad around the station. What gives?

A few minutes later, Jim came downstairs, and knocked. Blair opened his door, watched as Jim tucked in his shirt and fastened his jeans. "Some idiots had a bad day robbing a convenience store, and are holding the night shift and couple of customers hostage. Simon wants me to help pinpoint them in the store. Coming?"

Automatically, Blair stepped out and headed for the door. "Ah, Chief?" Blair shot a puzzled look at him as he took his jacket from the peg. "Maybe you want to get dressed, first?"

Looking down at himself, Blair blanched. This time he had gone upstairs dressed only in his boxers and t-shirt. With a mumbled excuse, face heating, he darted back into his room, shutting the door behind him gently but firmly, to lean on it shaking. He had to do something before his luck ran out and Jim caught him in the act. With that thought in mind, he quickly dressed and joined his partner.

Over the next couple of days he carefully timed his schedule so that he could sleep when Jim wasn't home. Reasoning that he was looking for security and/or comfort during his episodes, what he obviously needed was a substitute for Jim that his sleeping mind would find acceptable. He borrowed one of his favorites of Jim's coats; an old, soft, supple leather one that was heavily impregnated with Jim's scent. Then he 'lost' it, sneaking it into his room after taking the prerequisite verbal drubbing. Tucking it firmly between the bed and the wall, with a heating pad in it to provide the illusion of human warmth, he burrowed his face into each night as he went to sleep.

It worked. Or, at least, he stopped sleepwalking. Either way, Blair settled back into his normal routines. Though he made an effort to notice any one around him that seemed to be paying *too* much attention to his comings and goings, it was fruitless. He was careful when he worked late and was alone, spending more time at the loft. Keeping his guard up started to wear on him, and it proved just as useless.

Not quite four months after the janitor's closet, he was in the parking garage of a minor municipal building, waiting for the elevator. He, Simon and Jim had a late meeting with an assistant DA to go over testimony for a court hearing, and Blair had his head bent over his notes, refreshing his memory of the case.

With a loud !POP!, the lights in the building blew, dropping darkness into the garage as the elevator doors opened. The second it crossed Blair's mind to run for it, a strong push sent him into the elevator, followed by the now familiar tape slapping across his face. Heart pounding, hoping he wasn't making a mistake, Blair didn't even offer token resistance. He clutched at the rail running around the walls of the elevator at waist height, and began trying to breath slowly and steadily. Leaning his head against the wall, he kept his eyes closed, hoping to make the guy feel secure enough not to blindfold him. Hearing the doors sliding shut, and he peeked cautiously. All he saw in the almost light of the emergency lamps was a glimpse of longish light brown hair, brushing at the collar of a trench coat. After that, all there was to see was total blackness.

Almost timidly, the big man pressed close, turning Blair to face him, and snapped two sets of cuffs over the railing, then onto each of Blair's wrists. Maintaining his breathing, Blair concentrated: nothing to hear but the other man's even exhalations. Two of three senses were pretty much eliminated, leaving scent, touch, taste. Man, I have been hanging around Jim *way* too much.

Briefly rebellion stabbed through Blair. If this guy tries to kiss me I'm going to bite his tongue off. Pushing it away, he skipped touch, too. He already knew everything he could learn from that. Scent? He considered the breaths he was taking. Blech! English Leather. *No* help there.

As Blair thought, his attacker gingerly settled against him, bringing him into a loose hug. Not a lover's embrace, but enough for Blair to momentarily feel intimidated. Nothing more happened, and the distorted voice whispered reassuringly, "Five minutes, then I'm gone. I promise."

Shrugging, Blair put as much space between them as the big man would allow, which it wasn't much. He willed himself to calm, to think relaxing thoughts, and succeeded enough to be able to be feel how tired he was. It had been a long, hard week and despite his security blanket, he jarred himself awake constantly these days, afraid of where he would be when he woke. His stomach rolled queasily; far too much coffee and not enough to eat wasn't helping either.

Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he put his weight on the wall, noticing almost absently when the stalker moved with him to get closer. It was warm in the tiny area, and as his stalker made no other advances, Blair relaxed even more. Too much; with a mind of its own, his body began to respond to the nearness of another human being.

Shifting on his feet to redistribute his weight and ease them, he brushed against his captor's hard thigh, and his penis stirred, shifting in his pants. Only partly aware of it, Blair moved restlessly, and the big man accommodated him with a shift of his own. It brought his hip directly over Blair's crotch, and, to his humiliation, Blair felt the beginnings of a hard-on.

Starting to panic, he shrank back from the stalker, rattling the cuffs as he did.

"It doesn't mean anything."

Trying to make himself smaller, Blair made a sound of disgust.

"You're a healthy, normal male with healthy, normal drives. Your nerve endings, your body, doesn't care who's touching you or why. Just that it's in contact with another person, and it feels good to it. Think of it as animal instinct and forget it. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to blame yourself for or feel guilty about."

It was by far the longest speech Blair had gotten from him, and hoping to get more, get something he could use, he snorted disbelievingly.

"Look, you know by now I Am Not Going To Hurt You. Right? You might be annoyed, but I don't think you're scared any more, right? And you haven't gotten any for a while, right?"

This time Blair's snort wasn't planned. Mixed with humor and annoyance, it was an odd sound in the dark, and it surprised an answering laugh from his stalker.

"Don't worry about, it. Feel that?" He bumped his own soft genitals into Blair's waning erection. "It's already faded. It didn't mean a thing." With that, the other man pulled away, reluctantly, it seemed to Blair, and slipped the key into his waiting hand. A soft cloth was dropped over Blair's head, and, by the time he shook free of it, the doors had opened and closed again.

Exhaustion hit him, suddenly, and Blair sagged, barely holding himself upright. Great, as if he wasn't stressed enough by the whole thing, now he had something new to worry about. Pushing it all out of his mind as best he could, he sighed wearily and began the process of unlocking the cuffs.

Before he could begin, he dropped the key, the sound of it hitting the carpeted floor huge in the small space. Too tired to even curse, he toed off a sneaker and began feeling around with his foot for it. There! He scooted it to the wall, pinned it there with his foot, and tried to inch it up the two feet or so to his waiting fingers. No luck, the sock wouldn't give him enough traction to get it high enough.

Balancing on one foot, he tried to bring the other up to peel off the sock. Tired, dizzy from hunger and emotional upset, Blair lost his balance and tumbled, hitting the brass rail with the back of his head as he did. Unconscious, he slumped to the floor, hands still held over his head by the handcuffs.

***

"How long, Sandburg?"

Blair lifted the ice pack to place it on another spot on his aching head. "I couldn't have been out too long. How'd you find me in there anyway? I mean, it's not as if you were looking for me." Carefully he kept his eyes trained on the ER floor.

"Walked past the elevator on our way to the truck, caught your scent and the smell of blood. How long, Chief?"

"That's a good question, I don't really know. I mean how could I, that's why they're called stalkers, right? He could have been watching me forever, but until he decides to show himself, he's just another face in the crowd. It's not like I'm going to pay attention to every face I see. It's possible I was just handy when the lights blew. Who knows..."

Putting a gentle hand on Blair's shoulder, Jim interrupted the babble, asking again, "How long? Sandburg, if this were the first time, you wouldn't have fought Simon like he was after your maidenhead when all he wanted was to take off the cuffs."

Rubbing ruefully at a bruise coming up on his cheek, Simon took up where Jim left off. "The fuse panel of the building was rigged to blow on command, and a battery was wired to the elevator doors so that they could only be opened from inside."

Voice hard and calm, Jim took up the line, "He wouldn't go to that much trouble, take that kind of risk, if he could get to you without it. Which means he *has* in the past because you're being too careful for him now. How long, Blair?"

Glad Jim was trying for professional, Blair kept his eyes on the floor. When he had come round, he had been held awkwardly in Jim's arms, his friend whispering "Easy, easy, buddy, just me and Simon. Easy." He had stopped fighting immediately, and was rewarded by having his hands freed. The tape was already gone. Wincing from the pain of pins and needles as circulation returned, he had held still as Jim's fingers whispered over him quickly, checking for injuries. The feeling of cosseting, odd as it was under the circumstances, had been a much needed balm, and he had let consciousness go again, waking to find himself in the ER.

If Jim had offered the slightest bit of sympathy now, Blair was sure he would disgrace himself and disgust his friends by throwing himself back into Jim's arms and demanding that nobody ever be allowed to touch him again as long as he lived. Shaking away his irrational urge, Blair faced Jim finally, and said, "I can take care of myself! Look, it's not as though you or the department can do anything about it. All this pervert does is cop a feel and let me go; you can't put a twenty-four hour watch on me for something that minor."

"HOW LONG, SANDBURG?!" This time it was Simon growling the question, probably because Jim's jaw was too tight to open.

Throwing both hands up in the air, Blair surrendered. "The first time was ten months ago." Telling the rest of it, he watched Jim out of the corner of his eye, wondering if a dentist was going to be their next stop. No one's molars could take that much pressure.

Blair finished with, "...I'm used to handling things by myself. I didn't see any point in bothering you with this."

Exchanging looks, Simon sighed deeply and said to Jim, as if Blair wasn't there, "Shall you explain it or will I?"

"I will, sir. He can be a little slow on the uptake, sometimes," Jim answered dryly.

Simon clapped Jim on the shoulder, shot Blair an aggravated look, then waved at both of them. "I'll ask a unit to get me to my car. See *both* of you tomorrow morning, first thing, my office, so we can discuss how to catch this sicko." Farewells from both Blair and Jim hit Simon's back as he exited.

Going back to his intensive cataloging of the tiles on the floor, Blair waited for Jim's explosion. After a painful silence, Jim said, with a hint of hurt, "It's about friendship, Blair."

Jerking his head up, Blair stared at him. "Jim, I...."

"One of the first things you learn as a cop and as a soldier is that no one can do it all by themselves. Some one, a partner, a *friend* has to watch your back sometimes. Ten months, *ten months,* you've been trying to grow eyes in the back of your head, when there was a better than average pair nearby that would have been perfectly willing to take on the job. Why? And don't tell me it's because you're capable of taking care of yourself. I know that you can; I trust you to do it every time we go into the field together. In fact, I trust you to take care of *me.* Why couldn't you return the compliment?"

All the rationalizations Blair had been feeding himself fled the scene, and he was left sitting there, trying to find words. What came out sounded small and sad, to his dismay. "I... I haven't had anyone I could count on, before. I've always been on the move - lots of casual friends, millions of acquaintances. To have someone *there,* it's new to me, and I... don't trust it."

Quickly he caught at Jim's hand as he backed away, turning his head to hide his expression. "It's not you, Jim, I swear!" Urgently, needing Jim to understand, he went on. "It's like when your senses first went hyper. You didn't understand how they worked, what the rules were. You couldn't trust them because of it."

Jim came closer, squeezing the hand Blair held. "I could guide you," he offered quietly. "Show you how it works, tell you the rules." Blair's uncertainty must have been on his clear on his face, since Jim released his grip to tap him lightly on the end of his nose. "Think there's any chance you'll follow them better than the house rules?" he asked, half-serious, half-playful, trying to reassure.

The smile Blair graced him with was wavery, but it was there. "Probably not, but, hey, you like a challenge, right?"

***

The problem, Jim thought to himself a few weeks later, is not knowing the rules. It's *using* them! Getting Blair to agree to have an escort whenever possible hadn't been hard. Finding part-time escorts was easy. Half the female officers in the department had volunteered - unofficially - when a rumor began to circulate that someone was 'harassing' Ellison's partner. Getting Blair to remember he didn't have to do it on his own was the back breaker.

Half the time, he'd be rushing from point A to point B so quickly any escort on duty wouldn't have time to miss him, let alone catch up. Blair would always smile apologetically, promise to try harder, and promptly dart out of the room, just to get a cup of coffee, man, leaving his body guard behind. About the only time anyone - Ellison, included - could keep tabs on him was when he actually sat down and began to write or study. He could stay in same spot for hours on end, typing or writing furiously, until his guard would fall asleep or become distracted. Then Blair would change gears abruptly, jumping up and taking off, stating he had a class /meeting /appointment he was late for already.

In answer to dozens of pleas, Jim volunteered to take the weekends by himself. Though he had more luck than any of the others, it was more because of past practice than any co-operation on Blair's part. Sunday of the third weekend, frustrated, he set up Blair's lap top, plopped it and him at the kitchen table, and threatened inhuman retribution if Blair budged until after the game he wanted to watch.

With good-natured complaints, Blair did as he was told, so well that Jim was able to forget about him until half time. Getting up to get a drink, he was surprised to find Blair asleep at the table, head pillowed on his arms. Shaking his head, Jim went back to the game. If Blair was still out after the last whistle, he'd put him to bed. More likely he would pop back up after napping a bit, and go back to work.

Glancing at his sleeping roomie from time to time, Jim enjoyed the rest of the game. Blair stirred, half way through the last quarter, and Jim expected him to rub his face, re-read what he had been working on when he dozed off, and take up where he left off. Instead, he closed down the computer, and came over to the couch, and started to strip.

Sitting up straight on the edge of the couch, Jim reached for Blair's arm, intending to bellow at him. As he did, the blank, empty look in Blair's face hit him, and he dropped his hand. While he watched, Blair dropped his clothes onto coffee table and crawled onto the couch, inserting himself between Jim and cushions. He mimed pulling blankets over himself and snuggled down, punching at an imaginary pillow.

"Night, Mom. Remember you promised me pancakes in the morning," he said very clearly, and closed his eyes.

He's asleep! Has been since he started moving! Jim twisted, so that he was sitting with his back to the arm of the couch, parallel to Blair's body. Studying the sleeping form, he hesitantly reached again for him. As he did, Blair rolled, working his head onto Jim's lap. Isn't it supposed to be dangerous to wake a sleepwalker? Jim thought, hand hovering over Blair's head.

Confused, he sat back, unthinkingly pulling the throw off the back of the couch and covering Blair with it. Stress. Right. Just because he's breezing through his life like always, doesn't mean he isn't feeling it. Jim studied the face resting trustingly in his lap. There were dark smudges under the eyes, and lines around the mouth that sleep wasn't erasing. How much more of this can he take before it starts effecting his health?

Watching the game with unseeing eyes, Jim twisted the puzzle of Blair's assailant in his mind. Has to know him or have regular contact. Why else go to the trouble of using a voice distort? Or maybe he has a very distinctive voice. Seems to know Blair's every move, but no one who could fits the partial description - "big as Simon, buff as Jim, collar length light brown hair." A faint glimmer of memory flashed through Jim, just as it had the first time he had heard Blair give the description. He chased after it, trying to pinpoint the elusive thought, until the excited voice of the announcer on the TV shouting about a spectacular play yanked him back from his partial zone-out.

He rolled his head, trying to work the kinks out of his neck. That's a new kind of zone - have to remember to mention it to Blair. Checking on him, then his watch, Jim decided it was bed time. Scooting out from under Blair, he stood, stretched, and scooped up Blair to take him to his room.

As Jim put him to bed, he considered, then decided he didn't need to tell Blair about the sleepwalking. It wasn't as if there was anything the Blair could do about it or the cause, and worrying couldn't help an already bad time. I'd better stay up until he falls asleep, for a while, so I'll hear him if he gets up. Maybe rig the doors so he can't get out.

Making plans for Blair's safety, he shut the doors behind him and headed for bed.

***

From the beginning the time lapsed between attacks had diminished progressively. As the weeks passed, getting closer to the four-month mark, Blair became more and more docile with his watchers when they were on duty, staying close without argument. But, short of putting him in protective custody, which Blair would not have stood for even if Simon had been willing to sanction it, there was not enough man-power to cover every minute of the day. He and Jim worked out a schedule, and Blair actually kept to it, so that his whereabouts were known every minute.

Outwardly, his absent-minded cooperation was the only show of stress. Jim didn't mention the sleepless nights he knew his friend was having - nights spent dozing then jerking awake. There was only one other sleepwalking episode, and Jim was never sure that was what really happened. Blair had been grading papers on the end of the couch while he had been reading some reports, when he noticed his friend's heartbeat and breathing was gradually slowing.

Not wanting to jar him awake by calling him on it, Jim simply let him fall asleep. He re-immersed himself in his paperwork, and was more than a little startled when he felt Blair creep up against him. Lifting an arm, he looked down along the crook of his body just as Blair nestled into the spot. Blair's eyes were open, but closed as his head found the hollow of Jim's shoulder.

For a very long minute he watched his friend sleep, then, mentally shrugging, he transferred his papers to his other hand and draped his arm over Blair. "I am *not* making you pancakes in the morning," he muttered. But he held Blair until he began to stir, vacating his seat only then.

***

As careful as they were, in the end, it was useless. After evening classes one night, not quite twelve weeks after Blair 'fessed all in the ER, he came out to his car, said goodbye to his escort, and found he couldn't start it. Without thinking, falling back on his old self-reliant habits, he checked the time and decided he could catch the cross-town bus if he hurried.

The stop was only a few blocks away, and he began jogging toward it. At an intersection, he detoured around a van sitting in the middle of the pedestrian walk, and was snagged as he went past the back door. His own momentum was used against him as he was spun around and hurtled into the interior of the van. Almost instinctively he hunched his chin into shoulder, preventing the slap of the tape.

"Won't bite, won't scream," he promised softly into his jacket, as the stalker's heavy body covered him.

He could feel the indecision in the man on him, and gave proof of his word by not giving even a token struggle as the cuffs were placed. A tentative finger tapped at his upper lip, and, fighting nausea, Blair laid his face in his captor's hand.

A huge shudder passed through the man. He tore himself away, and moved to the front of the van. Blair estimated they were in motion only few blocks before the van left the road. There was a scrape of branches; the van stopped and the stalker was back.

"Five minutes, then I'm gone. And I'll be more careful you don't get hurt. I'm sorry about the last time."

Cushioning his forehead on his arms, Blair shut him out and bided his time. His attacker wasn't long in taking advantage of the implied freedom Blair promised with his silence. With tender, tiny strokes, his face was completely explored, despite being half-hidden. Emboldened, the stalker delved into the collar of Blair's shirt, seeking the bare skin there.

This time when the shudder chased through Blair, he told himself firmly it was revulsion, nothing but revulsion. Thankfully, it wasn't commented on.

Some inner sense told him it was almost over, and Blair whispered softly, "Again?"

"Yes." There was unbearable sorrow in that reply.

"Why?" The question he bought with his willingness.

"I... don't want to. I *fight* not to. It's like being without food or water. After a while, I have to or die from the lack." The depth of despair in the electronic voice was frightening. The big man ripped himself away from Blair, breaking all physical contact. Clumsily he gave Blair the key to the cuffs, opened the van door and backed to the edge of it, until Blair had one hand free. "Oh, gods, gods, I know I'm a monster, oh gods, oh gods..."

Sitting up, Blair rubbed his wrists, pointedly not looking, and the stalker fled.

***

Hammering woke Blair, a few weeks later. Stretching, then wiggling deeper into his warm spot, he listened to it a minute or two, wondering what on earth Jim was doing downstairs. Downstairs? Jarred fully awake, he sat up in the big bed, looking around Jim's room with growing horror. He went to sleep in his own bed last night, he was sure of it.

Pushing his hair back from his face, he took a shaky breath. Ok, all right. I did it again. Jim doesn't know that. Under the circumstances he'll be.... Blair's thoughts ground to a halt as his wild scanning of the bedroom brought something very familiar into his field of vision: his 'security blanket' made from Jim's coat. Folded on it was a set of sweats.

Stupidly, he checked himself out by lifting the blankets. Yep, definitely naked. Humiliation started fighting with horror for emotional space. It was a draw, and the side effect was total numbness. Numb. I can use numb. Get down stairs and see if Jim's as good a friend as I know he can be. If I'm wrong, I won't feel a thing. That's good. Anesthesia before Jim removal. Cool.

In a remarkable imitation of poise, he pulled on his sweats and went to investigate the hammering. Jim was upending a coffee can of old nails, screws, keys and unidentifiable metal bits onto the table. Not looking up at Blair's approach, he held up a small nail and said, "See if you can help me find four or five more like this one, will you, Chief?" Using the same nail, he swept through the mess, spreading it thinner.

Wordlessly, Blair joined him at the table and began to pick over the scrap. After finding two, he picked up a shiny bit, and like a crow, began to worry it. Jim wove the nails they had found into the fingers of his left hand, and went to the back door.

"What are you doing, there?" Blair asked, curiosity temporarily over riding his upset.

"Going on the offensive, Chief." A few taps from the hammer and a keypad was loosely attached to the frame of the door. Glancing at Blair from the corner of his eye, Jim positioned another nail and said very quietly, "You can't keep running and dodging forever. So far, this bastard has had all the choices, all the control. It's time to start eliminating some of it."

The weight that had taken up residence in Blair's chest since the last assault lightened fractionally. "You have a idea, don't you?"

Smiling, either at the pleasure in Blair's voice or the thought of getting the stalker, Jim put the final nail in place. "We need to talk about it, but yeah, there's something I want to try." He went back to the table and began to clean up the rusty nails and such from it. "And I think we should try, soon, Blair. I don't know how much longer you can take this." He faced him squarely. "It's not that I mind you using me for your personal living teddy bear...."

"Security blanket" Blair muttered, color rising, returning his gaze to the key he had been fiddling with.

"Security blanket? Since you started working with me you've been shot at, kidnapped, nearly blown up and you think of me as a security blanket?" With an erasing motion Jim went back to his original topic> "Sleepwalking is dangerous, as I'm sure you know. These," and he gestured toward the keypad, "are as much to keep you in as to keep *him* out. So far you've never gone any farther than me, but...."

"So far... Jim, how long have you known about this?" Blair blurted.

"Since the elevator. It's been going on a lot longer, hasn't it? My coat has been 'missing' since a little while after the second attack. By the way, I found it when I was looking for slippers or shoes for you, I wasn't prying."

"Jim..." The horror and humiliation from earlier rose up, reached an odd truce, managed to combine in that one word, but refused to co-operate for another.

A large hand closed over the one worrying the key, and Jim used it to pull Blair into a rough hug. "Rule number 11. 'Friends accept your weirdness. Sometimes they even understand it,'" Jim whispered.

Butting his head into Jim's chest, Blair asked shakily, "Messed up again, didn't I?"

"Chief, how many people know about *my* weirdness? I didn't even want to tell Simon, remember? It's hard to know how much to trust anyone, even a friend. Or maybe especially a friend. It's ok to not know how far to go."

Relieved, Blair leaned into the readily offered strength of Jim's hug, soaking it in. Jim held him patiently until Blair, feeling more centered and at peace than he had for a long while, pulled away. Running a hand through his hair, he tried successfully at a smile. "So what's this great plan of yours?"

"Give me a hand with this, first. Toss that back door key in the can and get something to wash down the table. We'll talk over breakfast. Pancakes?"

***

Reaching for his gun, Jim sat up in bed suddenly, cautious even in his alarm not to disturb the smaller man sleeping beside him. Carefully he cycled through the fragments of memory, isolating the source of his waking - some one saying Sandburg's name. From the alley below the loft, he heard the sound of the radio in a squad car that was making its usual rounds.

Through the static, he heard the officer reporting to dispatch. "...shut down for the night. We'll swing by every half hour now, 'til end of shift. Tango ten, out."

Replacing his gun, Jim nodded in satisfaction. Not that he expected any less than compliance from the uniforms, but it was nice to hear the faint echo of "protecting our own" in talking about Sandburg. He took a second to make sure that Blair was covered and laid back onto his pillow.

Within seconds, Blair was plastered against his back, nuzzling into the skin there. When Jim had told him he didn't mind being used as a teddy bear, Blair must have taken him at his word. Though this was the first time upstairs since Jim confronted him with the sleepwalking, this was also the first time he had been so blatant about seeking out the comfort of his friend.

I kinda like it, Jim thought with some surprise. Maybe he's finally learning. Maybe I am. He dug his head into a more comfortable position, turning down his senses until he was aware only of his own home. As the warmth from Blair's body seeped into him, he considered turning touch down even further, but since it wasn't keeping him awake, he left it as it was.

A few days past the two month mark, he mulled, waiting for sleep. No wonder Blair's feeling more wound up. If this bastard keeps to pattern, it won't be much longer. How far's he going to take things, if he gets to him? Sandburg insists it's not about sex, that the guy's never so much as breathed hard, but how long can that last? What else could he be working up to?

Restless suddenly, Jim twisted over, and Blair automatically adjusted himself to him by laying his head on Jim's chest. Mentally Jim reviewed the shield he and Simon had thrown up around Sandburg, trying to find any cracks besides the ones he had deliberately left. A few were obvious. If this guy were as well-trained as Jim had begun to believe, he'd see those as the traps they were. It was subtle and devious openings that Jim hoped he wouldn't see as traps until too late.

Absently he toyed with a lock of the hair trailing over his chest. Blair made a soft sound, and pressed closer. An increase in body heat caught Jim's attention, and he focused on it. Against his hip he felt a minute movement to accompany the heat. With another sound, Blair reflexively rubbed his growing erection against Jim's silk boxers.

Torn between amusement and fascination, Jim edged away, only to have Blair chase him down. What now? Wake him? Wonder who he's dreaming about? That new girl - what's her name - from records? It was odd to feel the evolution of a hard-on from the other side, but not really that different. Cataloging the changes in Blair's skin, scent, heart rate and breathing, Jim fiddled with the lock of hair he still held. Does he talk in his sleep, too? Am I about the be treated to a blow by blow account of a wet dream? That thought disturbed him.

Feeling like a voyeur, Jim finally tucked the strand behind Blair's ear, intending to shove him onto his side and spoon up behind him to hold him there. As he did, the gleam of silver from Blair's earrings caught his eye. He ran his thumb over that gleam, reminded of something, something important. Trying to catch the memory, of thought of it, he zoned, then moved seamlessly into sleep.

***

With a glance at the clock to confirm it was shift change time, Blair answered the door with a "Who?" mumbled around a pen.

"Hanson, sir."

Eyes on the paper he was grading, Blair opened the door to invite the officer into his office for a coffee. There was a hiss, a sweet smell, and he had a split-second to remember Hanson wasn't that *big* before he lost consciousness.

His first reaction on opening his eyes was, "Oh, fuck, back to square one." He was lying on his back, hands secured over his head, painted out shades on his face (inanely he wondered if it were the same pair, retrieved from the under the tree). The only thing missing was the tape across his mouth. Well, at least he had his best defense available.

Defense? He asked fearfully, "Hanson?"

"Was told by 'dispatch' that you were in the field with your partner. He's probably safely home by now. I have time before you're checked on again."

Blair's sigh of relief was genuine. "Five minutes?" he asked in what could have passed for a conversational tone.

After a long pause, the stalker answered, "Maybe a little longer. I... need... more than usual."

At his unwilling words, Blair felt the buttons on his shirt being undone. Hoping to forestall him, he said as unthreateningly as possible, "You know this can't keep happening. You're gonna get caught."

"I've known from the start there was only one way this could end; I've accepted it and prepared for it." Despite the camouflage of the electronics, the flatness in that statement sent true terror into Blair, the first he had felt since the beginning.

Holding it at bay, he prodded gingerly. "Why not turn yourself in, then, man? It's the waiting that's bad."

Could I*ever* tell you a thing or two about that, he added to himself.

There was a long pause, then the sides of his shirt were peeled apart, and ten fingertips came to rest on his collarbone. "I'm in no hurry to give up my life, such as it is."

The terror swelled almost uncontrollably, and Blair shuddered. He can't meant that the way it sounds. "No. No!"

"Shh, shh," the stalker reassured him, apparently assuming Blair's reaction was to the open shirt. "Just touches, like always, I promise."

"That's not the promise I want, man," Blair stammered out. "Tell me no one is going to get hurt! That you're not going to go out in some stupid shoot out! That's what I want! You've been making a mess out of my life for *months* and you owe me, man. You owe me! Promise me!"

Trembling fingers trailed down, barely touching, over the lines of Blair's chest. "I can't. It's not up to me."

"Don't give me that! You've had this all mapped out from the start. There isn't a single element of this you haven't controlled. No one has to be hurt if *you* don't want it that way." Furious, Blair tried to roll away from the hands on him.

The stalker waited until Blair had no choice but to be still again, then inexorably resumed his examination of Blair's body. "Not having control over the end was the price I paid to keep it until then," he muttered distractedly. At the belt line, his touch started the journey back up Blair's torso, staying barely perceptible.

Swamped, now, by his terror, Blair drew up his legs, to kick from the hip. Almost before he moved, the solid weight of the stalker dropped on him. Struggling anyway, he wrapped both legs around the man on top of him, trying to dislodge him. Shouting incoherently, he fought, until there was another hiss of sleeping gas.

***

Standing at the window of the briefing room, Blair stared out at the rain, clenching and unclenching the hands hidden in his coat pocket. Behind him he could hear Jim and Simon arguing over the day's attack, each trying to take the blame for it happening. He looked over at his roommate, the person most likely to get in the way of a bullet from a suicidal stalker, and absolutely *knew* he was not going to risk it. That was why he hadn't told Jim about the conversation, and why he was going to pick the worst fight he had ever had with his partner.

It was the first reason he'd had to hate the pathetic bastard haunting him.

Simon was trying to back off from his confrontation with Jim, before either of them got too hot. "Enough, detective, enough! The important thing is to get him into a safe house. Then we can...."

"I'm not going," Blair said quietly, still looking out the window.

Both men spun to face him, Simon pulling off his glasses at the sight of the weary determination in Blair's pose. "Sandburg," he started.

"I'll arrange for a sabbatical from the university, but I'm using it to leave this burg. I am outa here!"

"You can't mean that," Simon nearly shouted in disbelief. "You're going to let this... this... this whatever the hell he is win by running away?"

"It's not letting him win. It's detaching myself from the issue before it gets any more intense," Blair said mechanically, thinking, for once, Jim wasn't going to be able to tell if he lied. His body was simply too wasted to react to anything, including his own words. "I'm tired of it, Simon. Too tired to care, any more."

Moving closer, softening his voice, Simon replied, "Maybe you need to sleep on it, first. Why don't you go home; we can talk again tomorrow."

"Actually, Simon, I think Sandburg may be right," Jim said unexpectedly, and equally softly. "This scum may be an ex-cop, or military. He knows procedure, has been with us every step of the way." Restlessly, Jim paced the small room, still talking. "A safe house is the next logical thing for us to try. He'll be prepared for that; probably already has a plan in place.

"What we need here is a random element. Something he can't have anticipated or can't gain control of." Jim turned to his partner, smiling, clearly at Blair's surprise. "I can't think of a better way to provide it than by letting Sandburg follow his instincts on this. Do you know where Naomi is, Chief?" At the negative shake, Jim went on. "Could you find her? Could anyone else?"

A slow smile grew to match Jim's. "Yeah, I could. And anybody else, I mean *anybody*, trying to follow me would stand out like a sore thumb among Naomi's friends. All I'd have to do is say I was dodging the pigs, and a cop-type wouldn't even be able to get a straight answer from them."

"Good. We'll work out a system so you can e-mail me or send messages - twice a day, Sandburg, or *I* come looking for you - so we can be sure you're safe. We'll go right now, get a rental, make sure it isn't bugged. We'll take off the tracking device you're wearing, make sure you're clean. I'll loan you some money so you can get new things; I don't even want you going back to the loft.

"Simon, could we set up the safe house as decoy? Make it look as if we hid Sandburg there?"

"Do you think it'll do any good? If he's planned for this, like you say, he'll waltz in when he's ready, catching us with our pants down - again!"

"Doesn't matter; it's buying time. I think the bastard's finally made a mistake. The gas he used isn't hard to come by, black market, but isn't common, either. Even if he's using a back door cover, we have a chance at tracing it to the source. It's a start, at any rate."

Sitting down, feeling the beginning of excitement, Blair shot a puzzled look at Jim, "Back door cover?"

Taking up Blair's vacated spot by the window, Jim crossed his arms and answered off-handedly, "Sorry, mercenary term. Vice uses it sometimes, too. It's the identity they create for themselves as an escape hatch to get out of the business, assuming they live long enough. A really smart merc will establish it long before he needs it - i.d., money, a wig to cover his hair until he can dye or cut it to match them, contacts lenses, maybe, even a change of clothes - so he can just walk out the back door and become somebody else."

"And you think he's using a disguise because...." Sandburg went on hopefully.

"You have to know this guy, Sandburg," Simon answered, instead. "No way you're a random target, no way he could know your life without being associated somehow. Even if it's just some jerk who hit on you a year ago and you don't remember brushing off."

"Hey, wait a minute here, Simon. If that's your polite way of poking your nose into my love life, let me tell you right now, I'd remember a lady that tall and big hitting on me. And I don't get so many from guys I wouldn't remember, either."

"I'm not questioning your sexual orientation, Sandburg.

"Good, because if there's anything better than being balls deep in a warm, curvy *feminine* body, I don't know what it could be."

"Soul deep in the arms of someone who loves you," Jim murmured so quietly only Blair, closest to him, could hear. Speaking louder, before Banks' bristling at Sandburg's vulgarity could find words, Jim went on. "Your preferences don't stop people from trying their luck. I've been hit on a time or two; practically everybody has."

Flippantly Blair asked, "How long were they in the hospital?"

Ellison donned his classic long-suffering-from-Sandburg expression. "Why would I hurt some one just because they noticed me, Chief? I tell them they're not equipped right for me and that's the end of that."

Taken aback, Blair said apologetically, "Sorry, that was off base. I guess it was just a knee-jerk reaction to your background. I don't really believe you'd be judgmental about what some one does in the bedroom."

Shrugging, looking back out the window, Jim said, "I have to admit I don't see what the attraction could be. But it is their business." He looked back at Blair, eyes hard. "Until they start dragging unwilling people into it. Who do you need to speak to at the university to get that sabbatical? Sooner you're on the road, sooner you're out of his reach."

***

At the Cascade city limits, Jim blinked the headlights of his rental to let Blair know they hadn't been followed, and turned off. In response, he heard the horn on Blair's car and Blair himself, whooping in joy. Good, letting him go *had* been the right thing to do, even if it sent every protective instinct he had straight through the roof.

He and Simon had already put the decoy plan into action. It was time for him to reconnect with a few of his army buddies who'd gone the merc route once out of the service. The one good thing about having Blair gone was that there were twenty-four hours in a day he could put toward solving this case and he intended to use everyone of them.

A week later, Jim wasn't sure even twenty-four would be enough. He had used his time on 'guard duty' at the safe house to keep up on his paper work, and devoted the rest of his time to tracking down the sale of the gas. Despite that, all he had to show for it was being current on his paper work for the first time since he joined the force.

Sitting at his desk, he looked through the special file he had compiled for the case. Flipping through its contents, he was forced to conclude the stalker must have had the gas on hand or gotten it outside the country. Scrambling through his memory, he was trying to pinpoint if he had any overseas contacts left when Simon leaned over the back of his chair.

"Looking through it again isn't going to tell you anything you didn't know five minutes ago."

In disgust, Jim threw the file onto his desk. "Wish I could argue. I hate like hell to pin our chances on something coming from the stakeout."

"Ease up on yourself," Simon suggested. "Take a day off, get a good night's sleep. If you're getting to the point you're imitating Sandburg, you've got problems, Jim." Mischievous grin in place, Simon waited, apparently for some kind of come-back.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Jim asked, with genuine confusion.

"Your new adornment, Detective Ellison. Not exactly code for Major Crimes, but a nice reminder of your Vice days." At Jim's continued ignorance, Simon motioned toward his head. "The earring, Jim. The earring."

Hand going to his ear, Jim thumbed open the catch to the earring, and pulled it out. A small silver hoop shone in the palm of his hand, and he stared at it, literally as if he had never seen it before. The gleam of the metal beckoned to him with a promise, and he focused on it, trying to catch the growing shine of it.

Distantly he heard, rather than felt, the smack of flesh against flesh, and the cop in him shoved him toward the sound. "Jim, damnit! Jim!" Simon smacked him again, and Jim shook his head, coming out of his zone.

"Whoa, whoa, Simon. I'm back."

"What the hell was that!?"

"Just a zone. Sandburg and I deal with them all the time," Jim brushed the danger of the zone off, tossed the earring into a desk drawer, and stood. "But it is proof positive you're right about needing a night's sleep." Quickly, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "See you tomorrow."

In the reflection of the glass he could see Banks behind him, all but forcibly shutting his mouth. His expression said clearly that he didn't believe Jim for a moment, but was clueless what to say or do about it.

Once in the truck, Jim tried to tie down exactly what happened at the office. There was an element of familiarity to it. He was sure he had zone like that before, but couldn't remember any details. By the time he was back at the loft, his jaw was tight, and he was forced to admit he was going to have to wait until he saw Blair again to deal with it.

With the fatigue catching up with him, he went into the bathroom to shower. Feeling more human when he was done, he wiped the mist off the mirror to decide if wanted to bother to shave. Instead of his own image, he saw a man fitting the description of Blair's stalker. Spinning, hands up defensively, he went for him, only to find himself alone in the bath.

Snatching at the door, he started to fling it open to chase after the suspect. It was locked. He shook the knob, then thumbed the lock, thinking it was a trick, and it opened. He had to have been the one to lock it. Head swimming, he checked the mirror again. It was his reflection, but as he watched, it wavered, hinting at some one else.

The shine of the metal trimmed edge caught him, drawing him into his mind. Memory dove at him, a great white coming out of the dark, and he was consumed by it.

***

Across town, Blair pulled into his usual spot at the department and took out his observer ID, the only thing he had brought with him besides the clothes he had been wearing.

And the demon in his mind.

The first day, high on freedom and relief, he had driven like a mad man, practically non-stop for over 20 hours. When his eyes were burning from watching the highway slide past, he hit the first motel he saw and collapsed. Thirty-six hours later, he woke, eager to go on. Nowhere near ready to start looking for his mom, he chose a direction at random, and was delighted to find himself entering Las Vegas. With happy thoughts of showgirls and padding his grad income, he splurged on a room in a major hotel.

Indulging in the shopping spree Jim had insisted on with his generous loan, he lugged his many packages up to his room, then hit the bed without so much as bothering to shower.

It was the mess by the door that saved him. Pain kicked him awake, and he had lay in the middle of the floor, trying to put it all together. Not wanting to admit he'd been sleepwalking again, he wasted several minutes trying to convince himself he had only been going to the bathroom. The car keys in his hand made him face the truth.

Day after day, he tried to escape over and over again, blaming delayed stress reaction, or unfamiliar beds. After going to far as to offer the bellboys a reward for any one catching him out of his room after going up for the night, he admitted to the reality of his situation, and left Las Vegas with new camping gear added to his load.

While he couldn't honestly say his stalker had left his mind, he had assumed a very small place in it. In fact, he hardly crossed Blair's thoughts at all as he strapped on his pack and hiked into the wilderness area. Jim was occupying far too much of it.

For Blair, meditation was a last resort tactic to deal with any problem. It simply took too much for him to sit still as long as needed for it to be truly useful. Much to Naomi's amusement, *his* personal best wasn't quite an hour. Nature helped, spreading her balm of quiet and serenity, and he went under within minutes of making himself comfortable at his campsite. Deep in the peace of his own mind, he asked, Why am I still sleepwalking?

Almost instantly, his mind offered him the image of lying naked next to Jim. Looking at it honestly, comparing it to the reasons he had been using, he saw not security, nor safety, nor even comfort. He saw intimacy. Connection.

A craving for it cascaded over him, making impossible demands. Surfing through the emotion, Blair looked for the source, a reason for this most unreasonable of needs. Finding nothing, he fought it, wanting to deny it into non-existence. Thinking the resultant pain was a good sign, he pushed at it harder.

It pushed back, and he fell out of his meditative state, heart pounding, skin crawling, in a full panic attack. Familiar with them from his teenage years, he concentrated on each individual breath, not thinking or looking farther than it. Breathing eventually returned to normal, but the painful prickling of his skin stayed.

Resting, but unable to sleep, he waited for dawn to start the trip back to Cascade. Whatever the cause of this need was, the only answers he could find would be with Jim. With the meditative honesty from the day before still with him, he admitted he had wanted to be with him, all along.

It didn't take a detective to know that Jim was probably spending more hours in the bull pen than in the loft, so Blair had headed directly there. After all, there *was* still a sicko on the prowl for him, and he hadn't forgotten the danger the stalker represented to his partner. Finding it deserted except for a few night-shift detectives he didn't know well, he sat at Jim's desk and dialed the loft. Letting it ring until the machine picked up, he left a message telling Jim that he was waiting for him at the precinct.

Having no clue as to the location of the safe house he was supposed to be at, Blair made himself at home at Jim's desk. He booted the computer and got started catching up on his paperwork. Opening the desk, he rummaged for a pen to make notes, if needed. Something pricked his finger, and he yanked his hand back with the object still embedded.

Looking at it closely, he saw it was one of his earrings, the open point shallowly piercing his flesh. Slowly, he pulled it free, a single drop of blood welling as he did. He recognized this earring, and his eyes widened. The drop of blood fell, as did a single tear, and Blair closed his eyes and tried to reorder his shattered world.

***

Parking the rental car on the end of the abandoned pier, Watcher left his sleeping captive handcuffed to the steering wheel and went to stand at the edge of it. The water here was very deep, but filthy from the years of use as a dock for the now abandoned warehouses that all but obscured it for blocks on either side.

With a wry smile, he thought about the wealth of 'cultural remnants' some future archaeologist could find diving here. Perhaps the water would be clear again, by then, and he wondered what they would make of his contributions. Sighing deeply, enjoying the crispness of the morning air, he stepped across the mental line and committed himself to the finale.

Reaching up, he took off his wig, laid it on the pier and soaked it with the small container of kerosene. He lit it, waited until it was burning well, and threw it into the water. The trench coat was removed next, but he soaked it with blood from a glass container, generously spilling it on the material and wood from the pier alike. Once empty, he threw the bottle hard against one of the pilings far away from the pier. It shattered nicely, and the water washed away the remnants of blood. Forensics wouldn't be looking there for evidence, anyway. Boots were next, the special lifts that gave him several inches of height pried out and thrown in opposite directions. The throat mike was dipped in the blood, then carelessly tossed over.

All that was left of the Watcher were gray eyes, and the contacts were swiftly removed, revealing the blazing blue eyes of Jim Ellison as he watched them lazily turn in the air on their way to the deep. Blair's attacker was dead, or at least critically injured, from a shot from Jim's gun. That's what the forensic evidence would say, at any rate. Jim dropped his weapon to the ground, carefully tossing the bullet casing just far enough away.

Now all that was left was making sure that the Watcher couldn't return.

Jim walked to where he had his truck hidden. Putting on his shoes, he put on his badge and drove the truck to park it behind the rental. The K-bar knife he took from under the seat was new, and very shiny.

Drugged by the gleam, he walked slowly back to the site of his staged fight. He stood staring at it for the longest time, not zoning; no need to now. A cry of the gull reminded him time was passing, and he mentally calculated the right angle for the blade to be. Securing it by forcing it into the ropes wound around one pillar of the pier, he held it steady, fixed Blair's face in his mind and braced himself for the pain.

A smaller hand, sturdy and tanned, covered the one holding the knife, and Blair said, stern and cold, "Fall on that and I'm next. I swear it, Jim."

Shocked speechless, he turned in slow motion to look into Blair's hard, serious face. He tried to talk, but couldn't make a noise. His partner tugged at the knife, and Jim held on stubbornly. "I mean it. Now give that to me," Blair insisted.

"He'll come back," was all Jim could say.

"No he won't. There's no need to."

Looking away, then forcing himself to look back, Jim made himself as unyielding as he had ever been. "As long as the neeed is there, he'll come back."

"We'll satisfy the need." A smile softened Blair's expression, and he quoted in a whisper only a sentinel would hear, "'Rule Number 11. A friend accepts your weirdness. Sometimes they even understand it.' Jim, trust me, trust your Guide. I understand what created the stalker. You. Don't. Need. Him. Anymore. He won't come back."

Holding Blair's gaze, Jim released his grip on the knife, allowing him to take it and throw it far out into the water. Following it with his ears, he waited until the splash came, then leaned slowly toward his companion. Forehead touched forehead, and Blair wove his hand into one of Jim's.

"Let me take us home."

Jim could only nod, and Blair led him back to the truck.

***

"...the sound of your voice brought me out of it. I listened to the machine record your message, reset the time stamp to accurate time instead of twenty-minutes ahead, called Simon and left a message on his machine that I had a hot lead and I'd get back to him as soon as I had details. It would look, on casual inspection, as if I left 20 minutes before you called.

"I went into the kitchen, got the key to the locker where Elias Watcher's clothes were, and left to take you for the last time."

Blair thoughtfully sweetened his tea, leaned against the kitchen counter, and made a noise of disbelief. "Just like that you integrate Watcher's memories and decide to go ahead with his plan?"

Scrubbing at his face with both hands, Jim, said in exasperation, "Look, Sandburg, it's the same thing I did in vice, undercover, for years. And not that different from how I've survived some of the things that happened to me as a soldier, including Peru. You create a character, step into him, pushing yourself into a box. You come back to yourself, take what you need from the character and destroy it.

"I built Watcher slowly and deliberately, making every detail of him as real as I could so, if I ever needed to, I could put him on like a garment cut to fit for me. Then I locked him in a box in my mind." Jim picked up his coffee and sipped at it, trying to formulate words to describe his hunger.

"When I first started, well, *needing,* I'd put myself to sleep by planning how I could take you and get rid of the damned itch without you being the wiser it was me. The first time I realized I was actually considering doing it, I took all those plans and shoved them down. They became the bones of Watcher, putting him on, and keeping him out of my sight because I would destroy him.

"As long as you were safe, Watcher could stay hidden. When my need to protect you started overriding my need to have you, I started having glimmers of memory that I zoned on."

"WHAT!" Blair slammed down his cup, but held his tongue at Jim's upraised hand.

"Then I'd forget I'd zoned, because then I would have gone to you for an explanation or help." He smiled at the mollified expression on Blair's face.

"At any rate, I went to the station, triggered the disruption I'd planted in the security system, and put myself in your car and called you, ostensibly to take you to the safe house. If you already knew I was Watcher, why'd you come?"

"The sooner we played out the last hand, the sooner I could tell you *why* you were Watcher." Blair rubbed his fingers meditatively over the rim of the cup as he picked it up. "I gambled I could control *both* of you long enough to get you to let me help."

"Not much of a gamble, Sandburg. You've always understood this sentinel thing better than me."

Staring at nothing, Blair answered sadly, "Not as well as I needed to. I could have saved both of us a lot of grief if I had thought about my sleepwalking more instead of just chalking it up to anxiety."

Blair looked up at Jim in surprise as he brushed Blair's hair back from his face and said, "No guilt. If you won't let me take my share - and I guess I don't need to ask if you're pressing charges, even if I think you should - I'm not going to let you take yours."

After months of fear, aggravation, frustration and pure anger, and not needing so much as to whimper in his pillow, Blair felt tears for the first time. "Damn it, somebody tell me why a little tenderness is totally unnerving me," he muttered.

"Maybe you don't get enough of it," Jim whispered, then stepped back to give Blair time to compose himself. "Now tell me what sleepwalking has to do with stalking."

Taking a shaky breath, Blair answered, "When I was a kid, and we were sleeping someplace new, I would get so lost and lonely." For a minute, that's how his voice sounded, then it firmed. "Everything would be so strange and scary. I'd go crawl in bed with Naomi, and she'd talk to me, making me feel better, until I could sleep. When I got too old to get into bed with her, I'd go stand by hers until she woke up and tucked me back into mine." He smiled, fondly. "She'd ask me what I wanted for breakfast the next morning, and I'd come up with the most ridiculous things and she'd try to top it with something even sillier. Then we'd both agree on pancakes, and I'd fall asleep."

Noticing Jim's startled expression, Blair asked dryly, "I guess I did more than sleepwalk once or twice, huh?"

"Well, I did wonder about your obsession with pancakes," Jim grinned back.

"As if *you* don't like them. At any rate, after I left Cascade, I was high, man! Freedom, money, time, no schedule, no appointments - I couldn't have possibly felt better. And I still kept sleepwalking. I went so far as to give the concierge my car keys so I couldn't leave, and one of the bellboys woke me up as I was trying to hitch a ride.

"Without the stress of dealing with the stalker, I did what comes naturally to a neo-hippie witch doctor: I meditated. What I found was the same need to feel like I belonged, like I had a connection, that I had as a kid. But this time, it had a very specific focus: you.

"When I found the earring Watcher took from me in your desk, I knew instantly the need hadn't been one-sided." Blair began bouncing the kitchen, propelling himself into the living room, growing more excited as he talked.

"I mean, think about it. Protect and serve, what a cop does, what the original sentinels did. But who protects and serves them while they're giving it all to the tribe? A mate? She'd be distracted by the inevitable children, and torn by maternal needs to take care of them instead of the sentinel. A sentinel would be drawn to someone who would focus on them, who was drawn to them in return. Their guide."

"Blair, you're already my guide," Jim interrupted, clearly getting frustrated.

"No, Jim, I'm a guide. Not *your* guide. That's what you were trying to do. Mark me, claim me. I bet you concentrated on touch because it was most acceptable, but that wasn't the only thing you wanted to do."

Pausing mid bounce, Blair came back into the kitchen and covered the hint of red in Jim's cheek with his palm. "Just like you were a sentinel, but not *my* sentinel. I was trying to establish a connection of belonging to you. My own primal response."

"Then why did it keep getting worse when I was getting what I wanted, mostly," Jim muttered, face still hot.

"Obsessive behavior. You need a stimulus, you deny yourself, the need gets worse, you fight harder until you break. Then the cycle starts again, and you need more and more to satisfy it when you break, and you break faster each time. I started out sharing your bed, fully clothed, not touching, remember? At the end, I was snuggled closer to you than a lover." This time, it was Blair who started turning red.

"So now what?" Jim took his turn at restlessly moving around the loft.

"I did some checking while I was waiting for your call. The best therapy for compulsive behavior is to satisfy it before you break. In other words, if you have to do it every fifteen minutes or start feeling the urge, you deliberately do it every fourteen. Set a clock and make yourself do it even if you don't want to. When you start getting annoyed because it's time to do it again, you drop the time to thirteen minutes. So on and so on. Get it?"

"You think we should just go ahead and do this, act like it's the most natural thing in the world?" Jim wasn't exactly outraged, but he couldn't keep his voice from rising.

"Jim, for us, it is. I'm not suggesting you rip off my clothes and turn me into the dessert of the day. I'm just saying, if I come upstairs and sleep with you once in a while, let you fill your senses until they're sated, we shouldn't have any more problems. Once we convince the cavemen living inside us that we're committed to our roles in each other's lives, the compulsion will go away."

"I can not believe how easily you're accepting this."

"Trust me, Jim, after seeing you ready to take a knife to keep from hurting me, a little bed time snuggle is *no* sacrifice, ok?" Blair planted himself in front of his Sentinel, and put both hands on his shoulders. "In fact, right now might be a good time." Jim jumped, and started to back away, but Blair held him in place. "You're exhausted, so am I, and if either of us tries to sleep alone, we're just going to end up together, anyway."

Meeting Jim's level gaze was the hardest thing Blair had had to do since their first meeting, and more important. He did it, not bothering to hide his own doubts and worries from Jim. That seemed to convince him, somehow, and Jim curtly nodded.

"Want to shower first?" Jim asked in the casual tone of a roomie being courteous.

"Meet you up there?" Blair was less successful, but they went on with the pretense until both of them were lying side by side, not touching, in Jim's big bed. They took turns looking at each other while the other was staring at the ceiling, and trying not to fidget too close.

At last Jim muttered, "Oh, fuck this!" rolled to his side, and gathered Blair into his arms. Almost defiantly he planted his nose into the arch of Blair's collarbone, put one arm under Blair, the other around his back and curling up into his hair. Weaving his fingers into the curly mass, he cupped the back of Blair's head gently. He threw one long leg over both of Blair's, took a very deep breath, and utterly relaxed.

Securely cradled, Blair couldn't stop the tiny smile that blossomed on his face when he felt a tiny lick at his collar. Following Jim's example, he wiggled until he was completely comfortable and then just let go.

It was great. Dropping into sleep, Blair had barely enough time to muzzily think Soul deep, man, soul deep.

Both men slept.

Note from the Author

There is a very good story in the 852 Prospect archive called "Driven by Instinct" by Jayd. In it, Our Heroes are shoved, by instinct, willy nilly, into an intense physical relationship, and are forced to deal with the consequences of it. Much as I liked the story, I had one basic problem with it. Cultural conditioning, environmental factors, and child-rearing practices cause humans to ignore, suppress, or sublimate even the most basic of our instincts into something unrecognizable. In this author's humble opinion, two people being irresistibly drawn together by a primal instinct would respond *any way* except the one mother natural originally intended. If you disagree, write me a story and convince me. I'd love it. Really.

L- Aug, '97