Not mine, unfortunately. This story was done for fan enjoyment only and no money is being made from it.

Thanks to my many friends and betas: CJ, Elly Daniels, Lucy, Theresa Kyle, Sherry and Dar and others for encouraging me as I toiled on this long, long sequel. Also, thanks to the SIZZLER voters who awarded this story best novella at last year's ConneXions!

For those worried about permanent injury, I've said all along that this story has a happy ending -- and it does. Fear not. It's science fiction, remember?

This story is a sequel to: Phantom Pain, Phantom Pain -- Jim

God, I miss Jim.

There, that's the tenth time that thought has crossed my mind today. Maybe I can get on with what I'm trying to do now. I'm tired. My legs hurt... legs that aren't there hurt like they are. Should be used to it now.

Actually, I kinda am. It's a dull pain, something that's always with me, like a toothache you get used to 'cause you don't want to go to the dentist. It's almost the same as the pain missing Jim gives me. That's a pain I've gotten used to too in these last three weeks. But like the phantom pain, it's always there.

Better get my stuff together to get to class. I'm pretty used to pushing myself around in this chair and getting around this apartment is easy, what with all the cabinets low enough for me to reach them and everything else set up for being handicapped. I actually like it here. I like working again. The only time I stop thinking about Jim and stop feeling the pain is when I'm teaching a class. It's only Anthro 101, but that's okay. For some reason, the students listen to me and the feeling of having them interested in what I have to say gives me the energy to make it all interesting for them. The past and the pain all seem to fade away and I'm alive again, I'm Professor Sandburg, out to make the world understand how cool anthropology can be.

"Blair? You ready?"

That's Bill Bookman, my teaching assistant. He was assigned by the university to kinda help me out. I think he volunteered for the job. He's enthusiastic and pretty nice but sometimes he gets on my nerves, like now. I've told him not to just walk in like that but he always forgets. Guess he doesn't mean anything by it. He said he doesn't like to have to make me go to the trouble of getting to the door to open it for him. I could lock it, I guess...

"Yeah, I'm ready," I answer as he strides into the living area. "What's the weather like today?" I haven't been able to decide whether to take a jacket or not.

"It's chilly. I'll get your wind breaker, okay?"

He sounds eager to help. He's really supposed to run errands on campus for me, meet with students if I don't have time, stuff like that. But he's kind of assigned himself to being my companion. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. I probably look lonely. And I am. I was always used to having people around all the time.

"I'll get it," I say, wheeling over to the closet and reaching inside. The wind breaker's on a low hook behind the door.

Bill follows me; as always, he's kind of hovering. He stands close, leans over my shoulder. "You are really doing great, you know?"

"Thanks." I shrug into the jacket, shifting the backpack on my lap. It slips, almost hitting the floor.

"I got it!" Bill leans down to grab the pack, his eyes on my legs as he bends. The direction of his gaze makes me uncomfortable. "Here." He hands me the pack and I notice the fingers of his left hand brush across the edge of my pants, the part that covers the end of my leg.

I can't help grimacing.

"Are you okay?" He sounds anxious. "Are your stumps hurting again today?"

I swallow a shudder. I hate it when he says 'stumps' like that. It's not a word I'm comfortable with. The doctors say 'residual limb' and that's a euphemism I can live with. I've never told him I hate to hear him use 'stump' though. It isn't a word I even like to say or discuss, so I try to ignore his use of it.

"No. I'm fine." I can hear the tension in my own voice.

"Blair," he says, giving me a look. "You can tell me, you know." His brown eyes are wide and I know he means well. I know he wants me to trust him, confide in him, but... he's not somebody I know.

I used to make friends easily. But not any more. I'm different now.

Yeah, there's a part of me that hurts, a part that's lonely, but... I just can't open up to someone like this, someone I don't know. I couldn't even open up to Jim anymore, how can I do it with a stranger?

"It... it's not there," I tell Bill finally. The pain isn't in the part of me that's still there. It's in the part that isn't.

"Oh," says Bill, a knowing look in his eyes. "You need me to go pick up your prescriptions for you?"

I let him do it once, and now he thinks it's another part of his job. He knows all the stuff I have to take and that makes me feel weird about it. Besides, the stuff doesn't work all that well.

"No. I'm fine with those too." I take better hold of my backpack and nod toward the door. "I'd better get to class."

"Right. Don't want to be late." Bill takes hold of my chair handles and helps me adjust position so I can get out the door. I could have done it myself but I don't tell him to stop.

He walks beside me as I head out of the building to class. Bill talks about the weather, asking me what it's like up in Cascade.

"Cold. It rains more than it does here," I answer automatically. Although it's okay to hear the sound of someone's voice, it's not really the voice I'd prefer to be listening to.

But to hear that voice takes a phone call. I promised myself that I wouldn't keep calling Jim, that I'd wait to call him again. I'd wait 'til I was all settled in and teaching and let him know I'm doing okay.

Okay, so I'm settled. I'm teaching. I'm doing okay.

It's been three weeks since classes started.

But I still haven't called him.

I should. Maybe I should.

But what if hearing his voice gets to me so bad I can't help asking him to drop everything and come here?

I don't want to do that. He said he'd come and bring me my stuff I had to leave when I came here on the plane. I know he'd do it the minute I ask.

But somehow, I can't, not yet. I want to prove to myself I can handle being on my own first. I came here to let go, didn't I? So I can't go running to him when I get lonely...

Running... that's a good one.

"Blair?"

Bill is leaning close to me again, looking at me anxiously. He must have heard me sigh.

I manage a grin. "I'm fine." God, I get so sick of saying that.

We've arrived at the Anthro building.

"Anything you need me to do?" Bill asks as I head into the classroom. Some of my students are already there and I nod in greeting to them.

"Yeah." I unzip my backpack and dig out the test I wrote last night. "Can you get a hundred copies of this run off at the printer's for me?" Since it's a sophomore class and I need so many, it has to be taken to the print shop across campus.

"Sure." Bill sounds eager, glad for something to do for me. "You doing office hours today?"

"Yeah, 'til five." I know why he's asking. He's planning on coming back to pick me up when I'm through. "But if you have something to do, don't worry. I know the way back to my place by now."

He doesn't take the offered out. "I'll be there," he says, sounding earnest, "don't worry."

No, Bill, I'm not worried. I know you'll be there.

He leaves and I turn to my class, relieved to be on my own again. One of the girls in the front row gives me a dazzling smile and I catch myself grinning back.

Another day in Major Crime. Another typical, boring day. I hear bits of conversations about the cases, or jokes between my co-workers but I keep to myself. I work without a partner now, most of the time. Once in a while, Simon assigns Megan or Joel to ride with me if the case seems to warrant it. The rest of the time, I'm on my own. I do my job, come and go, and that's it. I sit here, pretending I care about the crimes I'm investigating, pretending I'm still a good cop, but I'm not. I don't care who gets murdered, what gets stolen. It's my job to do the detective work, but it's just a job now. I can't care about it the way I used to. I feel like there's nothing I care about any more. I used to care about Blair.

But he's gone. Been gone for almost a month now. He called me once in that time but that's it. He asked me not to try to find his phone number or contact him. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do... well, not really. It's only part of the hardest thing I've ever done -- the thing that started the day we had the accident and I did what I did to save Blair's life. He said he doesn't hate me for it... I guess he doesn't know that I hate me for doing it. I hate that I had no choice but to do it, I hate that he didn't want me to do it and I couldn't do what he wanted. I hate that he would have died if I hadn't done it and that he wanted to die and didn't want to live like this and that I forced him to. I hate that he wanted to die. I hate that I couldn't let him die.

He doesn't hate me, he says now. I guess that means he understands why I did it. When he first told me that, it made me feel a little better. I hung onto it like it was a piece of gold. But the words seem tarnished now, since I've run them through my head a million or so times since I heard them. He doesn't hate me. But he doesn't want to be around me, live with me, be my partner, my friend. My guide.

I don't actually need a guide, per se, any more, of course. I'm not a sentinel any more. I think that's one of the things that makes me not care about my job any more. I'm an average cop now -- not that when I first got my sentinel senses I didn't ask about a zillion times to just be average again -- but now that my senses are permanently downgraded to normal, I miss them. I miss them for lots of reasons but the main one is that without them, Blair felt that much more useless. I'd give anything to have been able to give him a reason to try to pull out of his depression. But I couldn't even do that for him.

My head hurts. I try to convince myself it's from staring at the computer screen so much. I close my eyes, rub my fingers over them, massage my temples a few minutes.

"Jim? Do you have that old file from the Warren case?"

Megan's voice invades my dark, quiet peace. Eyes still closed, I take my fingers off my eyes and lean over to pull out my bottom drawer. The file Megan wants is in the back. It's one we weren't able to solve so I keep it there, open more or less, if any new evidence ever shows up.

I open my eyes to find it and even though the light isn't bright, I have to squint. I get the file and as I'm sitting up, I flip it open. My gaze falls on handwritten notes on the first page.

Blair's handwriting.

"Unhhhh!" The groan is ripped out of me, half shock, half pain. The light. It's too bright. The words on the page -- huge. Sharp edged. Like knives in my eyes.

"Jim?" Megan is next to me. I can feel her hands on my shoulders, smell her perfume. "What's wrong?"

"I... " I sit up, glance around the room cautiously. I take a deep breath. I know what it was, but I can hardly believe it. "Migraine," I lie. It was a sensory spike. I haven't had one in so long I hardly recognized it, but that's what it was. My senses, totally normal for so long, suddenly spiked. I look around gingerly. Everything seems ordinary again. "I'm fine. Here's the file."

"Jim, you should take it easy," Megan says, sounding worried. "You look tired."

"I'm okay." But I am tired. It comes from not sleeping. Since Blair left, I've probably averaged four hours a night. "I'm all right," I repeat, looking at her sternly until she backs off, taking the file with her.

I had a sensory spike. I looked at Blair's handwriting and my senses spiked off the scale. I close my eyes and take a few calming breaths, but it doesn't work. I can't calm down. I had a sensory spike... what's it mean? Was it just the surprise of seeing his handwriting or does it mean my senses might eventually come back online? I don't know what to think and...there's nobody to ask about this. I can't call him to ask his opinion as my guide.

The familiar depression settles in the pit of my stomach once again, and my head's still zinging from the spike. I glance at my watch. It's almost 4:30. I've gotta get out of here, go home.

I shut off my computer and put the papers on my desk away, stand and grab my jacket. The elevator is empty when I get in it, but that just makes me miss Blair all the more.

"Mr. Sandburg?" a soft voice calls from my office doorway.

"Sure. Come on in." I put down my pen and look up. In comes a girl in a wheelchair. I recognize her from my junior Anthro 101 class. "Hi. Sherry, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Sandburg." She stops beside my desk and offers a shy smile.

"How can I help you today, Sherry?" As I recall, her last test grade was an A.

"I...I'm doing fine in your class, Mr. Sandburg. I just wanted to tell you something," she says, her eyes downcast. "If that's okay."

"Uh... yeah." I'm not sure what she's driving at and a little part of me wants to back away from this. I worry she's going to say she likes me or something.

She looks up finally, an earnest look in her dark brown eyes. "I just want to tell you I really admire you." She blushes and looks away again.

"You admire me?" I don't get it.

"Sure," she says, spreading her hands as though it should be obvious. "You've kind of... been an inspiration to me."

"How?" Now I'm really confused.

Her glance goes to my chair. "Just... you... you've shown me...that my life isn't over." She pauses, looking as confused as I am.

I have to swallow a lump in my throat. I look at her, really look, for the first time. Because she's in a chair, I've sort of avoided staring at her. I can't really face the fact that I have to use one myself, so I've tried to avoid other people in one too. I know it's weird, but... Now I see that she's had one leg amputated below the knee. Beneath her skirt, there's one slender leg with a delicate shoe and next to it, a residual limb wrapped with a pressure bandage. She must have just had the operation.

"When...?" I start to ask.

"Just six weeks before classes started," she answers, understanding my half voiced question. "I thought...I thought I wouldn't be able to make it. But when I first saw you teaching, everything changed. I realized I could do anything I want to...just like you."

I feel a hot blush rise on my face. It's humiliating to realize she's looked up to me, when there's nothing in me that anyone should admire. I'm no poster boy for accepting a handicap. I'm not adjusted. I haven't accepted. I'm barely hanging on here. How can she possibly admire me?

"When did...when did you lose your legs?" she asks me and for the first time, I hear that question without a deep bitterness rising inside me.

"Almost a year ago," I say. I'm unable to add anything more.

"Wow," Sherry says in awe. "Is that all?"

"Yeah." I shrug, then take a deep breath. "Sherry, I'm not as good at dealing with this as you might think..."

"I'm sure you have your bad days, just like I do," she says quickly. "But I thought I'd have to...you know...always stay home. I want to teach and... here you are, doing just that. I'll bet you could go out on anthropological digs even, too, if you want to."

"I don't know about that. It'd be pretty difficult to do that in a wheelchair."

"Don't you have prostethtics?" she asks in surprise.

"Uh...well, actually I do but they aren't here in Baltimore. I came here by plane and couldn't bring them with me. I don't really use them all that much anyway. It's pretty hard..."

"I know. I'm having trouble with mine too. I just got started trying it out and it's a pain. I fall down a lot still. But I'll get the hang of it." She gives me a shy smile.

"What happened to you?" I ask, hesitant to pry but unable to stop myself.

"I had bone cancer." She shrugs. "It was lose my leg or lose my life."

The back of my throat burns and my eyes sting. I have to look away from her open expression before I lose it.

"What about you?"

Her soft voice invades my personal agony. I feel like the lowest thing on earth. Here I am, alive at least, and I'm still angry that I'm not dead, still thinking it'd be better to be dead than live like this. And here's this young girl, who says I've inspired her. Shit...

I swallow hard, having to clear my throat to talk. "Funny," I say at last, "it was sorta like that for me."

"Really? Then you know what it's like. Wow, when the doctors told me they had to take my leg off and asked me to decide..." Her voice trails off.

"Well, it wasn't exactly like that," I add, feeling that at least I owe her the truth. "I didn't get to make the decision." I take a deep breath. Even Bill doesn't know exactly how I lost my legs. Nobody in Baltimore does. "I was in an accident." Hoping for a question -- or better yet some indication that's the only information she needs -- I pause. But Sherry doesn't speak. She's waiting for me to go on. "It was really bad," I say as though in a dream. The images try to come back to me, even now. "There was a storm and the bridge went out. I got trapped under the truck and the water was coming up..." There's nothing more that I can say with my throat suddenly full of acid soaked cotton. I stare hard at her, fighting the images of Jim there with me as the water rushed over my head.

"Oh God," Sherry sighs. She rolls her chair a little closer to me. "That must have been terrible."

I nod. "My friend was with me. He got me out the best way he could."

Sherry has nothing to say to that. I glance up at her and her face looks white with shock.

"I mean, my legs were kinda smashed up anyway. That's what they told me at least."

"So your friend had to... cut them off?" Sherry's lips are trembling as she speaks.

"I thought I was going to die. I didn't think there was a way out for me." I close my eyes and hang my head in silence for a moment. "I was...kind of upset when I realized what he'd done."

Sherry gasps, looking at me in shock.

"I was ready to die. I thought it was my time." Saying it like that, I realize how awful it sounds. "But...I'm not mad at him any more. It's just... been hard to deal with all this for me. The way it happened... "

"I read about traumatic amputations," Sherry says. "It's harder to get over it when you lose a limb like that."

I've read that too. It's a crutch I've hung onto when it seemed people expected me to be dealing better with what happened. And yet Sherry's sympathy makes me feel bad. I should be better by now. I told Jim I don't blame him, didn't I?

"Sherry, I really spent a long time feeling sorry for myself. I don't know that I'm dealing with this that well even now. All I did for a long time was hang around the house."

"But you're here now, teaching and everything," she points out.

"Yeah. I don't even know where the motivation to do this came from. I used to live up in Cascade, Washington. I got tired of sitting home, of being depressed and being... kinda mad at everybody and everything... so I started looking for a teaching job. This is what turned up so I took it. Moved out here right after New Year's, before classes started."

Sherry is quiet for a moment. "What about your friend?"

That question is even more complicated than the ones she's already asked me.

"He feels bad about it," I tell her, knowing what an understatement that is. "He took care of me after the accident. It was sort of hard on our friendship."

Sherry nods understandingly. "He lives in Cascade?"

"Yeah. So I haven't seen him since I moved here."

"You were close friends?" she asks.

"Yeah. He was my best friend."

"Wow... " She's quiet a moment. "I still admire you, Mr. Sandburg," she says then. With a tilt of her head and a searching look, she goes on, "I think you must be doing better than you think you are."

I take that in, not really sure about what she's saying. "Thanks, Sherry. It was good talking to you. Any time you'd like to talk like this, it'd be okay with me."

"Great," she smiles. "You're a great teacher, Mr. Sandburg. I love your class." She starts to turn her wheelchair around. "I'd better go. My dad picks me up at five o'clock."

"Is it five already?" I glance at my watch. "My assistant will be here soon."

"That guy Bill?" Sherry asks. "I've seen him around campus." She pushes herself back closer to me. "He's kind of strange, don't you think?" she asks in a softer voice.

"Well..."

"He gives me the creeps." Sherry glances toward the door as though to make sure Bill hasn't arrived to hear what she's saying. "I heard he had a girlfriend who was an amputee -- and that's the reason he was dating her." She makes a face. "You've heard about people like that, haven't you?"

I shake my head no. "Not really... "

"Some people are actually attracted to... people like us. I think that's gross." She shudders a little, then turns to go. "You take care, okay?"

"I will," I assure her. She's given me a lot to think about.

After she's gone, I think about Jim. How he's doing, what he's feeling. I really should call him. I'm the one who was hurt, I'm the one who was depressed all this time, but I haven't been fair to Jim. I left him to keep from hurting him more than I already had by hanging around depressed like I was, but I know leaving hurt him too. He hurt me, but he did it to save my life. He can't reach out and make things okay between us again. I'm the only one who can do that.

The connection Jim and I had was stronger than anything I've ever felt with anyone else before in my life. And I know it was that way for Jim too. Part of it was because we were Sentinel and guide, but it was more than that. I'm afraid that the accident cut that connection, beyond any hope of healing. But god, what if it could heal? What if it still was there between us?

I glance at the clock. Why wait 'til I get home?

I reach for the phone on my desk, dial the number for the station. It's three hours earlier in Cascade. Jim might be there, but he might not be. If he's not, at least I'll hear a familiar voice.

"Major Crimes." It's Rhonda.

I almost say hi to her but instead, I ask for Jim. "Is Jim Ellison there?"

"Just a moment." She puts me on hold. "No, he's out of the office right now. Would you like to leave a message?"

"Uh...sure."

"Is this Blair?" Rhonda finally recognizes my voice.

"Yeah, it's me. How are you, Rhonda?"

"I'm fine. Blair, how are you?" She sounds surprised and as though she's been wondering.

"I'm okay," I begin but I hear another voice in the background. It's Simon.

"Sandburg? Is that you?" Simon must have taken the phone from Rhonda's hand. This is more than I bargained for.

"Hi, Simon. I was just trying to get in touch with Jim."

"About time," Simon says gruffly. "What are you doing, kid? You move out of town without telling a soul, you don't call him..."

"Is he all right?" I need to know, desperately, I realize.

"I guess so. He does his job. He doesn't talk much. He's taken some sick days though."

"He's been sick?"

"I don't know. He doesn't give me the details. Something about headaches." Simon sounds mad at me. I guess I can't blame him.

"Is he working today?" I ask, attempting to reign my worry.

"He's in court. Testifying on a case." Simon's voice is still gruff, aggravated.

"Would you tell him I called?" I'm not sure Simon's on my side enough to cut me any slack but I'm betting he'll tell Jim.

"Of course I will." Simon pauses. "Are you okay, kid?"

"Yeah," I answer in surprise. "I'm doing okay. I got a great job teaching some anthropology classes. I'm getting around pretty good. I feel... better."

"That's good," Simon offers after a moment. "You take care, you hear?"

"I will," I agree for the second time today. "Tell Jim I called him."

"You should try him at home later."

"I will. And... say hi to everybody from me, okay?"

"All right, Sandburg. Keep in touch. I've gotta go."

"Nice to talk to you, Simon," I say as he's hanging up. I switch off my phone just as Bill saunters through the door.

"Sorry I'm late," he says immediately. "Were you trying to call me?"

I put the phone back in my backpack. "No. I was calling a friend."

"Back home?"

I shrug, not all that interested in confiding in him.

"Male or female?" Bill asks with a little wiggle of his eyebrows.

I half smile at him. "Male. My old roommate."

"Oh yeah? I didn't know you had a roommate."

"I did." Despite myself, I sigh, thinking of Jim. I wish he'd been there when I called. What's going on with those headaches Simon mentioned?

"Were you close?" Bill asks.

"He was my friend. My partner. We were... cops."

Bill's eyes widen. He looks impressed. "Cops? You were a cop? Blair -- I mean, I never figured that."

"It's a long story." I hold up a hand, attempting to forestall more questions. "I started out as an observer on the force, working on my dissertation. I ended up going through the Academy and working as a cop for awhile." I break off before I say too much.

But Bill is fairly astute. "Wait a minute -- you had your accident while you were a cop? Oh man, I get it. You had to quit and go back to teaching, right?"

I shrug. What's the point of denying it? At least Bill doesn't seem to recall anything about my dissertation and all the publicity.

He hunkers down next to me. "I bet you made a great cop," he says softly, his eyes full of interest.

"I don't really like to talk about it."

"I can understand that." He pauses. "Did you get shot?"

I shake my head. "Bill, I said I don't like to talk about it."

"Okay," he sighs. His hand goes to my shoulder, squeezing. "You know, you're still a cool guy, Blair. This," he pats the chair, "doesn't matter to me. It shouldn't to anybody." He pauses. "In fact, I think you're probably stronger because of it."

I look at him, part of me annoyed that he's said this. It's such a clich and most people don't mean it. I think he does, but somehow, instead of a comfort, it hurts to hear words like that. I'm not this chair, this body without legs. Is that what Bill sees? What everyone sees? That was my fear, all along, why I hated to leave the loft after I got out of the hospital. I know how people in most societies react to a disability. I don't want to be viewed as something they should pity, or to be thought of as special because of it either.

I feel a flush heat up my face. I'm probably blushing and I hate that. I think of my plan to call Jim -- and remember the bridge falling, the weight of the truck on my legs. I think of how I'd rather be dead than seen as an object of pity or ridicule or worse, an object of admiration. Jim, why did you do this to me?

"I've gotta get home," I say finally, my voice a croak. I can't look at Bill. I just want to be alone. "Did you get those tests copied?"

"Right here," he says, his own voice understandably quieter than usual.

"Just put them on the desk."

"Okay. You need anything from the store?" That anxious to please tone is back.

"No, I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow." Feeling like a jerk, I turn back to look at him. None of this was his fault. "I'm okay. Thanks." He smiles and nods. I turn my chair and head for the door. Bill holds it for me and waits 'til I lock up, looking as though he hopes I'll ask him to accompany me after all. "I'm fine, Bill," I say as we emerge on the street.

"Take care then. I'll stop by tomorrow in case you need anything before class," he says and, with a wave, he heads down the street.

'Take care.' Yeah, right. Is that all anybody can say to me? What makes them think I won't, I can't?

I look around anxiously to see if anybody else is around. I don't want people to look at me, don't want them wondering what happened to me, feeling sorry for me. I don't want them trying to make friends with me 'cause I'm in a wheelchair, either.

Not many students are around this late in the afternoon. Relieved, I head off campus, keeping my eyes down as I make my way along the uneven sidewalk. I was going to call Jim later tonight. Now, I'm not sure. Part of me just wants to be alone in my little apartment, keep to myself. I don't know if I can talk to him feeling this way right now. We were hurting each other when I was still in Cascade. I'm not saying he's not hurting 'cause I left, but I'm still hurting too.

Simon Banks felt relieved when he pulled up in front of 852 Prospect Street. Jim's truck was parked in its usual spot, so he figured his detective was at home. He'd heard that Jim had had some kind of problem testifying in court. Jim hadn't returned to the station following the court appearance but had taken the rest of the day off sick again. Simon was worried; Ellison hadn't been himself since Blair had left town but he hadn't been able to make much headway talking to him about it at the station. He thought if he tried seeing Jim at home, he might have more luck. Besides, he thought Jim would want to know that Blair had called the station to talk to him.

He took the elevator and strode down the hall to 307, knocking brusquely, remembering that Jim's senses weren't sentinel strong any more. Simon felt a pang of regret; in the old days, Jim would have often opened the door before Simon even had a chance to knock.

There was no answer, but Simon knew Jim was home. He knocked a second time, waited, and then tried the door. It was unlocked, so he pushed it open.

The sight of the loft's interior sent a shock wave through him.

Instead of the pristine apartment he expected to see, Simon found a disaster area. There was trash overflowing the garbage can inside the kitchen area, newspapers were draped on the couches and piled on the floor. Plates and cups decorated the coffee table, clothes -- clean or not -- lay strewn about. The dining table was a mess, piled high with papers, books, beer bottles, take out trays and used napkins, and one of its chairs was overturned. What furniture wasn't covered with refuse was grey with dust. The place even smelled bad.

It took a moment for Simon to find Jim amongst the debris. He was curled up on the longer couch, a pillow from his bed under his head and the afghan covering him. The hiking boots he'd been wearing were on the floor beside him.

No lights had been turned on, so Simon's first order of business was to do that. He tried the fixture over the kitchen island but it seemed to be burned out. Next, he looked for a lamp in the living room. One of them lay broken on the floor. Simon settled for opening the blinds to let in what light remained outside. As he crossed to the windows, he noticed that the TV set was on. It wasn't tuned to a station, however; instead a test pattern glowed on the screen while the set emitted a low static hum.

"Jim, are you awake?" he called out, more worried when he received no answer. Simon moved to the couch and leaned over, touching Jim's shoulder. "Jim?"

Ellison bolted upright, his eyes wild, his hand going automatically to the gun he'd put under his pillow. Simon found himself staring down its barrel.

"Whoa there, Detective," he said, holding up both hands. "It's me, Jim. Simon. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh." Jim slowly lowered the weapon and put it on the coffee table. "I'm sorry, Simon. I didn't hear you come in."

"I realize that." Simon hesitated a moment.

"What are you doing here?" Jim looked as confused as Simon felt. He rubbed at his face, trying to wake up. His hair, which Simon realized hadn't been trimmed recently was mussed from lying down. He'd so seldom seen Jim looking unkempt it gave Simon a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I heard you had some kind of problem in court and that you went home sick again," Simon said, trying not to sound annoyed. Jim still looked at little shell-shocked from being wakened up. "Jim -- what's going on here?"

Ellison glanced around the room as though he didn't quite recognize it. "Nothing." He shrugged. "Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting anyone." Jim sat up and pulled some newspapers off the other end of the couch, clearing a spot for Simon to sit.

"I can see that." He took a seat, still floundering for what to say, where to begin. "Jim, this isn't like you," he started.

Jim's face was impassive. "I guess I got tired of being so anal about the place," he offered finally.

"It doesn't look like you've cleaned it since... since Sandburg left," Simon pointed out.

Jim seemed to wince at the mention of Blair's name. "Didn't seem to be any point," he muttered.

"Okay, that's your business," Simon said, feeling awkward. "Tell me about what happened in court."

"I started to testify and...the defense attorney started asking about whether or not I had special senses that gave me information on the crime." A sad look crossed his face that made Simon's heart twist. "I...denied that, of course. Anyway, it didn't go so well after that. Before I got off the stand, my head felt like it was going to fall off." He rubbed at his temples, his brows drawing together in pain.

"You've been getting a lot of headaches, Jim," Simon began gently. "Have you seen a doctor about this?"

Jim shook his head.

"What's causing the headaches?"

"How should I know?" Jim snapped. "They're just migraines. I've gotten them for years. It's the job, Simon, you know about that... "

"Yeah, I know about that but I also know that Sandburg's leaving has thrown you for a loop -- "

"You didn't come here to talk about Blair, did you?" Jim interrupted. "Because that's not a topic that's open for discussion."

"He called the office today."

Jim looked up, his eyes wide and torn with hope and dread. "Is something wrong? Did you talk to him? Why did he call? Simon -- ?"

"Settle down," Simon cautioned. "He's all right, apparently. I talked to him. He sounded fine. He called looking for you."

Jim didn't say a word. He just sat there, his mouth half open. Simon saw the muscle in his jaw twitch, always an indicator of Ellison's emotions.

"I told him you were in court and to call here later." He didn't bother asking if Sandburg had called Jim yet. It was obvious he hadn't.

Jim looked at his watch, then glanced around as though searching for the phone. He got up and paced to where the answering machine sat, looking closely to see if there were any messages. He looked up at Simon. "I was sleeping pretty sound. I thought I might have missed his call." The look of disappointment on his face was almost more than Simon could stand.

"I'm sure he'll call later tonight," Simon tried to reassure. "Jim, have you eaten anything today?"

Ellison shook his head, wandering away from the answering machine to cross the living area and stare out at the bay through the window. Simon saw a broken coffee mug lying on the floor of the balcony. He got up, moving to stand next to his friend.

"Have you had dinner, Jim?" he asked again, more gently this time.

Jim shook his head, eyes still on the horizon.

"I haven't either," Simon told him, attempting to sound jovial. "Come on, let's go out for a quick bite." He put a hand on Jim's arm. The muscle turned to iron under his fingers. Ellison felt like a bronze statue.

"No." His voice was almost a sigh. "Blair might call."

"Then we'll call out and have something delivered." He paused, getting no reaction. "My treat."

Jim finally turned to look at him. His eyes were red, Simon noticed. "No, thanks, Simon. I can't eat when my head feels like this. I can't keep anything down."

"Jim, I'm worried about you," Simon told him, letting his concern show. "These headaches are starting to affect your work." Looking at him more closely, he could see that Jim had lost weight recently. "If you're not eating right, if you're in pain, you can't do your job." He hesitated, then went on. "Could this have anything to do with your senses?"

Jim's head came up and he drilled Simon with a deadly glare, blue eyes going from dull and pain-filled to angry in a second. "What senses? There's nothing about my senses that are any different from anyone else's, Captain. You know that."

"Jim, Megan told me you seemed to have some kind of sensory episode the other day when she asked for a file from you."

"What?"

"She asked for a file on a case and you pulled it out of the drawer. You opened it and when you looked at the page, you reacted -- you winced, she said. You seemed to flinch away from the page. Then you complained of a headache and left for the day."

"Simon, I had a headache. When I get them, it's hard to focus my eyes. I didn't have any 'sensory episode.' That's... that's crazy. I don't get sensory episodes any more. You know that."

Simon persisted. "Jim, are you sure? I don't want my best detective having sensory problems out there, getting migraines every day, losing it on the witness stand. If you need help with your senses -- "

"I don't." The tone was firm, final. His gaze wavered after a moment, and he looked away. "I can't."

"Jim, I know what Blair's accident did to you." Simon moved closer, stepping back into Ellison's line of sight. "But you can't keep punishing yourself forever over it. He's left to get on with his life. You need to do the same thing."

"Simon, you have no idea what Blair's 'accident' did to me. I didn't shut down my senses on purpose or anything like that. They're just gone... I've had to accept that. I hate that they're gone. If I still had them, at least Blair would have felt like he had a reason to keep going. But I didn't. I took not only his legs from him, but his vocation too. And I'm not talking about his being a cop. I'm talking about him being my guide. That was the most important thing in the world to him. He could have guided me with or without legs -- but I don't need a guide any more." Jim strode away, his chest heaving. Suddenly, he turned back to Simon, his eyes haunted, his voice sharp. "Did you know he wanted me to let him die out there? He actually told me to leave him under the truck that way. He'd've drowned and he knew it, Simon. He wanted to die -- he expected to die and I couldn't let him go like that. I did what I had to do to save him." Jim hung his head, his tirade dying down. "And he's resented me every day since then. Even if I got my senses back, I don't think he'd care any more."

Simon digested the information without comment, knowing the idea that the kid had said he'd prefer to die in the accident than survive it without his legs was going to stay with him for the rest of the night, maybe for the rest of his life. God, what that must have done to Jim... It was bad enough he'd had to cut off his best friend's legs... but to be told he should have left him to die... Damn.

"Jim," he said, choosing to respond only to the last part of Ellison's statement. "I know Blair cares about you. I think he always will. He called today to talk to you."

Jim looked up at him, a look of greater trepidation on his face than Simon had ever seen. "I let him down," he whispered.

Simon took hold of both Jim's shoulders. "No, you didn't. You saved his life. He knows that. He might have been upset about how you saved him when it first happened, but he's got to think differently by now."

Jim ignored him. "He's been so depressed... "

"And if he was depressed enough, if he wanted to die badly enough, he would have found a way to die, wouldn't he?"

Jim stared at him then, but Simon couldn't fathom the look on his face.

"He'll call you," he said firmly. "He's got a job and he's doing all right. He doesn't wish he was dead."

Ellison glanced away. "He did say he doesn't hate me... " His voice was faintly hopeful.

"What?"

"When he called, after he left town. That's what he told me. I thought he was just saying that though. He's hasn't called again. He doesn't want to come home."

"Jim, these things take time. You've both been through a lot."

Ellison managed a nod but his expression still looked defeated.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?" Simon asked after a moment.

"No. I'm just going to get some sleep." Jim moved back to the couch and settled on it once more.

Simon noted the pillow there. "Is this where you've been sleeping?"

Jim shrugged. "I guess. I can't really sleep in my bed until it's about three, four a.m."

"Are you going to be okay to come in tomorrow?"

"Sure," Jim affirmed. "I'll be there."

"Okay. Good." Simon hesitated, then said what he knew he had to say. "Jim, I'm giving you some time to deal with all this, but I want you to know this: if you keep having these bad migraines, if you keep not eating, I'm going to have to see to it that you get some medical help. Or psychological help. Whatever it takes."

Jim nodded. "I understand, Simon." He pulled his legs up onto the couch, sliding down to rest his head on the pillow, then lay there with his knees drawn up, his face blank.

"Get some rest," Simon told him gruffly. He turned to leave. "You want this door locked? It was open when I came in."

Jim looked up. "Oh. Sure. Lock it for me, would you?"

"Night, Jim. Take it easy." Simon left, more worried than he had been when he arrived.

The next morning, Jim walked into the bullpen, looking much like his usual self. He was dressed in clean if somewhat rumpled clothes, his hair was combed, he was clean shaven and there was only a trace of the tight line between his brows from yesterday's so-called migraine. Yet Simon noted the effects of eating less than usual and it appeared Ellison wasn't working out as much any more either. He opened his door and called out a greeting.

"Want some coffee, Jim? I just brewed a fresh pot."

"Sure, Simon." Jim moved as though he was keeping himself under tight control.

Simon poured him a cup of coffee and sat, watching as Ellison took a few sips. "How are you feeling today?" he asked finally.

"I'm fine. Headache's better." Jim attempted to smile but it was obviously forced.

"Did Sandburg call?" Simon almost hated to ask.

Jim's face lost what expression it had had. "No." He looked down into the cup of coffee he held.

"I'm sorry, Jim," Simon told him. "Maybe something came up. He'll get in touch with you."

"If there's nothing else, sir," Jim said abruptly, "I have some reports to finish."

"Sure. Go right ahead. I always like to think my men are keeping up with their paperwork." Simon watched as Ellison went to his desk and switched on his computer, then the Captain picked up his phone and punched in Rhonda's number.

"Yes, Captain?" she responded when she learned it was Simon.

"Rhonda, I need you to find out the number that call came from yesterday," Simon told her. "The one from Sandburg."

"Yes, sir. I'll get right on it."

An hour later, Rhonda walked into Simon's office and handed him a slip of paper with the number in Baltimore, Maryland from where Blair Sandburg had called Major Crimes yesterday. Knowing that Jim was out of the office, Simon lost no time dialing the number. The phone rang once and was picked up.

"Blair Sandburg."

"My, don't we sound official," Simon observed.

"Simon?" Blair sounded surprised but not unhappy to hear his voice. "This is my office phone, that's why I answered like that."

"I see."

"So...uh... what can I do for you?" A trace of strain was in Sandburg's voice now; he was obviously becoming uncomfortable.

"You didn't call Jim last night, did you?"

"Uh...no. I guess I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Simon? Why the third degree? I don't work for you anymore -- "

"Cut the crap, Sandburg. I told Jim you called because you asked me to. He was looking forward to hearing from you. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Uh...I guess not." There was a pause. "Look, Simon, something came up and I didn't get a chance.... No, that's not true. I... couldn't. I thought I could but I just... couldn't talk to him last night."

"Well, at least you're being honest about it," Simon grumbled. "Look, I don't know everything about what's been going on with the two of you since you got hurt, but something has got to change and right now. I went to the loft last night to give Jim your message."

"You did?"

"Yes. He had a problem in court yesterday when he was testifying. He didn't come back to the office. I told you he'd called in sick because of headaches recently -- he had one again yesterday. I wanted to see him for myself and it's a good thing I did."

"Why?"

"Blair -- you wouldn't recognize the loft."

"What?"

"Are you able to talk in words of more than one syllable?" Simon snapped. "The loft is a pigsty. I doubt he's cleaned up a thing or thrown a bag of trash out since you left. Lights are burned out or broken, the furniture's a mess. He barely eats, when he does it's take out and he's lost weight. He's having migraines that prevent him from keeping food down. He sleeps on the couch -- says he can't sleep in his bed until it's the middle of the night. There probably isn't a clean dish in the whole place -- "

"Okay, Simon. I get it." Blair paused and Simon imagined the look of concentration on his face as Sandburg's mind went into gear. "Did he say anything about his senses?"

"Yes. He said they're gone completely. Megan thought he had some kind of sensory thing in the bull pen the other day, but he denied it." Simon took a breath. "You know how guilty he feels about what happened, Blair. From everything you guys ever told me about Jim's senses, they shut down when he's emotionally upset."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Blair asked, sounding annoyed. "Tell him I'm fine, that everything is okay with me? That I like not having legs just fine so he can get back his sentinel powers? Yeah, like that's going to work."

"You know that's not what I meant," Simon said tiredly.

Blair sighed deeply. "I know it isn't."

"Blair, how are you?"

Another sigh. "I'm all right. I do feel better than I did before I left. It's good to be working again, teaching. But how can I tell Jim that? He already feels bad enough. If he thinks I'm happy here, he's gonna feel even worse."

Simon didn't have an immediate answer.

"Besides, I don't know what to say to him. Yesterday, I was all set to talk to him. Then, I don't know... I started feeling like I was nothing but... this chair I sit in. And all I could think of was the reason I'm in it is because of Jim."

"Sandburg, do you hear what you're saying? You'd think Jim deliberately injured you. He did what he did because your life was in danger. He did what he always does -- he saved your life for you. It wasn't the first time, and it just so happened he couldn't save everything. But instead of being grateful to him, you sound like a selfish little prick who wants to punish his best friend 'cause he couldn't let you die under that truck."

There was silence at the other end of the line.

"I don't hate him," Blair said finally. "I told him that."

"Yeah, I know. He told me. You should see how it's cheered him up."

"Simon -- all right. I'll call him. And I don't mean to come off as a selfish prick. My whole life's changed, y'know? I guess I should be used to that, but this was a little harder to deal with, okay?"

"I know, Blair. I've been worried about you, too. Look, Jim needs you and you need him. The sentinel thing might be over, but you guys are still friends. You're both hurting and the only way to get past it is to work it out together. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I do. And don't think I haven't thought about that before this." He paused again and Simon heard him groan slightly.

"What is it? Are you okay? You still have that pain?"

"Yeah, I do. I'm kinda used to it. It just gets bad every now and then."

"Isn't there some medication you're supposed to take?"

"There is. It just doesn't work all that well. Oh, man... Look, Simon, I just glanced at the clock. I've got a class to teach. I've gotta go. Uh... thanks for calling. I mean... "

"I know, Blair. And listen to what I said. Call Jim. Give him your number so he can call you."

"I will. I'll call him tonight for sure."

"Good. You'll hear from me if you don't."

"Okay." Sandburg was chuckling slightly as he hung up.

Simon didn't tell Jim that he'd called Sandburg, but he knew he'd find out if the kid followed orders and called Jim tonight.

Simon was right. The loft is a mess. I just can't seem to care enough to do anything about it.

I walk over to the couch and shove aside some stuff on the coffee table so I can put down my bag from the sub shop. My head feels better today. Maybe this sandwich will go down and stay down.

Can't believe Simon showed up here. That was unexpected. I didn't know what to say to him -- so what did I do? I end up spilling my guts to him. I didn't want to say those things about Blair blaming me... how could I share his secret feelings with Simon that way? What's the Captain going to think of him?

At the moment, I'm not even sure what I think of him. Maybe I should be pissed. After all, everything I did, I did for him.

No, you didn't. You did it for you...

Yeah, maybe that's what he'd say. And maybe he'd be right about that. Maybe I was being selfish, saving him at any cost. Yeah, I wanted my friend to live. I wanted my guide to live. But I also wanted Blair to live for Blair. He was too young to die like that, with his whole life ahead of him. He'd come so far, starting a new life as a cop -- as my partner -- No, I'm supposed to be thinking about why I saved him for him, not for me.

But I did save him for me. I saved him because I love him. I couldn't tell him before he was hurt. I couldn't tell him after he was hurt. I only told him there on the mountain. It wasn't enough but it was the truth and it still is the truth. I love him, even though he's been acting like he blames me for being maimed, for ruining his life. I love him even though he didn't try to pull himself out of his depression after the accident. I love him even though he barely spoke to me these last months.

I love him even though he's left me.

Oh, God, Blair. I never thought there'd be this wall between us. What happened? We survived so much. We survived Alex Barnes. We survived the diss becoming public. We survived a hundred attempts on our lives... I thought the connection between us would never be broken.

Is there any connection between us now, still? I'm not a sentinel any more, so I can't feel it. Could I, would I feel it, if it was there, without my senses? I think I would. I'd feel the connection, the bond between us, no matter what, if it was still there.

What do you feel, Blair? Do you feel it at all? God, please call me like Simon said you were going to...I need to know, Blair. I need you...

All those things we survived... but this was the ultimate, wasn't it? You said you don't blame me, but maybe that really is it. You do. Somehow, you didn't blame me for Alex Barnes killing you, you didn't blame me for being so mad at you over the dissertation or for having to give up your career...did all those hurts just come to a head finally and me...doing what I did to save you was the last straw?

Blair... I'm so sorry...I'm such a damn fool...

Agggghhhhhh!

What's that? God, that pain... my head... It's like a knife twisting in my brain...!

What is it? Feels like everything is off the scale... No, wait, it's just sound. I'm hearing something... Why'd I spike like that? Unhhh... it's still there...!

Calm down... settle down and figure out what it is. Breathe. Remember to breathe.

There. I can hear it now, past the pain. It's the phone. The phone is ringing.

Just the phone.

Why'd it send my senses off the scale like that?

Answer it. Gotta answer it. It might be...

I'm crawling toward it. My legs won't support me, my hands are shaking. I hope I can pick it up without dropping it... Got it --

"H-h'lo...?" Breathless... head spinning...

"Jim? I didn't think you were going to answer."

"Nnhhh... Unnbhhh... no. I'm here." I close my eyes a minute, hoping my head will stop spinning. "Blair?" God, I sound plaintive... damn...

"Jim, what's wrong?"

Oh my God. That tone in his voice. I haven't heard it...

"Jim?"

Oh, man... I felt that. Like a tug on my consciousness. A lifeline... between him and me. It's there... Oh, God, it is there... Can he feel it? Does he know it...?

"B-blair..." Stupid... damn... all I can do is breathe his name.

"Jim -- tell me what's wrong." Urgent now, his voice demands I do what he tells me.

I can do that. "I'm okay," I say, trying to make it true. "The phone just... startled me."

"Come on, man. You weren't startled. Simon was telling me about your headaches. Is that it?" Admonishing me, his voice switches to gentleness at the end.

I wasn't aware of a headache... I try to get a grip. Blair asked me what was wrong...I need to answer him...

"I'm not sure." But I am. Well, half sure anyway.

"Jim, it's okay. Just relax and breathe. Okay? Easy... that's it... "

Oh God... his voice like that... soft and sweet and so loving... guiding me past the pain... I feel tears spring to my eyes, and not from the pain in my head...

"Better?" he asks after a moment. I guess he can tell my breathing's evening out.

"Yeah," I manage. It's easier to talk now. "I think... I think it was some kind of sensory spike. The phone rang and... it was like a siren... you know, turned way up and an inch away from my ear." I rub my temple, fighting the ache that's still there, resonating in my head from the loudness.

"God, Jim... A sensory spike. You know what that means?" He sounds breathless now.

"I don't think it means anything, Blair."

He ignores my pessimism. "What were you doing when the phone rang?"

"Just, sitting here. I got something for dinner. I was just starting to eat it when the phone rang."

A pause. "That's all? Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Another pause. I imagine the look on his face. He's trying to puzzle it out. Always the scientist... always the guide...

"What were you thinking about?"

That one catches me off guard. "Thinking...?"

"Yeah, Jim. Thinking. What were you thinking about right before the phone rang?"

I gulp down a lump of fear. What do I say? Tell him I was thinking about him?

Why the hell not? Tell him. For once in your goddamn life, Ellison, say what you know you should say...

"I was thinking of you." It comes out like a confession, like it's something I should have tried to hide or been ashamed of. I swallow again. "Thinking about you," I repeat, stronger this time. I clear my throat, still trying to find some refuge to hide behind. "Simon said you called the other day and..."

"Have you had any other spikes?" Blair pushes past my defensive statement.

I close my eyes. He knows me too well. "Yeah. One. The other day at the station."

"What happened that time?"

"Megan asked me to hand her a file. I opened it and... " Why is this so hard to explain to him? "It was one of our cases. You'd written some notes and... When I saw your handwriting... "

"That caused the spike." It's not a question.

I answer anyway, for both of us. "Yes." A pause, while I gather my courage. "Blair. I miss you." It hurts to say it. Not because I don't want to admit it, because it's so true.

For a moment, he's silent. But it isn't an empty silence. I still feel the connection between us. "I miss you too." He just whispers it but it feels so good to hear the words. There's warmth coming through our connection now. It feels so good I want to bask in it.

"I'm sor-- "

"Jim, I'm sorry."

"Blair -- " Just catching his words that came in the same breath as mine, I stumble. "What do you have to be sorry about? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hurt you." I gasp for breath. "I...I didn't take good enough care of you. Not in the accident and not even after it..." My throat's so tight I have to fight to speak, to breathe. I want to apologize for not following his wishes but to have done that, to have just left him there to die -- the idea is so abhorrent I can't even conceive...

"No," his voice is whisper soft. "It's not that, Jim." He takes a deep breath. "You always took care of me. I'm sorry I let you think I blamed you... " His voice chokes off.

He sounds so lost. Everything in me responds to that, more than to his absolution. "Are you all right?" I have to know. Beyond the hurt I've felt since he left, I've needed to know he's okay. If he's okay, I think I can survive him not being here.

"Yeah. I'm okay."

"Really?"

A sigh. "Yes. I almost don't believe it myself, but I'm basically okay. I like my classes. I like it here. I don't feel... as depressed as I did at home." His voice breaks at the word.

"Are you getting around okay?"

"Yeah." He seems relieved at the change in subject. "I have an assistant. He goes on errands for me and stuff. He's pretty helpful."

A blade of jealousy stabs through my heart at the words. I should be the one helping him. But he chose to leave me behind, to let a stranger assist him. Guess the guy's not that much of a stranger by now, though. Damn. I don't want him to have needs I can't fill. I want to be everything to him. I've always wanted that.

Noticing my silence, he clears his throat. "But I do sorta need my stuff. When... when do you think you could come here with it? You know, like we talked about when I called you the last time?"

He wants me to come... I cradle the phone in both hands, leaning back against the side of the couch here on the floor. "Any time. I can come any time. I'll just let Simon know... " I say in a rush.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive all that way?" he asks abruptly. "I mean, you've been having sensory spikes and headaches... "

"I can make it." I'd walk through fire for him; I can certainly manage a cross country drive to get to him.

"Have you been sleeping okay? Eating enough?" He's all business now and I almost smile.

"Isn't that what I should be asking you?"

"Maybe. But I asked you first." There is almost a glimmer of amusement in his voice.

It makes me feel so good to hear that, I tell him the truth. "Okay, no. I'm not sleeping too well. And the migraines... I can't eat when I have one."

"Jim -- what am I going to do with you?" he asks fondly.

"Let me know when I get there," is my response. God, we're talking, teasing. Almost-flirting like we used to. The realization is so sweet it almost hurts.

He's smiling. I can tell. "Look," he says after a moment, "I want you to rest up before you start out, okay? Take a couple days and just get some sleep. I don't want you driving with a bad headache -- or getting a sensory spike while you're on the highway." The worry returns to his voice. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea... "

"No. I'll be fine." I know what I need. But can I ask for it? "If... if we can talk to each other." God, I feel like a jerk. "You know, if we can talk like this. More often, I mean. While I'm on the way. I think I'll be fine."

There's a long pause while I hold my breath. "I can do that," he says, very gently. "I...I guess I was wrong, not calling you before this."

"I understand." I hate being so needy. But God, I do need him. And I think... I think part of the problem was him not knowing that.

"Can we, like, start over?" he asks. "I mean, do this another way? I'll call you, you call me. We can... you know, talk. As often as you want to."

"I'd like that, Blair." I realize how hard it's been for him. "I know you needed to get some space... "

"I did," he admits. "You've been so patient, Jim. I just... couldn't be the way I used to be." He pauses and his voice sounds choked, wet. "I'm not even sure that I can be now. But... I don't want to keep hurting you either."

"I know," I whisper, wanting to absolve him. "I've hurt you so much too..."

"Shhh... let's stop this, okay?" he asks, almost begging, and I can hear tears in his voice now. "If we both keep apologizing, we'll never get anywhere, " he half-laughs.

"Blair..." I hold the phone tighter.

There's just silence on the phone line now, both of us fighting for breath and composure. It hurts, but not as bad as I hurt before. I think of the pain he's suffered and it all pales in comparison anyway.

"How are you, really?" I have to ask. "Do you still hurt a lot?"

"Uh... yeah. Sometimes. I can get through the day though."

"That's good. Are you taking those pain pills?" I remember counting the number of them in the bottle, knowing he wasn't taking them but unable to get him to.

"Every so often. They don't help that much."

"I want you to take them." I can't stand the thought of him hurting like that. I remember seeing him writhe with it, the pain of his missing limbs, the agony of nerves that have been cut but remember what's missing.

"Jim... " He sounds peeved.

"You told me to eat and sleep," I remind him, desperate to get back some of our banter.

He pauses. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. "Okay," he sighs. "I guess you've got a point. All right. I will if you will."

"I'll eat, you take your pills?" I check.

"Yeah."

"Are you hurting now?" I need to know.

He waits before he answers. Tell me the truth, Blair. I've been telling you the truth.

"Okay. Yeah. A bit," he finally admits.

"Then take one. Okay? You do have some, right?"

"Yeah. I got the prescription filled last week."

"Then take one. Please?"

"Okay. But you have to eat dinner. And go to bed at a decent time." The teasing note is back in his voice.

"Deal." I'm grinning. My cheeks almost hurt, it's been so long.

He pauses. "Write down my number," he says and I'm scrambling for paper and pen. "This is my cell. I always have it with me," he tells me, giving me the number. "If you get one of those spikes, I want you to call me, okay?"

I bite my lip before I can answer, facing my own vulnerability. "Okay," I promise. "Thanks." His long distance comfort felt so good this time, how can I say no? I need it... I need him... so much...

"When you're feeling better, we'll talk about you coming out here to bring me my things," he says.

"Okay," I agree, though if he asked me to, I'd start packing the car right now. "I do have a couple of cases that I should close before I take the time off." He probably needs more time, I realize.

"That sounds good," Blair says, "but it won't be too long, will it?"

He'll never know how good it makes me feel to hear him say that. "No, not too long," I murmur into the phone.

"I'd better go," he says after a moment. "If you sure you're all right."

"I'm okay," I tell him. "You?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Good... good talking to you, Jim."

"Same here." I want my voice to caress him the way his touches me.

"Call me tomorrow?" he asks.

I feel like he's offered me the moon. "Sure. I will." My heart is pounding, just from the news he wants me to call him. "About this time?"

"This time is good," he affirms, "unless you have another spike. Call me anytime, if that happens."

"Okay." I hesitate. "Blair... " I reach out, trying as an ordinary man to grasp our connection, make sure it's real. I need it so much, maybe more than I did when I was a Sentinel. Is that strange or what?

"I know, Jim," he tells me, though I couldn't for the life of me have put into words what I was feeling. "I know." He sighs and it feels like he's touched me. "Me too."

"Me too." I breathe the words and try to make it a blessing.

The call ends but I don't feel empty like I did before. The connection is still there.

I put my head in my hands and just try to gather my wits for a few long moments, then get up from the floor and go eat my dinner, like I promised Blair I would.

"How're you doing, Blair?"

Shit, what's he doing here? Here I sit, with a picture of Jim and me in my lap... gotta put it somewhere --

"What're you looking at?" Bill sounds friendly, but does he have to be so pushy about it?

"Just a friend." Feeling stupid, I put the picture on the coffee table. I'm not too surprised when Bill picks it up.

"Who's this guy?" he asks, looking up at me after staring a moment at the picture.

"That's Jim," I manage, feeling the name stick in my throat a bit as I say it. For some reason, I feel strange giving Bill even that much information.

"He looks like a body builder or something." Grinning, Bill looks at the photo again.

"He's a cop but he used to be an Army Ranger," I offer, trying to stick to the more impersonal facts.

"He a friend of yours?" Bill sounds surprised. "I mean, you're... the studious type."

"It's a long story," I hedge.

"I'll bet it is." Bill's face has gone sympathetic. "Wait, I get it. This the roommate that you were calling before, isn't it? You guys were friends but when you lost your legs, he dumped you, right?"

I reach out, reclaim the picture, unable to keep my eyes from glancing down at it once more. "No, that's not it at all."

"Look, Blair, I understand these things," Bill's saying, still off the mark. "I know how most people are when somebody loses a limb. They act shitty. Friends don't know what to say or do around you all of a sudden."

Blair had to admit the truth to that part of what Bill said. "Well... "

"And if you have a girlfriend at the time it happens, it can be even worse than the way friends respond." Bill was at his most sympathetic. "Did you have a girlfriend when it happened?"

My eyes still on the photo, I just shake my head. "No, no girlfriend."

There was a moment of silence, then Bill's voice comes in a whisper. "Oh wow... Blair, I never realized... "

"What?" I look up at him in confusion.

"You and Jim... he was your *boy*friend?"

I can't help the blush the words bring to my face, feeling it heat up my cheeks rapidly. Now Bill's really getting the wrong idea. "No," I quickly say, but he's moved closer, his eyes regretful.

"Sorry -- didn't mean to embarrass you, Blair. I just didn't know you were gay or whatever."

"I'm not gay, Bill."

"But..."

"I don't want to talk about Jim and me, okay?" I put the picture away, between the pages of my anthropology text and set the book aside.

Bill's looking down at his hands. "Blair, I could handle it if you were... that way."

"I'm not saying you couldn't, Bill," I tell him. "It's not like that. My relationship with Jim was much more complicated than what you're thinking. I don't feel like explaining it."

"Well, whatever, I'm sure things changed when you lost your legs."

The way Bill said it make it feel like the knife had just cut through my limbs again. He's so... cavalier about it that it sorta gives me the creeps. It's like he likes saying it too much. I realize I didn't answer him yet. I shrug, trying to leave out any details. "You could say that."

"I don't know how people can be that way," Bill complains. "I'd never drop a friend because of this." His hand reaches out toward my left leg, which is closest to him.

I push back on the wheels of my chair, needing to get some space between us.

"Blair, it's part of you," Bill says softly, kindly. "It's not something gross to me."

He means well, I'm sure, but the way he emphasized the word 'gross' -- and the word 'me' -- bothers me.

"Jim doesn't think it's gross either, Bill," I tell him, sounding a little short but unable to keep that tone out of my voice. "He's coming to see me in a week or two, actually, to bring me a lot of stuff I had to leave when I came here on the plane."

"Okay," Bill says, holding up both hands in surrender. "I'm sure he's a great guy."

I lock eyes with him, never meaning anything more in my life. "He is."

I can hardly get the key in the lock. My head is pounding, worse now that I'm home than it was all day. The migraines are a daily occurrence and any thought I'd had that they'd ease up if I heard from Blair went out the window pretty quickly. I've spoken to him every couple of days and even though things aren't all that strained between us, the headaches haven't stopped. If anything, they're worse. The longer he's away from me, the more out of control I feel. My head hurts, I can't concentrate, can't do my job like this. I've had more sensory spikes and it takes longer to get myself together after they happen. The more I think about going to see him, the more they occur. I don't know if I'll be able to make the trip in this condition and I can't tell him how messed up I am or he'll insist I stay home.

He did say I should call him if I feel too bad. Getting the door open at last, I head straight for the phone and sink down on the couch with it in my hands. My fingers shake as I dial his number. God, Blair, even without my senses, it seems I need you near. With you so far away it's like the anchor of my life is lost and talking to you once in a while doesn't do the trick. It only reminds me how far away from me you are.

The phone rings once, twice, three times and I'm about to hang up when I hear a voice say, "Hello." It's not his voice though and the stab of disappointment that goes through me is almost enough to knock the phone out of my hands.

"Hello?" the voice repeats.

"I-is this Blair Sandburg's number?" I stammer, knowing I sound desperate and ridiculous.

"Yes, this is Professor Sandburg's residence. Who's this?"

The cool voice makes my head pound and I bite my lip to keep from groaning into the receiver. "This is Jim Ellison. C-could I speak to Blair?"

"Uh... I think he's busy right now. Maybe you can leave a message."

A message. My mind goes blank. What am I going to say? Tell Professor Sandburg I've got a headache and need to talk to him?

"Just... have him call me, okay?" I manage to get the words out, despite the darkness that seems to be invading the loft at the moment.

"Sure. No problem." The line goes dead.

The phone drops from my numb fingers and lands on the couch or floor, I'm not really sure. I stumble out of the living room, going to the one place I can think of where I can feel close to Blair.

The door to his room has been shut for weeks now. I haven't let myself go in there since he first left. It's too painful to see the things he left behind here. But now, I can't stay out. I stagger through the door and collapse on his bed.

I bury my nose in his pillows, praying to find a trace of his scent. It's almost gone though, a realization that nearly breaks my heart. If I still had my senses, I'm sure I could detect lingering traces of him here. Damnit! I remember how hard I tried to get my sight back when that Golden stuff took it away from me, how when I really needed it, it finally started to come back, enough so I could catch the last of the drug dealers.

I push myself like that now, straining to make my sense of smell dial up. But it's like the dial is broken, spinning uselessly, and the effort makes my headache worse. The pain in my temples is crushing. I clench my eyes shut, hands at my temples, barely breathing. I feel my senses start to spike; it's like a jolt of static electricity arcing through me and I can almost hear it spark and sizzle. I feel like I've taken hold of a live wire, one that sends a charge through my helpless body every few seconds. I try to fight it for awhile, then attempt to relax into it, as one would relax into torture, knowing that to struggle is useless.

The jolts slow, my senses spiking every few minutes now and it's like trying to see in a dark room when there's a flash of lightening. It never lasts long enough for you to get your bearings. It's a tantalizing torment, revealing sensory images to me that I've been denied since Blair was hurt, never there long enough for me to hold onto them. A whiff of his scent comes to me, then is jerked away as the spike fades. My mouth opens on his pillow, my tongue licking the cotton fabric, starving for a taste of his sweat. I remember the softness of his lips the one time I kissed him, when he was drowning under the dark water, hurt in the accident, trapped, dying... My body writhes in a spike that involves my sense of touch, exquisite pain grabbing at my nerve endings, mocking the memory of Blair's yielding lips under mine.

I have no idea what time it is, how long since I called him. If the phone rang, I didn't hear it, though I remember crescendos of sound that nearly deafened me coming every so often in the past hours. I roll over on the bed, wiping at my streaming eyes to focus on the bedside clock. It's eleven thirty.

If he got the message, why hasn't he called? Maybe he did and I missed it. I should go into the living room and get the phone... but my attempt to get up fails. I couldn't walk out of this room if it was on fire. Instead I sag back on the bed, fingers groping for the cell phone at my belt. I punch in his number and hold my breath while the phone rings.

"Hello?" The voice that answers sounds sleepy and muffled but it's his.

I'm so overwhelmed to hear him I can't even answer for a moment.

"Hello?" he says again, this time more awake. Then, as though he's psychic, he asks, "Jim, is that you?"

I somehow make my lips move. "Y-yes's me. Blair..."

"God, Jim, you sound awful." He's fully awake now. I picture him sitting up in his bed, pushing his hair back from his face. "Jim, tell me what's going on."

I lick my lips, noting how dry my mouth is. "Migraine," I whisper. "It started early this afternoon. And... then I started having spikes -- " the last word ends on a groan as another one hits me.

"Jim... " He sounds worried and a little annoyed with me.

"S-sorry. Did I wake you?" I ask, praying he won't hang up.

"Yeah, but don't worry about that. Tell me what's going on. You said 'spikes,' as in plural?"

"Yeah. They keep hitting me, every... few minutes. It's weird... " I try to brush it off, feeling like a weakling for letting little bursts of sensory awareness hurt like this.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since... I got home."

"Jim, it's almost three a.m. here. That means it's almost midnight there -- why did you wait so long to call me?"

I close my eyes, not really up to answering questions but willing to do anything to keep his voice flowing over the phone lines. "I did call... when I first got home. You... were busy..."

"Huh? What do you mean? The phone hasn't rung here all night."

"Some guy answered. I gave him my name..."

"Shit!" The expletive hurts my ear and I can't help a moan. "Jim?" His voice is immediately softer. "Man, I'm sorry. Did that hurt you?" I can't answer, not wanting to make him feel bad. "Look," he goes on, his tone soothing now, " that was my assistant. I guess he forgot to tell me you called. I'm sorry, Jim. I'd never not call you back. Understand?"

The gentleness in his voice almost makes me weep. It's everything I can do not to sob aloud.

"Understand, Jim? I left but I'm not going to shut you out. I told you to call me any time. If you call again and someone else answers, stay on the line 'til I can pick up, okay?" He pauses, his voice growing distressed as he continues, "God, you've been hurting all night and I... Okay, let's both just take it easy here. You with me, Jim? You listening?"

"I'm listening," I rush to assure him. "Keep talking, okay?" The sound of his voice is all I want, all I need.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"Your room." The answer is out before I can stop it and my face goes hot at the admission. I clear my throat roughly. "When I hung up the phone, my head started hurting worse and... I just thought going in here would... help..."

"Did it?" His voice is patient, soft as a gentle hand on my head.

"Can't tell. The spikes started in here. Guess that's because I'm in here, close to all your stuff."

"Oh, man... "

"No, it's okay. I don't mind, really. It's easing up now too." And it was, my headache finally beginning to recede a little. "I haven't been in here since right after you left... until tonight."

There's a moment of silence as though he's digesting that statement and I start to worry that I've said too much.

"Jim," he breathes at last, "I wish I was there with you right now." His voice is small, almost afraid to admit that.

"Blair..." I gasp, my heart starting to pound in a confusion of feeling. "I... "

But he has more to say. "I could... rub your head for you if you'd want me to. You know, circle my fingers at your temples... "

"Mmmhmm," I sigh, trying to make an encouraging sound, desperate for him to keep up the verbal comfort. I can hardly let myself think about what it would be like if he was here, to touch me that way. His touch was always the best, always centered me, took away my pain... And I lost that when I hurt him.

"And I'd turn down all the lights so they wouldn't hurt your eyes," he tells me, voice a whisper, a balm to my abused psyche. "Have you got the lights off, Jim?"

"Yeah," I manage. "There's just the one in the kitchen on."

"Okay." He pauses. "Did you have any dinner?"

"No," I admit to him. "I felt too sick to eat."

"You should drink something at least," he advises. "You think you can get out to the kitchen for some juice or Gator Aid or something?"

Although the pain is easing and the spikes have stopped, I'm not sure I have my sea legs yet. "I'll try," I tell him, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

"How you doin'?" he asks me after a moment.

"Mmnn... I'm woozy."

"Take it slow. Don't stand up until you're ready. Just breathe a few minutes. In... and out... in and out... "

I want to cry hearing him talk to me like this. It's the first time since the accident that he's sounded this confident, this caring. And to hear him able to reach out, to know he's moving beyond his own terrible pain...

"Blair? Are you okay?" I ask, suddenly concerned about him too.

"I'm all right," he assures me. "Don't worry about me right now. I'm fine. Can you stand up?"

Anything for you, Blair. I take a deep breath and push up from the futon, staggering a little, but managing not to keel over or anything embarrassing like that.

"I'm up," I inform him, taking a shaky step forward. "Keep talking, okay?"

"Okay. You can do it, Jim. Just take it slow."

"I'm in the kitchen." I bend to open the refrigerator, finding only some bottled water inside. I take out a bottle and open it, drinking in long swallows. It's cold and hits me like a bowl of ice cream I rushed through. "Unnhh..."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. That was pretty cold."

"You need to do anything else before you go to sleep? Take a leak, maybe?"

"Guess so." I guess I should be hanging up. "I'll let you go then..."

"No, you don't have to hang up. I'll keep talking to you, if you want me to." He sounds almost diffident, as though he thinks I might refuse.

"Please. If you don't mind."

"Jim. I don't mind." He sounds very serious, his voice seems so close to me.

I'm in the bathroom now and have to hold the cell under my chin, needing both hands to unzip my pants. "I'll just be a minute... " It's oddly intimate, talking to him while I go.

"No rush," I hear him say.

"I'm keeping you awake." I'm finished but I make no move to tuck myself away and zip up.

"I'm fine," he whispers. "I don't have a class 'til noon, man." His voice seems to travel from the phone, down my arm and into my fingers still loosely clasping my dick.

I let go abruptly, feeling as though I was doing something improper, and refasten my pants.

"You okay?" he asks me, sensitive to every breath I take.

"Y-yeah... "

"Go to bed then, Jim. Lie down and go to sleep."

I turn, woozy again from the movement, but I manage to make my way out of the bathroom. The stairs and my bed seem a hundred miles away. Even the couch, the place I usually fall asleep, is annoyingly far.

"Jim, you were in my room before," his soft voice comes to me again, as though he can see me, as though he knows how I'm feeling. "You should sleep there, unless you're going to keep having those spikes... "

To sleep in his room, in his bed... "Okay. I'll... see how it is." Once back in his room, a peace descends over me and I sink gratefully onto his bed. "Mmmnnn... "

"Okay?" he checks.

"So far, so good."

"How's your headache?"

"You could rub my temples some more," I manage with a bemused half smile.

"You'd want me to do that?" his voice is wary.

"Oh yeah. Feels good... " I take a deep breath. "You've... kept your distance... lately."

"Jim, I... "

"And that was my fault," I finish for him. "I hurt you. I don't blame you for not wanting to be... close to me."

"Jim... "

"Shhh," I interrupt. "I'm okay." He pauses; we both know it's too late at night to get into that subject. The fact that these few words have been said though, it helps me so much.

"You still dressed?"

"Huh? Yeah... "

"You can't sleep like that. Still got your shoes on?"

"Yeah."

"Come on, man. Untie 'em and take 'em off."

With a groan, I do as he tells me. But sitting up to take off my shoes makes my head spin and when I'm finished, I sink back down with a groan.

"Too much?" his soothing voice asks. "Just get comfortable then. Unbutton your shirt."

Fingers a little shaky, I comply.

"Undo your belt."

"Okay... " Exhausted when I'm finished that, I mutter into the phone. "I'm all in, buddy."

There's a gentle smile in his voice. "I know. Can you sleep now?"

"Think so... I'm sorry I woke you."

"Forget it."

"I want to come bring you your stuff, Blair. I think... the sooner I do it, the better things will be." I want to see you so much, don't tell me to wait.

"Only if you think you're going to be okay to drive. Besides, it's February. What about the roads if it snows?"

"Blair, I miss you." Damn, I shouldn't have said it like that.

"I miss you too, Jim."

The distance between us seems to vanish; it's like we're in the same room. "Oh, God... Blair, I -- "

"Shhh. We'll talk when you get here, okay, man?" He pauses a moment. "We'll really talk."

"Sounds good. You go back to sleep now, too. I don't... don't want you to start hurting from not getting enough sleep."

"I'm okay," he insists.

"You sure?" My head on his pillow, I'm barely awake, but I need to know.

"I was having some pain earlier in the evening," he finally admits. "But it's eased up now. It's... it's good hearing your voice, Jim."

"Same here." We soothed each other tonight, I think. It feels like old times, so much it makes my heart ache. I drift off without cutting the phone connection between us.

"Bill, I'm glad you're here," I say in what I hope is a deceptively welcoming tone as he comes through the door. I spent most of last night thinking about what I was going to say to him about not telling me Jim called yesterday. I'm tired this morning, my legs hurt like crazy, but I know what I'm going to say.

"Morning, Blair," Bill says, smiling broadly at me as he hurries to my side. "How are you doing today?"

"Not so good, as a matter of fact."

"You're not?" His voice is sympathetic but there's something else in his eyes that creeps me out. He looks almost pleased, as though he wants me not to be feeling well. "What's wrong?"

"Bill, did you take a phone call for me yesterday?" I ask, ignoring the question.

He looks surprised. "Uh... oh, shoot, yeah I did, Blair. Some guy called and I forgot to tell you about it."

"Are you sure you forgot?" I may not be a cop anymore but I'm still good at telling when someone isn't telling me the truth. Maybe I was good at it even before becoming a cop -- teachers are good at that too.

Bill's face sort of falls, but he recovers quickly. "Yeah. Of course. What do you mean?"

"I'm just wondering how it was that you forgot. Isn't it your job to help me out?"

"Blair, I'm sorry. I just... forgot. It won't happen again."

"I don't think you forgot. For some reason, I think you purposely didn't tell me Jim called."

"Jim?" he asks, pretending that he doesn't recall the name.

"Come on, Bill. You remember who Jim is. You saw his picture the other day. You know he was my roommate. You know he was my partner when I was a cop." His face is studiously blank. "He's the one you thought was my boyfriend," I conclude, my tone sharpening.

Bill just gapes at me.

"You think he didn't call me back? You think he wouldn't tell me he'd called hours earlier?"

"I... I..."

"Bill, I don't know what your problem is, but I can't take this anymore."

"Take what? Blair, I don't have a problem -- "

"Yes, you do, Bill. You're just a little too friendly, just a little too helpful. There's something wrong with your interest in me being... handicapped."

"Blair... " He kneels down to come to eye level with me. "I just want to help you, that's all."

"If you wanted to help me, you'd've told me Jim called me."

"Damn it, I told you I just forgot! I don't see what's got you so pissed off -- " He cut off his sharp words and he seemed to work at smoothing the tense lines on his face. His hand reached out toward my arm. "Blair, I like you. I like you a lot. I don't care about you being an amp."

I can't help a shudder at the way he said that word, realizing at the same instant that it's the first time he's used that one. It's like slang, like an insiders term. And I know in my gut it's a term he's used before, but privately.

"An 'amp'?" I shout, horror flushing through me. "You don't care about it? I think that's why you applied for the job! I know about your old girlfriend, the one who was an amputee. You've got some kind of sick interest going on here and I'm not going to be your lab rat!"

"It's not that!" he hurls back at me. "I don't want to... to study you!"

"You make me feel like you've got me under a microscope. You come in here all the time, whether I've said I need you or not. You open the door yourself. You do things for me that I'm able to do on my own. I don't want that."

"Blair...I don't know what to say. Sure, I have an interest in people... people like you. But I don't mean anything by it."

"You don't see me as a person. You see this chair. You see some helpless 'amputee' who needs your assistance." I'm breathing hard now. I hate confrontations. My arms are shaking. My legs feel like they're on fire. "I just can't deal with that kind of attention," I tell him, feeling strung out. "I'm going to have to ask you not to come back any more. I'll find someone else to be my assistant."

He stands up abruptly. "You're firing me? Just because I forgot to tell you about a phone call?"

"If you want to see it that way, yeah." I guess he's never going to understand the way his attitude has made me feel.

"That's not fair, man!" he yells. "Give me another chance."

"I don't think so. It's just not working out, Bill."

"Blair... I thought we were friends..."

I sigh, hating to make the guy feel bad. But my feelings are important. Much as it hurts to argue, I know I've got to stand up for myself. Well, figuratively at least.

"Bill, just let it go, okay? I haven't felt comfortable for awhile now. When I realized you didn't tell me about Jim calling last night, I knew it wasn't going to work out."

"I guess this Jim means more to you than you said the other day," he says, his voice a sneer.

I refuse to give him more ammunition. "He means more to me than you do. That call was important last night, Bill. He didn't call just to shoot the breeze with me."

"I get it," he says rolling his eyes.

"No, you don't get it. But I mean it, Bill. I want you to go now."

"Blair, I need this job -- "

"I'll be glad to give you a recommendation. I'm sure somebody else needs a TA."

He sneers again. "I don't need your charity. I'll find another job on my own." He turns to go, hesitating at the door. "I hope you and your boyfriend Jim will be very happy," he throws out, the nasty tone making me wince. When he slams the door, my whole body seems to feel the blow.

At least that's over. I wipe my sleeve over my face, realizing I'm sweating like I just finished a therapy session. I feel relieved though. I just couldn't take Bill's obsequious manner any more and when I found out about Jim calling, that was the last straw.

I glance at my watch. It's ten here so it's seven in Cascade. Jim's probably up by now and getting ready for work, unless he feels bad again this morning. I'd call him but...I'd hate to wake him up if he's sleeping.

Just as I'm thinking about using it, the phone starts ringing. I pull it out of my pocket and answer. "Hello?"

"Morning."

It's Jim. His voice is so welcome I can feel the smile spreading over my face. "Hi," I answer softly. "I was just thinking about you. I thought it was too early to call though."

"I'm up. Gotta get to work."

There's a smile in his voice too. "Well, I thought maybe you'd sleep in this morning. You probably need it."

He draws in a deep breath. "I feel better this morning." There's a pause. "I slept good last night, thanks to you."

"I'm glad, Jim."

"I'm going to talk to Simon this morning about taking time off to come visit you," he tells me. "I should be able to leave by the weekend."

"Are you sure, Jim? I don't want you driving all this way if you're having severe headaches all the time."

"I'll be fine," he insists. And since I don't want to have to wait too much longer to see him, what can I do but agree? Firing Bill has made me think about how alone I am here. "How are you this morning? Did you get back to sleep after we talked last night?"

"Sure," I tell him, even though it's a lie. "Slept like a log."

"Really? You sound a little tired."

"You can't tell that over the phone, man," I argue, rubbing a hand over my face.

"Can't I?" his voice is half teasing, half concerned. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," I insist. "All right, I could have gotten a little more shut eye last night, but I don't want you blaming yourself for that."

"I'm the one that woke you."

I manage a chuckle. "Okay, I'll yell at you when you get here if that'll make you feel better."

"Okay," he agrees easily. "It's a deal." After a pause he continues, "Are you having any pain?"

I feel myself blush at the way he can still read me, at that protective tone he still gets in his voice.

"Some."

"Take some of your medication then," Jim advises. "I don't want you going around hurting."

When it's this bad, the pills don't work but I'm not going to get into that issue with him now. "Okay. I'll take it. I've been going to physical therapy regularly too. I found a nice therapist."

"You did?" He sounds pleased. "That's good. I'm glad to hear that, Blair."

The soft tenderness in his tone feels like a hug. Bill didn't seem to think I should go to therapy, I recall. Of course not; without it, I wouldn't be as strong. I'd need his kind of help more.

"Something wrong?"

"You know that guy that answered the phone yesterday when you called?" I ask him.

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He was my assistant. I let him go this morning."

"You fired a teaching assistant? I didn't know you could do that."

"Yeah, it's allowed, Jim." I smile. "He was making me uncomfortable and when he didn't tell me you called... that was the last straw."

"What do you mean he was making you uncomfortable?" Jim sounds worried now.

Great, I shouldn't have told him that. "He was just a little overzealous. He got on my nerves." I decided not to tell Jim I think Bill purposely didn't tell me he'd called, he doesn't need to worry about that. Besides, it's over with now that I've fired Bill.

"Oh," he answers. "Well, I guess you did the right thing then. And... when I get there, I'll hang around for awhile if you need some help."

Words catch in my throat hearing him say that. After a moment, still unable to directly comment on what he said, I ask, "You sure Simon will give you that much time off?"

"I still have some vacation time," he says.

"Great," I say, feeling a little faint. I thought he'd used it all up when I was convalescing.

We spend a few more minutes talking, discussing the trip Jim's planning and I tell him some stuff about the classes I'm teaching. It feels so almost normal I hardly know how to act. I'm looking forward to seeing him, but I'm worried too. He assures me he's perfectly capable of driving cross country and that he thinks he can make the trip in four or five days. That's after I get him to agree that he can't drive straight through without stopping to sleep. I heard the urgency in his voice and knew he might try to push himself like that.

Our conversations have been so good these last few days but I'm still feeling sort of nervous about seeing him. On the phone, I can talk to him like I used to. But when he's here and we're face to face... I don't know... what I'm missing now might come between us again, like it did when I was home with him. God, I hope that isn't what happens. I'd hate to make him come all this way just to get hurt again. And I don't feel like hurting much more myself either. But I think it's worth taking the chance.

Thank god this day is over. I fumble with the lock to my apartment, my fingers shaking so much I can barely get them in the lock. It's been a long day, starting with the stress of firing Bill and continuing through the three classes I had to teach -- all freshmen, all no more interested in anthropology than I am in mountain climbing. At least Sherry was in the last class of the day so I felt like there was one friendly face out there. I almost stopped her after class to tell her I'd fired Bill but ended up not saying anything. If she comes to talk to me again, I'll probably tell her then, I just didn't feel up to it today. The pain in my legs -- my missing legs -- is pretty bad tonight. I guess the loss of sleep and the stress have caught up with me. One of those orange capsules is starting to look pretty good right about now.

"Hi there," a voice calls out before I can get the door open.

I jump in my chair, startled. I'm not used to people calling out to me. I turn in my seat to look over. It's one of my neighbors, a guy I've seen in the hall a few times.

"Hi, Tony," I manage as I fumble with my door lock. At least it's not Bill. Tony is my neighbor because he's like me -- handicapped.

He's in a chair; I think he's a paraplegic.

"Everything okay?" he asks, rolling closer.

I feel myself tensing up at his approach.

"Uh, yeah. I've just had a long day, y'know?" The lock finally yields to my key and I push open the door.

"You're new in town, aren't you, Blair?" Tony asks despite my lack of interest in the conversation.

"Yeah. I just moved here before classes started this semester."

"That's what I thought," he goes on with a smile. Then, apparently noticing my reticence, he adds, "If you need anything or if you'd just like to hang out, just come on over, any time."

The offer is heartfelt, I can tell, and at least I can be sure Tony doesn't have some weird interest in me 'cause I'm in a chair. I dredge up a smile. "Thanks, Tony. That really sounds good."

"You like basketball?"

"Yeah." I wonder what he's driving at.

"Do you play?"

I stare at him, but he doesn't look crazy. His expression just shows friendly interest.

"Uh...not lately." I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but I gesture toward where my legs should be.

To my surprise, Tony doesn't look embarrassed. He grins and nods his head. "I mean do you play wheelchair basketball?"

"Oh. I...uh...never thought about it." Now that I recall, I know there are wheelchair sports... I just never thought about them in relation to myself. I've been thinking that sports, like so many things now, were gone from my life for good.

"Well, we've got a team, the guys here in the building, and if you'd like to join up, you'd be more than welcome."

"Really?" My face must look shocked, because Tony actually chuckles.

"Really," he grins. "I mean, if you like to play."

The idea is laid out in front of me, something I used to love but thought I'd lost. It's tempting, but I feel scared. What if I can't do it? How do I do it? And worst of all, what if I fall out of my chair and get hurt? I take a deep breath. "Thanks, Tony, but I don't know. This is still not something I completely know how to deal with yet. Maybe sometime..."

Tony's face softens and he nods. "I understand. I felt that way at the beginning too. I was afraid I'd fall, or hurt myself worse. But I also really wanted to do something besides just sit in this chair. Now, when I'm out there on the court, it's like there's nothing wrong with my body at all."

His words reach out to me, the light and excitement in his eyes pull at me. My heart hurts, aching with the pain of many losses. I want to take what he's offering, believe he's right, but uncertainty has dominated my soul for so long I'm not sure I really can accept that there are things I can still do. "I'll think about it, Tony. Maybe I could come watch a game and see... see what it's like."

"Sure," he enthuses. "Any time. Once you see how cool it is, you'll want to play on the team."

I find myself chuckling. "I used to love playing basketball. I was even pretty good at it, but I never actually made a team before."

"How come?" Tony asks.

My hand waves up and down my body. "Well, when you're 5 feet 8 you don't exactly find yourself being drafted by every team in the NBA, much less being picked for the college squad."

Tony laughs. "Well, Blair, look at it this way -- in wheelchair basketball, height doesn't matter at all. Let me know when you'd like to take in a game. I'll see you later."

"I guess that's true." It was something that hadn't occurred to me before. I grin back at Tony. "See you later, man." I wheel in to my apartment, outlook a little better than it was before. Basketball -- to actually play a sport again -- and to maybe be almost as good at it as I used to be... To think that, with everybody on both teams sitting down my height would totally not matter....

A fierce cramp cuts off my thoughts and I reach automatically to rub at the offending area, halting in annoyance when I realize my mistake. I forgot again, got distracted and forgot I can't rub the hurt out of something that doesn't exist. Ticked off by my lapse I head for the bathroom, opening the low medicine cabinet to search out my neurontin capsules and quickly swallow two of them. I can't think about playing sports when this damn pain takes all the strength out of me...it takes most of the will out of me too. I guess guys like Tony, who can't feel anything, don't have to worry about pain.

Great, Blair. Now you're feeling so sorry for yourself you think some paralyzed guy has got it easier. Get a grip.

I look at myself in the mirror. What I see looks unfamiliar. Who is that long-haired guy with the tight, drawn features, pale from lack of sun, with circles under his eyes? Whose eyes are those anyway? I remember my eyes used to look bright and alive. Now they seem dull, more a flat slate color than the blue I remember. I peer more closely, but getting a better look is hard. I can't seem to meet my own gaze. I realize now that I have a hard time meeting anyone's eyes straight on, my own included apparently. I don't like to feel like I'm being scrutinized, dissected, judged. Or pitied. That's the worst. I know that, except when I'm teaching, I keep my head down, my eyes averted. I hardly ever tie my hair back any more either, now that it's grown out from being cut short when I was on the force with Jim. With it hanging loose, it can fall forward around my face, hiding me from prying gazes.

My neighbor Tony doesn't look like that, neither does my student, Sherry. They don't seem to want to hide from life.

Is this what Jim saw when he looked at me, all those months when I was so depressed, so angry with him? Do I want this to be what he sees when he comes here with my stuff? Is this what I want the world to see when they look at me? Do I want to have let this change me so much even I don't recognize myself?

I know the answer; six months ago it would have been different. I wouldn't have cared one way or the other. But now, I do. I've come this far, left Cascade to start teaching again, to start my life over again too. I left because I couldn't deal with my pain while Jim was around. I'm here now and doing okay on my own. I guess it's time to admit that I've accepted the idea of being alive. I really should start looking like I am alive.

That settled, I grab my comb and give my hair a good run through, pulling it back when I'm finished, anchoring it with a forgotten elastic band I find in the bottom of my shaving kit. Feeling hungry, I glance at my watch and note it's six thirty. I really should go out to eat instead of nuking another frozen meal or ordering in. Suddenly decisive, and braver than I've felt in ages, I head back out of the apartment. There's a little Italian place just down the street. Spaghetti sounds good, with plenty of mushrooms and thick sauce. Maybe some garlic bread.

For a second, I think about asking Tony if he'd like to join me since he was so nice telling me about the wheelchair basketball team, but instead I decide this is something I should do on my own this first time. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and go out to face the world... and let it face me.

"Jim, just how much time do you need to take off to get Blair's stuff to him?" Simon asks me, looking up over his glasses as he sits at his desk surrounded by papers.

"I'm not sure, sir," I tell him. "The drive itself will take at least 4 or 5 days -- "

"I don't think you should be pushing that, Jim," Simon interrupts. "You haven't been feeling so good..."

"I know, sir. That's another reason I'm not sure how long I need. And once I get there...I might... I might stay awhile." It's been over a week since my last bad headache when I called Blair in the middle of the night, more than a month since he left.

"Jim, I know you went for years without taking much time off. You had more vacation time saved up than I do. But don't you realize you used a lot of it when Blair was first injured?"

The memory of those days still hurts. I took off, to try to be there for him, but he kept shutting me out, wouldn't let me in. I spent a lot of the time just sitting alone while he was in bed in his room.

"I know that. If I don't have enough vacation time, I'd like to take a leave of absence."

"That sounds pretty serious, Jim." Simon looks at me, waiting for an answer I'm not sure I have.

I glance away, looking out his window at the city. "I guess it is. If he wants me to stay for awhile, I want to be able to do that. I don't want to have to jump back in the car and drive right back here."

"What about your cases?"

"I've just closed the Morton case and I've talked to Connor about taking over my other ones."

"Jim, you know how much I depend on you around here..."

"I don't feel I've been doing my best for the last year, Simon," I say, sinking into a chair and looking at him. "Blair's willing to talk about things now. I think that's more important than... than anything."

Simon sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Okay, Jim. I know how you feel about the kid. It's a damn shame he got hurt and just as bad is what it's done to you..."

"Simon -- " I can't handle him talking like that, referring to it, being sympathetic to me. It was my fault, all of it, the accident itself, and what I had to do to save Blair.

He held up a hand. "I'm not going to dredge it up, Jim. I just want you to know I understand. I'll sign your leave papers. You can take off as soon as you have to. You keep in touch though, okay?"

"I will, sir." Relieved, I stand and take Simon's outstretched hand. Now all I have to do is fill out my leave papers, pack the car and I'll be on my way.

How is it that part of me can feel so good and the rest of me can feel so much like shit? I push out of my chair and sit on the bed, pulling off my sweaty clothes, figuring a shower will help. I've been at physical therapy again and I admit it helps some, but right now my legs are killing me.

I never thought I'd be into weight lifting but I think that's my favorite thing to do at therapy now. The other exercises and practicing transferring and doing things for myself are fine but weight lifting makes me think of Jim. I'll never have the kind of body he does but I am feeling stronger. The therapist says the upper body conditioning is what I need -- both to get around in the chair and when I decide to start using my prosthetics again. Granted, that's true but I think what it really does for me is give me some extra confidence. I've felt so vulnerable since the accident, like with such a big part of me missing, I'm fragile, weak. Using my strength makes me feel better, like there is stuff I can do, despite... well, despite everything.

I'm down to my shorts when the phone rings. Hoping it's Jim, I push myself across the bed to grab it up.

"H'lo?"

"Blair? Is that you?"

It takes me a minute to recognize the voice, then I'm so surprised I can hardly answer. "Joel?"

A soft chuckle comes over the phone line. "Yeah, it's me, Blair. Been a long time, hasn't it?"

"It sure has." I feel suddenly awkward, knowing I shut my friends out even more than I did Jim. "How'd you get my number?"

"From Simon. I... hope it's okay that I called."

I hear the hesitancy in his voice and rush to reassure him. I wouldn't for the world make Joel feel bad. "No, it's great. Great to hear from you." I'm stammering and I know it but can't figure out what else to say or how to stop. "What...what can I do for you, man?" Not that there's anything I can really do for him, at this distance and the way I am now.

"I just wanted to be sure you were doing okay," Taggert answers easily. "I know Jim is coming out there to see you soon and I thought I'd give you a call first. I've been worried about both of you." It's so easy for Joel to admit things like this.

"I'm doing fine," I tell him, meaning it. "I still have my bad days and all and I wish...I wish I could get together with you and the guys but...I sorta had to get away, you know? Being in Cascade just got too hard." I bite my lip, fearing I'm about to get emotional and not really comfortable with showing how much I'm still hurting inside from what happened.

"I understand." Joel's voice is fatherly, but respectful, more man-to-man than that. "You helped me with my fears about defusing bombs, Blair, after I was so messed up following the Bracket bomb stuff. And I...I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do for you."

I sigh, rubbing my aching shoulder. "I don't think there is, Joel. But it's nice of you to ask."

"I kinda figure all this has been hard for you to accept," he persists. "I guess it would be for me too."

Accept... that's the problem all right. His words kick me back to those first days in the hospital, the way I felt I'd been cheated so badly. There I was, half my body literally ripped away. I'd been ready to die. I would have... and if I had, I'd at least be all in one piece. Jim had told me, the doctors had told me... that my legs had been too messed up to save. But a part of me had refused to believe that. Jim hadn't wanted me to die. He couldn't move the truck and he couldn't stop the water. If not for the water, maybe the rescue squad could have gotten the truck off me and saved my legs...

"Yeah, Joel," I hear myself saying, "it's been hard for me to accept. I look down at myself and I still can't really believe it happened." I've never said that out loud before. I can feel heat spreading over my face at the words. My gaze follows my words; sitting here in my boxers, it's so obvious.

"I had a friend in the army," Joel began after a moment. I try to listen to him, if only to push aside my embarrassment and pain. "I was in Nam, you know."

"No, I guess I didn't," I answer, feeling like a bad friend for not knowing that about him.

"Yeah, that's where I learned to take bombs apart," he tells me now, easily.

"Guess that gave you a lot of practice."

"Yeah, I won some... and I lost some though." Joel pauses. "Like I was saying, I had this friend. He stepped on a bomb. One of those Bouncing Betty's you've probably heard about. A land mine."

"Oh." That must have hurt Joel bad. But I realize it didn't stop him from the work he was doing. "You couldn't have prevented that, could you, man?" I ask, wanting to have back my old ability to make this gentle man feel better.

"No, I couldn't have and I knew that. I just wanted to tell you about my friend." Joel pauses and I find myself holding my breath, instinct telling me what he's about to say. "He lost both his legs when the mine went off."

A part of me shuts down, not wanting to hear a story about some guy who went on to a full life despite horrible injuries. I know Joel means well, but...

"And he couldn't accept it either," he's saying, oblivious to the fact that I'm so desperate not to hear this supposedly inspirational story I'm about to hang up the phone on him. "He kept saying that his legs would have been fine, that the doctors didn't have to take them off."

"You said the bomb blew them off." My lips feel numb as the words tumble out.

"Well, not exactly. The bomb tore them up pretty bad. One of them was gone from the knee down when they got to him, but the other... well, it was just mangled."

"Yeah?" Something is making my ears buzz.

"Frank kept saying that if the docs had really tried, had really wanted to, they could have saved his legs. No matter what they said, he wouldn't believe them."

All I can do is grip the phone. I can't ask for more of the story, even though I'm realizing it's not what I thought it was going to be, not some sappy tale of how the guy managed to have a great career and meet a beautiful woman and get married and... oh hell...

"You want to know what finally made him believe them?" Joel asks me at last.

"Uh... I'm not sure." I can barely breath, much less answer that question.

"We showed him his legs."

The words sound harsh, the image disgusting. But it doesn't disgust me.

"You what?"

"A couple of us went out to find the one the doctors had had to amputate -- there was a pile of them out behind the operating tent."

"Geez, Joel... how long had it been?"

"A while. But guys were losing legs and arms so fast, the orderlies couldn't always keep up."

"How'd they know... which one was Frank's?" I can hardly believe I'm asking this, imagining guys poking around in a pile of rotting, severed limbs.

"He had a tattoo on his calf."

"Oh."

"That's about all that was left, by the way."

My stomach gives a lurch. "Gee, thanks for that picture, Joel." Why is he doing this? How can this sweet man be putting these images in my head? Why's he torturing me?

"I found the other one," he says, going on relentlessly. "It was about half a mile from where the land mine he stepped on was but I found it. I brought it to the hospital for him."

I wipe sweat off my face, feeling sick inside. "Great, Joel. I'll bet old Frank really thanked you guys for that."

"Actually, he did." Joel pauses as though waiting.

"He thanked you?"

"Yeah. When he finally saw how badly his legs were ripped up, he knew the doctors couldn't have done anything else."

Now I see the reason he's telling me this. "Oh." Too bad this didn't happen to me. But there wasn't a handy pile of amputated limbs for my friends to go searching through.

"I was thinking," Joel says when it's clear I'm not going to make any further comment, "that if you could... could have seen... well, that maybe it would have been easier for you."

I close my eyes, remembering how I'd felt in those first days, how unreal it all had seemed. Parts of my body had been cut off and I'd never see them again. It was like finding out a friend had died but not believing it 'cause you couldn't make it to the funeral.

"And I just wanted you to know, Blair," Joel's voice breaks into my pain, "that if you... if you ever want to see... I have something I could show you."

For a couple of minutes, his words don't even make sense. Something he could show me? God, did he have my legs in a jar or something? "What do you mean?"

"I went to the accident scene," he says softly as though realizing how hard this is for me to hear. "There was a crew there, doing clean up, doing reports."

I'd never thought about that. I hadn't wanted to think about it.

"You... you saw...?" I can't even say the words.

"No. That part... that part was already done when I got there."

I'm not sure why he's telling me all this if that's so. If he didn't see my legs...

"But I knew the guy taking the photographs of the scene," Joel continues quickly, "for the reports." He waits but my mind feels filled with cotton. "I've got the pictures, Blair. If you ever want to see them, if you think you could handle it, I think it could help you."

Oh god. I feel like the world has just dropped out from under me. I find myself gripping the headboard of my bed with my left hand while the right grips the phone so tight I might break it. To look at pictures of... no! I want to scream that I can't, that I won't... that I'd have to be sick in the head to want to see... but a part of me freezes at that, can't really deny that I could. I could look. It was part of me, after all. How bad could it really be? And why not? Didn't I, of all people, have the right to see?

"Oh, man," I breathe, not knowing what to say. My head is spinning, not just from the impact of what Joel's told me, but from realizing what it must have taken for him to call me to let me know, to make this offer.

"What do you think, Blair?"

I'm shaking. I can't be sure. What if... what if I looked and it destroyed what little recovery I've made so far? What if it depressed me even more to see... God, what it must look like...

"I don't know, Joel. I honestly don't know." I swallow, try to show him I at least appreciate the offer. "I...thanks for calling me though. For letting me know about this. You're... you're a good friend." I realize I haven't let any of my friends in for so long.

He lets out a heavy sigh. "I'm glad you're not mad I brought it up."

I nearly cringe, realizing he wouldn't have been sure of my reaction at all, not considering the way I'd taken this whole thing. "You're a good friend, Joel," I say now, trying to make him understand I mean that, despite the poor way I'd handled things in the past. "You could call and tell me anything. I mean that."

I can hear him relax, the way his breathing loses its tension. "Thanks, Blair. I just want to help."

"I know. I really appreciate that."

We say a few more words and then hang up. A shiver runs through me, having nothing to do with sitting here in my boxers all sweaty from my workout. I close my eyes, imagining myself on an operating table, doctors stitching up wounds in my legs, legs that are still attached to my body.

Pain tears up through nonexistent nerves and I grab at what's left of my legs, moaning. I'm rocking back and forth on the bed, willing the pain to ease up, to stop killing me this way, to stop tormenting me with the memory of what I've lost. Finally, as it ebbs a little, I climb back into my chair and head for the bathroom, wishing I'd been in the shower when Joel called so I wouldn't have to think about the pictures he told me about.

Man, this is difficult. More difficult than I thought it would be. I thought that, knowing I was taking Blair's things to him, touching them wouldn't mess me up the way it is. I keep having spikes, some so slight they don't really stop me, others so bad I have to quit and rest until everything settles back down again. The spikes are weird. They're like brief flashes of what it was like to be a Sentinel, then, like blowing out a candle, the senses are gone again, downgraded back to normal.

And part of me, God help me, wishes they would last, that the senses could come back. I know I don't deserve to be a Sentinel any more, that hurting my guide is what took them away from me... but I had to save him. That imperative was as genetic as the senses themselves, the way Blair always said they were. What a vicious circle -- as a Sentinel, I needed my guide alive. To keep my guide alive, I had to hurt him. Hurting him, I paid the price of losing my senses.

Damn, it's not that I mind having paid that price. Blair's life is worth more than anything I've ever owned.

Sometimes, I dream they're back....last night, I held a piece of wood in my hand, fingers gliding over it to see what I could determine from it. And at my side, whispering encouragement and suggestions, was Blair. When I woke and realized it wasn't real, it was almost enough to make me cry. He'd been standing next to me, strong and beautiful as I remember him being, smiling, believing in me so much. I've got nothing to make him believe in me now. I'm only his friend, the friend who hurt him trying to save his life.

I want to see him so badly, yet I'm afraid of the look that might be in his eyes when we meet again. I want to tell him how sorry I am -- yeah, I know I've told him that before but it's never seemed enough. I want to make sure he's okay, that he's doing all right, eating right, feeling okay. It kills me to know that even now, all these months later, he still has so much pain.

Gotta keep working if I want to be able to leave on Saturday. I've packed up a lot of books, some of his clothes. The clothes are the hardest; there are so many memories associated with each one of his shirts or sweaters. I'm not even sure of what all to take to him. We've talked a little about some of the things he'd like me to bring, but mostly I'm on my own, picking and choosing, mostly choosing everything.

I pull out another drawer and reach in, my hands closing on a blue shirt made of soft cotton. It's a deep blue color, one that I remember brought out the shade of his eyes. It feels smooth and warm to my fingers; I don't have to be a sentinel to experience its sensual qualities. I feel a pain somewhere deep in my heart remembering how he looked in this shirt, and without thinking, I lift it up, burying my face in its folds, breathing in deeply. God, his scent is still on it...

"Jim? Jim, can you hear me?"

I struggle to hear the words being spoken to me, unable even to determine who's talking.

"Jim? Jim, answer me, please!"

There's more than the voice now; a hand is shaking my shoulder. Feeling weak and exhausted, I finally manage to open my eyes.

"Jim?"

Long, reddish hair framing a face full of worry, red lipstick, a concerned accent.

"Connor?" My lips feel numb, my voice sounds hoarse.

Relief washes over her face and she pats my cheek. "Oh thank goodness. Are you all right?"

I look around, unsure of the answer. "What time is it? When did you get here?"

"I've been trying to get you to wake up for fifteen minutes," she tells me. "It's four thirty."

"A.M. or P.M.?" I ask, feeling stupid to need the clarification.

"P.M. I got off early and thought I'd stop by to see if you need some help packing Sandy's things."

"Oh, man..." The last time I looked at my watch, it was two in the afternoon. I somehow lost two hours. The scent of Blair on his blue shirt must have made me spike, put me into some sort of zone.

"Come on," Megan is saying, "let's get you up off the floor."

I feel stiff as she helps me up, shaky as we manage to get out of Blair's room and over to the couch. Connor pushes things out of the way so we have room to sit down.

"You're having sensory spikes, aren't you?" She pats my shoulder, still looking concerned.

Not knowing why I should bother to disagree, I shrug. "I don't really know what it was this time." I glance down, seeing Blair's shirt still in my hands. My sight suddenly blurs. "His things...when I look at them or... or touch them...I just... " Embarrassed, I try to hand the shirt to her.

Megan gently pushes my hands back, returning the shirt to my lap. "Does it hurt, holding that?" Her eyes are so discerning, I can hardly look into them.

"No. It wasn't...pain this time. It was like zoning out." I knew Blair had filled Megan in on some of the finer points of being a Sentinel after she'd figured out what I was. Though I'd really never spoken to her much about it, right now it comforts me to have someone here who understands. I don't know what would have happened if she hadn't stopped by.

"I'm going to get you a glass of water," she says after a moment, and leaves me on the couch to go get it.

I sit there, my fingers worrying the material of Blair's shirt, amazed at the idea that I must have zoned out on his scent. I'd like to lift it up to my nose now, but I'm afraid it'll happen again. How could I have zoned when I don't really have my Sentinel abilities anymore? The only person who might understand is Blair. I don't even know how to ask him about this though.

Connor is back with a glass of water. I gulp it gratefully, trying to determine if it tastes any different than usual. But it's just water, nothing more, nothing less. I don't know whether that's a relief or a disappointment. Could the spikes mean my senses are returning? Or are they just little jabs of pain, reminders of what I once had, once was, going away as quickly as they come?

"Do you need to call Blair?" Connor asks as I hand her the empty water glass.

I look at her sharply; what all did Simon tell her? I shrug though, not really caring at this point. "Actually, I would like to talk to him," I admit to her. I still feel off kilter and nothing soothes me like hearing his voice. She presses the phone into my hand and gracefully exits the room. As I dial, I see that she's heading into Blair's old room.

"Blair Sandburg."

The minute I hear his voice, my whole body relaxes. "Hi," I sigh into the phone.

"Hey." He sounds happy to hear from me. "What are you doing? Taking a break from packing my stuff?"

"Looks that way."

"Jim, what's wrong?" He knows me so well; his tone immediately changes, going from cheerful surprise to intent concern. "Was it another sensory spike?"

"I'm not sure. I picked up one of your shirts and noticed that..." I hesitate, realizing that I was about to tell him I'd been smelling it.

"Noticed what, Jim? Come on, man, you can tell me." Blair's voice is soft, so full of texture and substance it's almost enough to make me zone again.

"It still had your scent on it." My voice drops to a whisper.

Blair is silent for a moment while I wonder if I've embarrassed him too. "Aw, Jim. I'm sorry..."

"What have you got to be sorry about," I chide him, "not doing your laundry before you left?"

He snorts out a laugh, breaking the tension. "Okay, so the shirt had my...my smell on it. What happened then?" He said the word 'smell' like it was something disgusting.

"It wasn't like it smelled bad," I tell him, then try to get back on track. "I remember sniffing it -- and that was all. I must have had some kind of spike but I don't remember feeling it. Connor just happened to stop by and found me sitting on the floor of your room holding the shirt. It took her fifteen minutes to get me back and when I asked her the time, I realized I'd been out for at least two hours."

"Wow," Blair muses, then he falls silent for a moment, thinking. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you zoned out, man."

"Yeah, but I know better too. I can't zone out on anything if I'm not a Sentinel, can I?"

"I wouldn't think so." He's quiet a moment and I know his mind is racing. "Jim, I know this could be...you know, difficult for you, but could you make sure you bring my source books on sentinels with you? They're all in one big box in the basement of the building, along with all my notes and the stuff from the diss. I'd like to have that stuff handy in case I have to look up stuff for you." He sounds more interested in this than in anything I've heard him talk about since the accident.

But a part of me feels guilty too. "Blair, you don't have to do that. I know the whole sentinel thing isn't something you want to think about."

"I don't mind thinking about it, Jim," he says, sounding surprised.

There's a moment of strained silence. "These spikes and whatever happened this afternoon don't have to mean anything. My senses have been gone for a year. I don't think they're coming back."

"Jim... " That's all he says, my name hanging there with so much left unspoken, unnecessary. I'd like to say how terrible I'd feel if they did come back after what I did to him. He'd probably like to tell me it wouldn't matter. But neither of us can put those feelings into words. Not now.

I rub a hand over my face, so many emotions warring for my attention at once I feel nothing but confusion. "All right. I'll bring the box. I might have one of the guys get it though. Simon said he and Brown and Taggert and Rafe are coming over in the morning to help me load up." I'm not sure what would happen if I picked up that particular box myself.

"That's great," Blair says. "You mentioned Connor too...?"

"She's still here. She suggested I call you."

Blair gives a short laugh. "She always was pretty smart."

"You want me to call her to the phone?"

"Uh...I..." For the first time, he falters, no longer sounding confident. "That's okay, Jim. Unless she's standing right there looking like she wants to talk to me or something."

"No, she's in your old room, packing stuff for me, I guess."

"Oh. Good. Tell her I said hello, though."

"I will, Blair." I close my eyes, trying to visualize him holding the phone. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm doing all right."

"How's the pain?"

"It's fair today. Not so bad."

"That's good." I can't help reminding myself that I'm the reason for his pain.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay to drive all this way?" Blair's question pulls me back.

"I'm sure," I tell him, putting strength in my voice. "I don't want you worrying, okay?"

"I won't as long as you keep in touch on the way." He sounds stern; I picture no-nonsense Professor Sandburg in front of a classroom.

"I will. I'll keep my cell phone charged and call you so much you'll be sick of hearing from me."

"Yeah, right." He hesitates as though he's just realized the same thing I have -- we're teasing each other. God, to hear that light tone in his voice again...I'd do anything to keep it there.

We say a few more bantering words about our imminent reunion, the teasing serving to keep our stronger emotions at bay, then we hang up. I shove aside my tiredness and get off the couch to go help Connor pack the rest of Blair's things.

"Thanks, man," I say, smiling at the guy who's just handed me a cup of soda. His name is Greg and he's one of the coaches of the wheelchair basketball team. I decided to take my neighbor Tony up on his invitation to come watch the team practice. I'm feeling a little strange about this; I haven't done anything socially in over a year and I think I'm out of practice talking to people except in front of a classroom.

Everyone seems so... I don't know... at ease. There are a ton of guys in wheelchairs here -- I expected that of course, but expecting it wasn't the same as actually seeing it. And the even more amazing thing is that not one of them looks ill at ease in his chair or self-conscious about people seeing them in wheelchairs. It's like their chairs are just another part of their bodies.

Nobody else seems to feel any differently either. There's no big audience here, the few other spectators are wives and girlfriends or roommates of the players. Nobody looks down or depressed, they're all having fun, being physically active, enjoying life.

A shiver runs down my spine as I realize how hungry I've been to feel like that. On the occasions I've seen other people enjoying life since my accident, I've envied them their able bodies, their lives without pain and anguish. I know not everybody has it easy and I wasn't really feeling sorry for myself, thinking I was the worst off in the whole world, but I did envy them the ability to go to the store apparently trouble free, to hang out at the mall, go to the movies, have someone else to talk to and something to talk about other than pain and painful memories. I've been feeling like I'd never have anything like that again.

But sitting here watching the players get started, I'm in a different world. One that doesn't mind that I've become incomplete in body. One that doesn't think I'm less of a person because I have a disability. I was feeling nervous when I first rolled in the gymnasium but all of a sudden, I realize I'm not any more. I'm glad to be here. I'm watching a bunch of guys play basketball, just like normal people do.

There's only one thing missing.

Jim.

I remember all the times we'd go to the Jags games together, bickering about the players and the referees' calls and betting on the outcome. I remember all the games we watched at home on the couch together. I remember all the times we played basketball, how proud I used to be when we'd beat a couple of other guys or when I could hold my own playing against him. I never wanted to watch a game with him after the accident. Hell, watching the news was something I could hardly take and I hate soap operas and the nighttime shows just seem so trivial. I barely even watched Discovery any more. That left Jim with the TV pretty much to himself and he'd try to watch the games alone, but I know his enjoyment wasn't the same as it used to be. I felt guilty about seemingly punishing him by refusing to join him for some popcorn and a game or a movie on tape, but I couldn't help it. All I wanted to do was retreat into my room and shut Jim and the rest of the world away.

Maybe that'll change now. He'll be here in four or five days and I can try to make up for the shitty way I acted around the house all those months. I'd like to watch a game on TV with him. I'd like to just sit beside him, talking about regular stuff. I'd like to hear him laugh -- to make him laugh. I'd like to put a smile back on his face again. I'd like to let him know it's not his fault. None of it. Not the accident or the way he saved me. I really don't blame him. He saved my life.

He saved my life. For a moment the players on the court fade out and I'm back there trapped under the truck in the cold and the rain. But Jim's with me. We're saying stuff we never said to each other before. I'm saying I love him, he's saying he loves me. We kiss... and then I'm waking up in the hospital, hurting more than I ever thought possible in mind as well as body. And the love we'd spoken about was gone for good. Not only the love, but the friendship part was messed up too.

Funny -- the word love hasn't even really crossed my mind in all this time. That's another thing I've lost; the idea that someday I'll be in love with somebody, that somebody will love me, want to be with me. That doesn't really matter though. I lost more than just my legs a year ago. It doesn't matter if nobody is ever interested in me that way again, because my body's lost all interest in physical expressions of love.

I push all that out of my mind, trying to pay attention as Tony comes over to talk to me, filling me in on different things about the game. He gave me the rules for wheelchair basketball the other day and I read them, amazed at how intricate they were with so many details about the chairs, the cushions you can sit on in your chair, the degrees of disability and how that factors into points for the team so everybody, no matter how limited their physical bodies are, can play. It's fascinating, a whole world I never knew anything about and I find myself wanting to participate, feeling almost like I used to when I'd go on an expedition and want to engage in the activities and rites of the people I was studying.

"So you think you might want to try out for the team, Blair?" Tony asks with a big smile.

"It looks great," I tell him, surprising myself by answering yes. "I'd have to get one of those chairs, I guess..."

"The team has some spares if you like to give it a try," he tells me. "That way you wouldn't have to invest in one if you decided it wasn't for you."

"Okay... " I think some more, then ask, "but I can't really try out until I know more about it. I'd have to...like, practice or something, get the hang of it."

Tony nods. "I'd be glad to help you out, show you the ropes and all that. We could come to the gym sometime and try a little one on one."

"All right," I answer with more enthusiasm than I'd remembered possible. Then, I think of the pain I still have and I'm not sure it's such a good idea after all.

"What's the matter?" Tony asks, apparently noticing the change in my expression.

I sigh in frustration. "I... I just still have a lot of...pain sometimes," I admit, trying to keep from sounding all emotional or like some kind of wimp. "It's phantom pain and it's been pretty persistent."

Tony nods understandingly. "Carlos over there used to have the same thing," he tells me, pointing out a player who's missing his right leg. "But he says the more physical exercise he does, the less phantom pain he gets."

"Really?" It doesn't seem possible. It hurts so much sometimes and saps my stamina so much it's hard just to do my work for school. Now that I think about it though, I realize that my pain has lessened since I got back into physical therapy. I go three times a week and working out does seem to help. Sometimes when I've really had a rough workout, I get pains when I get home, but, like I've been telling Jim, mostly the pain hasn't been as bad lately. I'll have to ask my therapist about it. I look at Tony, who nods when I asked if Carlos really has less phantom pain now that he exercises more.

"You should talk to him," he goes on, "I'll introduce you after practice."

"Okay." I try not to feel nervous at the idea of meeting yet another person who's lost a limb. Even though we obviously have stuff in common, I still feel so uncomfortable about myself being this way. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help it. I should push myself to do it, even if it is difficult, though, and maybe I can get over feeling this way.

"Blair!"

Hearing someone call my name startles me. I turn to my right, looking around.

"Blair, it's so great to see you!"

It's Bill, whom I haven't seen since the day I fired him. Great, that's all I need. "Hi," I respond unwillingly, then turn back toward Tony and our interrupted conversation.

"What brings you here? Just watching practice?" Bill has taken it upon himself to pull a folding chair up beside me, sitting down as though to chat with an old friend.

Annoyed and uncomfortable, I want to tell him to leave me alone, but before I can say anything, Tony speaks up.

"What are you doing here, Bookman?" he asks Bill in a sharp tone. "The women's team isn't practicing tonight." There's a bit of sarcasm in his voice and I'm not sure what it means.

"They're not?" Bill looks surprised. "I thought they were." His tone sounds genial and unassuming. "Well, since I'm here, maybe I'll just watch you guys play." He grins as though perfectly happy and my heart sinks, knowing the guy's persistence. He'll sit here all night and I'll have to leave to get away from him.

"I don't think so," Tony says in answer to Bill's statement. I turn to look at him and find a cold glare on his normally friendly face. "We know what you are and we don't want you around. You don't need to come and watch the women's team either. They've got your number too."

"What do you mean?" Bill sounds indignant but confused. "What's wrong with watching -- ?"

Tony cuts him off. "This isn't a spectator event. This is team practice. The only observers who are here are family and friends of the players."

"Well, I know Blair," he says and I cringe inwardly.

"Yeah, I know you do," Tony says, surprising me again. "I saw you hanging around the building when he first moved in. I haven't seen you lately however." There's an edge to that statement as though Tony's offering Bill a chance to challenge it.

"I was Blair's student aid," Bill says, his voice strong as though he's proud of that fact.

"But?" Tony asks, his brown eyes looking daggers at Bill.

Bill hesitates, his mouth opens and shuts; he doesn't know what to say.

At last I find my own voice. "I fired him," I tell Tony. My voice sounds strained, almost timid, but I'm annoyed too. Bill always made me uncomfortable; I still don't know why but obviously Tony doesn't like him either, which tells me my gut feelings about Bill are justified. "I fired him," I repeat, this time looking Bill straight in the eyes.

"Well, I'd say you're not Blair's best bud then," Tony declares. "So you have no reason to be here."

Bill frowns angrily. "You can't throw me out of here. This is a public place."

"That's in use privately. Go on, leave. If you don't, I'll call security and have you escorted out."

Bill shrugs, his expression untroubled. "Whatever." He gets up to leave, then glances back down at us. "But you can't keep me out of the games. I've always supported the women's team."

"They don't want your support," Tony says.

Bill rolls his eyes. "You faggots have a nice evening. Bye, Blair," then turns and walks away and out the door to the gym. The sarcastic way he said the word 'faggots' and then my name showed what a true creep he was, but my heart is still pounding from the confrontational scene.

"Oh, man... " I say, sort of gasping it out. I lean over, rubbing my thighs as pain shoots up from my calves that aren't there.

"Are you okay?" Tony asks.

"Yeah," I answer after a few seconds, leaning back to meet his gaze. "Thanks for making him leave. That guy really bothers me." I can hardly keep from cringing as I think about him. "He just gets on my nerves, I guess."

"Blair, we all know about him. Don't worry about it."

"What do you mean? What do you know about him?"

"He's what they call an amputee fetishist. Carlos told me the term, as a matter of fact. They like amputees. In fact, they get off on being with them. I know that's why he likes to see the women's team play -- there are two girls on the squad who've each lost a leg ."

"God... One of my students mentioned he dated an amputee last year." I try to wrap my mind around the concept, but I just can't. I don't get it. Maybe as an anthropologist I'd find it interesting, but as an amputee, I'm totally grossed out.

"Hey, Tony, what was that all about?" a voice calls in a light Hispanic accent.

The guy Tony'd pointed out as Carlos wheels toward us.

"Nothing we couldn't handle. Just that creep who gets off on watching the women's team. I made him leave."

"Oh." Carlos nods, then glances toward me.

"I'm sorry," Tony says in a rush, "Carlos, this is a neighbor of mine, Blair Sandburg. He's new. Blair, this is Carlos."

"Glad to meet you, man," Carlos says extending a hand. We shake, his grip forceful and strong.

"Same here," I answer. "That guy Bill used to work for me."

"Blair fired him," Tony added meaningfully.

"You did the right thing," Carlos nods understandingly. "Guys like him make problems."

"I don't understand. Tony says Bill's an 'amputee fetishist'?" I've heard the term fetishist of course, but never used this way.

"There are a lot of different types of people who get involved with amputees," Carlos explains. "Some of them are just nice folks who want to help. We call them 'devotees.' They volunteer, they raise funds, stuff like that. Mostly they're folks who had a father or mother or some friend or relative who was an amputee and they're aware of our issues and some of our problems. They see us as regular people with a disability. But some people get weird about it. They have a thing for people with amputated limbs They can seem nice, even helpful, but they don't see you as a person, just as an object, something that they get a kick out of or get turned on by it."

"Geez." I remember stuff Bill said about Jim and me and how he wasn't gay but thought I... I shudder in revulsion. "I found him really pushy, always trying to do too much for me, you know? Things I could have easily done myself." Carlos is nodding. "He was sympathetic, but in kind of a creepy way, more condescending than anything else. He'd say something like, 'you're still a great guy,' that would just make me feel worse about myself." I'd never been able to put my finger on what it was about the way Bill treated me and the revelation was both horrifying and empowering. My gut instincts about him had been right, even without knowing his history or that there was a term for people like him.

"Yeah, it's objectifying. As if losing a leg would change the kind of person you are," Tony says derisively.

For awhile there, I was afraid it had changed me though, from the always positive guy I used to be into the uncaring, hopeless stranger I'd been all those months in Cascade.

"Blair?" I look up. It's Carlos asking if I'm all right this time. I feel myself blush at being so obvious that people have to ask how I am.

"I'm okay," I sigh. "I've gone through, you know, a lot of stuff since my accident."

Carlos nods understandingly. "How long has it been?"

"A little over a year." I raise one shoulder, attempting to dismiss it. "I should be better about it by now but..."

"Hey, it takes time," he tells me earnestly. "It's been fifteen years for me. At first I was mad at the whole world, even drove my wife away. I adjusted though. I only lost one leg, you lost both. Everybody deals with this kind of thing at their own pace. You're not following a schedule; take it easy on yourself."

His words reach right out and move me as nothing else has in all these months. I'm sure others have said practically the same thing to me before, doctors, therapists, friends, but hearing it from this guy Carlos -- who really, really knows -- makes all the difference in the world. I know he's right, that I can make the adjustment at my own pace, and that I have been getting better. Maybe I am the same person I used to be after all, I just lost myself there for awhile. Too long, maybe. But I'm finding myself again. That's why, after shutting him out so long, I can talk to Jim easier now. That's why I took this step, moving here, going back into the world by myself, why I knew it was the right thing, the only thing I could do.

Maybe now I can explain that to Jim.

"Thanks man," I say, reaching to shake hands with Carlos, my voice betraying my feelings. "I really appreciate hearing that from you."

"S'okay, brother," Carlos responds with a grin, shaking my hand firmly. "Anytime you'd like to talk, let me know."

"Blair's thinking of coming out for the team," Tony informs him, "but he's never played wheelchair ball before."

Carlos chuckles. "Well, we'll just have to teach him then," he says, clapping me on the shoulder. "But watch out, Blair-ito, I'm a tough coach."

I laugh a little, not totally sure I'm being teased. "Hey, I can take it, man. I've played against the Cascade Jags!" I declare, enjoying the looks of surprise on my new friends' faces.

"Is that everything, Jim?" Simon asks. "You know, I'll never get used to you driving this thing."

The 'thing' is the '91 blue and white Chevy Suburban I bought after the accident. My truck, of course, was totaled and I just couldn't bring myself to get something similar. I'd driven Fords for years so buying the Suburban was a real departure. But it's big and powerful, not bad on gas and gets me where I want to go. And there's plenty of room in it for Blair's things, his futon, desk, books, clothes, wall hangings...

"Yeah, that's everything," I tell Simon, the reality of it hitting me now that it's time to leave. I've taken most of Blair's possessions from the loft. When I come home again after this trip, they won't be there. His mark on the loft -- and on my life -- will be gone.

"Good thing," laughs Rafe. "I don't know where you'd put anything else, Jim."

"And my back has had it for today!" Henri chimes in. Simon, Rafe, Brown, Taggert and Connor all came over to help me load the truck and, I guess, give me a send off.

"Now, now, you're not nearly as old as I am," Joel says, nudging at Brown for complaining. "And Jim doesn't want to hear all that crap."

"Sorry, Jim," says Brown, though he's still grinning.

"H, I'm used to it by now," I say, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm just going to go check the loft and lock up. I'll be right back down." Before much more can be said, I turn and head inside, going up once more to check the loft and make sure I have everything for the trip, my own duffle, maps, and a cooler are in the truck already... My cell phone is on the kitchen island. Good thing I checked or I would have forgotten it.

I look up, look around once more, trying to push all my mixed emotions aside. Through the open French doors, Blair's room can be seen, nearly empty of all contents. I know I should be happy I'm going to see him soon, but I feel more real fear now than ever. I care about him so much and I don't know what to say to him, how to talk to him, how to look at him without all the hurt being there between us.

"Jim?"

The soft voice startles me. I turn to find Joel standing before me with a questioning look on his face. He holds out a manila envelope.

"What's this?" I ask, not reaching to take it.

"Here," he says, handing it over. "It's for Blair." I must have looked at him questioningly because he added, "We talked a few days ago on the phone. He'll be expecting this from me."

"Okay," I shrug, turning the envelope over. It's stiff as though more than just a couple of sheets of paper are inside. I reach to undo the clasp.

Joel's hand clamps over my own. "Don't open it, Jim. Okay? It's just for Blair. You understand?"

I pause, looking down at the envelope. I could probably hold it up to the light and figure out what's in it, but Taggart's eyes tell me not to pry. "Eyes only, huh?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood. "Sure, Joel. I'll make sure he gets it."

"Thanks, Jim. Tell Blair for me...well, just tell him I understand and I'm thinking about him."

Smiling now, I tuck the envelope under my arm and reach to shake Joel's hand. "Thanks for everything, Joel," I offer, knowing it's been hard to deal with me this last year.

"Drive carefully, Jim." Joel folds my hand in his two large ones and after a moment, lets go, his eyes brooding yet hopeful.

"I will." We descend the stairs after I lock up and there are more good-byes to be said. Megan gives me a hug, Henri and Rafe clap me on the shoulder and Simon, old softie that he is, also hugs me. He's been such a good friend and offered so much, yet I seldom took him up on his offers. I regret that now. I should maybe say something, promise I'll be a better friend and better cop when I get back, but there's no way to put that into words and I know Simon doesn't need to hear them anyway. I just return the hug with all my strength and I know he gets the message. I toss Taggart's envelope and my cell phone into the front seat of the Suburban and climb in. The engine catches and hums. I pull out of the parking area on Prospect and slide into traffic, my long journey to Blair finally beginning.

I'm free... I can't believe it. I feel like I'm flying... I haven't felt so free in forever... I feel my face crinkling into a grin, breaking into a wide, full smile... I'm laughing, it all feels so good...

I'm at the gym, practicing in one of the wheelchair basketball team's special sport wheelchairs. Tony wanted me to get used to moving in it and man am I glad I tried it out -- it's wonderful, so different from my regular one, lighter, lower, no confining back and arms to surround me; its wheels are bigger than on mine and on a slant, close to my body at their tops and angling out wider on the floor. At first, I thought I'd be nervous using this kind of chair, that I'd feel like I might fall out, but no, it's totally okay. I love it. I start at one end of the gym floor and push with both hands and then let go... and I'm flying! Zooming along the smooth gymnasium floor like nothing can stop me, I haven't moved this fast in a year, maybe never, under my own power. God, this feels good...feels great. Feels like I've just been let out of prison. I don't have to sit in a chair and slowly, carefully navigate through the world. I can go as fast as I want, get somewhere -- or get nowhere -- as fast as I want.

It's an exhilarating feeling. I still worry that it's going to be hard, learning to play while seated in a chair, but I know now that I want to do it...I haven't felt so challenged, so eager to do something since my accident...

My body feels awake and aware... energy's coursing through it, surging through my veins... I realize I'm alive... I'm still young, still alive...I've had dreams where I was running, jumping, playing games outside and when I woke, found myself in my bed, practically a prisoner there, unable to move as fast as I wanted to. No more! If I have energy, I'm going to use it. If I feel like running, I can fly instead!

Tony tosses me the ball after explaining about how to dribble. You have to bounce the ball at least one time for every push you give with your hands. I try it out, feeling a little awkward but it doesn't take long before I get the hang of it.

"Is this right, Tony?" I call out breathlessly.

"You're doing great, Blair," he calls from half way down the court where he's been watching me. "Why don't you try to shoot a couple baskets?"

Oh yeah, baskets. It is basketball. I head back down to the end of the court, coming to a stop on the foul line. I bounce the ball a couple times, just to get the feel of it, then lift it, aim and throw...Yes! I got it in the first time! Damn, that feels good!

"Hey, Blair, you're a natural," Tony says coming up beside me after he retrieved the basket ball.

"Thanks," I tell him, reaching to take the ball back. "Lucky throw. I'm really out of practice." On impulse, I balance the ball on my index finger and give it a spin. I can still do it! I can still spin the ball on my finger. Tony grins, looking impressed.

God, I can't wait to show Jim, to tell him all about this new thing I've discovered! He'll be here in only a couple of days now. I can't wait to see him.

Here I go, behind the wheel again, driving on autopilot, without noticing much of the countryside I'm driving through. It doesn't matter; the only thing that matters is the road -- the longer I stay on it, the more miles I put behind me, the closer I get to Blair. But it seems endless, an infinite, black, unrolling ribbon I'm compelled to follow. It's almost hypnotic, lulling my mind for awhile until some unexpected turn or bump in the road brings me back to full awareness. I knew how long this trip was going to be, in miles at least, but how long it would be to drive never really sank in before. Now I really understand why everyone looked so skeptical when I told them my plan to drive across the country to take Blair his things. But what else could I do? Call a moving company to transport Blair's belongings? No. No matter how much "easier" that might have been, I know I couldn't entrust his possessions to strangers. Blair is my friend, my guide, or at least he used to be, and a Sentinel, even if he no longer possesses his abilities has an obligation to protect the belongings of his guide.

I do sometimes miss my heightened senses. If they'd come back -- what would it be like? Would they draw us closer or would our differences now be greater than they were before, creating a deeper rift between us? It's bad enough that I'm able-bodied; if I had my senses too, would Blair feel even more disabled?

I never want to make him feel inferior, never want what he's lost to matter. I mean, I know that it does matter, more than anything else ever could, but I also want Blair to be the same. I know it's changed him, but I want him to know that, in all the ways that matter, he's still the same person. He's got the same sharp mind, the same quick wit, the same intuition. He's been hurt more than anyone deserves, but he also needs to know that nothing could change the way I see him. And nothing can change what he means to me.

I miss him -- I've missed him more than I would have ever thought possible. I miss his voice, his smile, his personality -- but then, I was missing those things even before he left, he was so subdued, so depressed. But since he's been gone, I've had so much more to miss -- his heartbeat, his breathing, the grounding his presence always gave me. I used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, his breathing. As long as he was there, my world was complete. With him gone, it's been an empty, desolate place. The word lonely couldn't begin to describe my feelings without him there. I miss him more than the senses I've lost, more than my own arms or legs if they were to be ripped from my body. I'd've gladly given a piece of my body to get back what he lost.

Damn. If only it could have been that easy. But there is no part of me that I can offer up in exchange. Not my legs or my senses. Not even my heart or my soul.

He was so lost, so broken in those first weeks and months. And my guilt was so strong there were times when I couldn't even look at him. There were times when he didn't want me to.

God, I hope that much has changed in the time he's been gone. I don't know if I can stand anymore of that awkwardness between us. It hasn't been like that when we've talked recently. But we haven't been face to face. The phone confers a certain privacy, a distance between the participants that ensures their safety. Without it, when we can see each other when we talk, will the pain come back? Will we be unable to look each other in the eye? Will the seeming progress we've made in the last few weeks just dissolve under the strain of being together again?

I hope that doesn't happen. I hope... Damn, it's such a small word, yet it's become so huge in my mind. I hope... that he's happy to see me... that I'll see him smile...that I'll hear him laugh...that I'll get to hear him babbling on about some strange culture he knows about or the classes he's teaching....

I hope for other things too, late at night when my heart needs him and my defenses weaken. I hope I can touch him... I want to -- God, I want to be able to touch him. I remember that dream I had right after he left... I dreamed of touching him, of being touched by him, of his perfect body possessing me.... In my heart, he still is perfect. I still want to, need to show him my love. But I'm afraid, more afraid than I ever was before he was hurt to let him know. If I'd spoken up before, maybe the accident wouldn't have torn us apart...damn, who knows? It might have been worse. What's the use of speculating? I can no more go back and change things than I can bring back his legs.

I just hope that we can still be friends, like we used to be, without me being a Sentinel, without him having legs.

Is that too much to ask for? God, it probably is. I know it's more than I deserve. But Blair deserves more. He deserves not to be alone, he deserves to have a friend by his side, someone who will never see him as less than the brilliant, wonderful individual he is. I'll be that friend -- if he'll let me.

I hear the phone ringing as I turn off the shower, but it takes me too long to get from the shower chair to my wheelchair and out of bathroom to grab the phone before it stops. Figuring it was Jim, I'm about to dial his cell number when the phone rings again.

"I was in the shower," I say into the receiver, chuckling. "I'd've called you back."

"Would you, Blair?"

The voice isn't Jim's. It belongs to Bill and my stomach gives a sick lurch as I hear his voice and the oily friendliness he puts into his words.

"Actually, Bill, no," I tell him, deciding to be firm about it, "I wouldn't call you back. I'd rather not talk to you, if you haven't figured that out already."

"What's wrong, Blair?" he asks, pretending innocence.

"Bill, you just come on way too strong for me," I sigh. "I can't... I just can't deal with this."

"I just want to be friends," he responds.

"Well, I don't," I snap.

"Blair," he says, his voice wheedling, "everybody needs friends."

"Most people choose their friends. Don't you get it? I don't want to be friends with you."

"Blair, you've got me all wrong," Bill says.

"What part of 'no' don't you understand, man? Don't call me again. Leave me alone!" I hang up again before he has a chance to respond, sitting there breathing hard. I hate confrontations. I never enjoyed them but since I lost my legs I've avoided them at all costs.

I'm still trembling when the phone rings again. "I said leave me alone!"

"Blair? What's wrong?"

Jim. "Oh God, Jim. I'm sorry. I thought it was someone else." I run a hand through my hair, shaking harder now. I didn't want to upset Jim.

"Who?" There's shock and concern in his voice. I realize how badly I've missed him, how safe I always felt when he was around.

"Just some guy. The one that I fired. He's kind of irritating."

"You sound more than irritated," Jim observes.

I take a breath. "Yeah, I guess so. He's persistent."

"Blair, if this guy is bothering you... What's he want anyway? His last paycheck or what?"

"No, he got paid. He says he wants to be my friend but I think he got the message this time. I just get... you know, nervous when I have to argue with someone."

Jim makes a sound of agreement. "I know," his voice is reassuring. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." Putting Bill out of my mind, I recapture the good mood I'd been in before he called. I'm about to tell Jim about the wheelchair basketball stuff, then decide it might be better to surprise him with it when he gets here. "I just got back from the gym," I say instead. "Had a pretty good work out."

"That's great." I can hear Jim's smile and it makes me happy to imagine how he looks.

"So where are you now?"

"Nebraska, " he says, and I can hear the fatigue in his voice.

"How much longer are you going to drive tonight?"

"At least another hour."

"You're not too tired?"

"No."

"Any more sensory weirdness?"

"No. I've been fine."

"That's good. I'd worry if you were having those spikes or whatever while you're driving."

"I'm okay. You don't have any reason to worry."

"Guess I can't help it."

"I know. Me either. I worry about you too."

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

I take a deep breath. "I'm really looking forward to you getting here."

"Me, too, Blair. I should be there by the day after tomorrow."

"That's great."

We just sit quietly a few moments, the connection still open between us, nothing needing to be said.

"Okay, g'night, then. Drive carefully."

"Night, Blair. I will."

Gotta listen to some music... I've been driving today for... how long? Ten hours. It's only eleven o'clock, I can probably do a couple more hours...That'll put me in reach of Baltimore by early evening tomorrow. God, that still feels like forever.

Damn... nothing but country music on every station and I'm sick of listening to the CD's I have with me...there has to be something on...okay, that's better..as the strains of something vaguely familiar wash over me, I stop fiddling with the radio and put my attention back on the road, It's a deserted strip of interstate somewhere in Indiana...hardly any traffic, not even the semi's that usually fill the road at night.

The song that was on when I found this station ends and I endure the DJ's inane patter hoping the next song is decent...

*"I gave my heart away,
I sold my soul for a promise made,
The mask you wore, the mad charade,
Will I ever learn?"*

Oh man...haven't heard this in a couple of years...I never did call Angie -- just never got around to it, plus I guess I was a bit reluctant to date a woman that shot me...

*"I put my trust in you.
The things you said and the things you do, The tragic trials of a faithful few
And time's healing grace,
And then I saw your face..."*

Trust... Blair trusted me...saw through the masks I wore...could there ever be enough time to heal his wounds?

"It's all coming back to me..."

The relentless beat, the powerful voice, the memories... Blair's face, full of shock as he leaps to his feet when I burst through the door at Angie's, gun drawn...*I might have shot him...*Blair patiently coaching me through the pain I was feeling from Angie's bullet graze...until I was relaxed and secure, wrapped in the safety of his support...The sparks of electricity as Weston fried himself...my vision, hearing and sense of smell reverberating from the impact of his death...staggering to the door, feeling the rain pelting my already soaked body, vaguely recognizing Angie clutching her daughter...I had to gasp for breath, winded from my fight with Weston, senses still wide open, everything seeming intense and sharp...slowly moving my gaze past Angie and Pam to focus sluggishly on Blair...

"All coming back to me..."

He looked barely able to stand up and was holding a hand to his head... When he lowered his hand, I could see it was covered with blood...I shook my head...he seemed so bright in a sudden flash of lightening...his hair was a soft halo of waves, his red henley contrasted sharply with the paleness of his face...he was beautiful...

"I gave my heart away..."

I move toward him, lurching across the foyer, unmindful of the water I'm dripping everywhere, and reach out for him, suddenly terrified that Weston had injured him seriously when he knocked him out, damning myself for not having been able to even check on him before this...

*"It's all coming back to me, every mistake I made, All coming back to me now..."*

Blair warm and alive in my arms, denying he's hurt badly, acting worried about me...chuckling about me getting him wet...

*"I gave my heart away,
Sold my soul for a promise made..."*

Sold my soul...but I never made the right promises...

Blair...need to hold you...forget the rain, the pain...I'm fine...but he hit you...

My eyes, still at full power, focus sharply on the abrasion on his forehead...too much...so worried...blood...blood everywhere...on my hands, staining my soul...Blair's pain, Blair's terror and there's nothing I can do...nothing but hurt him more...all in the name of love...

Lights flash in my eyes, searingly bright, a horn blares out of the night. Disoriented, I shake my head, but I can't focus, where..? What..?

I hear a guttural scream that somehow sounds familiar, at the same time I feel the world turning over...and I'm hurtling through a void, free falling, lost...alone...

"Come on, Jim, answer..." I've been calling him for ten minutes... no answer. At first I thought maybe he just couldn't grab the phone, like it might have fallen off the seat or wherever he had it in the truck, but now I'm getting worried. I called back, let it ring a bunch of times and still nothing. This is my third try and it's been ringing so long, I'm scared his phone battery is going to die, or maybe it already has and I'm not receiving the message that the phone isn't in service. Or maybe he forgot it in a men's room somewhere... no, Jim wouldn't do that. It must be something else... something's wrong...

"Come on, Jim! Pick up!"

"Y-yes?"

It's him. His voice is so soft I barely heard it and it sounds shaky, confused. "Jim? Jim, it's me, Blair. What's going on?"

"Uh... ummm... I don't... give me a second, okay?"

"I've been trying to reach you... you weren't answering. Is something wrong?"

I hear him groaning and moving around as if to change his position. Then a muffled word comes through the phone.

"Shit..."

"What, Jim?"

"I think... I think I ran off the road."

"What? How did that happen? Are you telling me you've had an accident? Were you unconscious or what? Jim! Answer me!"

"Hold on, Blair. Just settle down. I'm trying to answer you. I just don't really know what happened. I think... I think I must have passed out... yeah, I'm looking at my watch and it's after midnight... The last time I checked it was eleven. Damn... my head is killing me."

"Okay, okay, Jim. It's gonna be okay. Just take a minute and get your bearings." I can hear the stress in his voice, can tell he's in pain. It seems to reach right through the phone and take hold of me too. He's upset, alone and hurt... I've gotta stay calm and help him. "Breathe, Jim. Nice and slow, remember? Like we used to... easy, easy, just breathe."

I can hear him breathing, following my directions, trying to calm down. "That's it. Good, Jim. You're relaxing, right? Feel any better?" I ask after a few moments.

"Yeah, I guess so. My head still hurts, but I'm not so turned around." He tries to make light of his distress. "I don't know what got into me. Sorry, Blair. I'm all right. I don't want to worry you."

"Okay, but what was that you said about running off the road?" I ask, keeping my voice patient but still letting him know I intend to find out the answer.

"Uh... yeah," he begins, sounding as though he's embarrassed. "I ran off the road and I'm in some kinda ditch. I'm not hurt... " I hear the engine on the Suburban start up. "And the truck sounds okay too. I think I can get it back on the road myself..."

"Wait a minute," I interrupt him. "I don't think you should do that, unless you're only a little way off the road in the dirt. But you said it was a ditch."

"It's not too deep." He's shifting around more, looking around to see how he's situated, I guess.

"What happened? What caused you to run off the road?" I get to my real question.

Jim sighs and mutters something I don't catch.

"Come on, man, tell me. I'll worry more if you don't."

"Okay, okay," he grouses. "It was... it was the radio."

"Huh?"

"I was trying to find some decent music and found a station playing Angie Ferris."

I have to swallow the lump that just came to my throat. "'All Coming Back to Me Now"?"

"Yeah." He doesn't elaborate, but I understand, remembering the song lyrics all too well from when we were guarding Angie and her daughter, Pam. It must have brought back memories for Jim.

"I... liked hearing it at first," he says, very softly. "But then...I don't know...it was like a flashback or something... I remembered being back there, at that house where Angie shot me...how you helped me with the pain..."

"I remember," I whisper to him.

"It was the first time you helped me dial down my senses," Jim says and there is wonder in his voice. "I remember it... so clearly... and then that storm, the rain and the lightening...and Weston dying in that blaze of sparks from the downed power line... but earlier, when he first came in the house, he...he hit you... "

His voice had grown rougher and more desperate as he spoke, the memories were so intense for him. "I'm okay, Jim. That was a long time ago," I breathe, trying to pull him back to the present.

"And I was...holding you...worried about that gash on your head from where he hit you...but..." He gulped, struggling with the words. "But then...it was the accident again, the rain and the cold and the water...drowning you...unless...unless -- "

"Jim, don't!" I'm scared he's going to slip away from me again. "Don't think about that. It's okay. I'm okay. It's now, not back then. You hear me?"

He's panting, breathing so hard I'm even more worried until he starts to calm down. "I know. I know," he says after a moment or two. "But it was so real, like a flashback, and I guess that's when I lost control of the car."

"Are you sure you're all right? Did you hit your head when you ran off the road?"

"I don't think so. I think...I think I just passed out from the pain, my senses... they were so wide open..."

"What? What about your senses?" I find myself clutching the phone more tightly.

"I mean," he hesitates again and I'm not sure if he's confused or just trying to figure out how to explain. "I mean, in my flashback, my senses were wide open...I was feeling everything...it was so loud, so bright... and the lights on the highway...maybe another car or a truck... blinded me... I don't know." He subsides, breathing hard.

"Jim, it's okay," I reassure him. My mind is racing. I don't know what to think. It was apparently as though his senses were back on line. Was it just the flashback or were his senses actually spiking out of control? I didn't know whether to be scared to death or excited. "This sounds like more than what was happening when you were home," I tell him, talking as I try to think it through. "You touched something or saw something of mine and you seemed to get a sensory spike, right? And this time, it was triggered by hearing Angie's song, but maybe...more intense? There were no flashbacks before, were there?"

"No," Jim sighs and he sounds exhausted. "This was like being there. It was so intense, my senses felt wide open and overwhelmed and when those headlights caught me, it was the same."

"How are your senses now?" I ask quietly, trying to give the question any weight, as though I'm not hoping they might be coming back.

He takes a minute to answer, as though he's trying to make sure. "Normal," he says finally. "Nothing...nothing out of the ordinary."

"Are you sure, Jim?" I venture. "Do you... want to try or...?"

He hesitates again and I'm breathless, picturing him trying to open his senses up, to see if they're working. A moment later, he groans again. "No..." he grates out, "my head...I can't."

"Okay. It's okay." I could bite my tongue, damn it. I never should have pushed him, feeling like he is. "Don't try, Jim. I forgot how bad your head is hurting. I'm sorry. Just take it easy, okay?"

"Blair, I'll be all right." He sounds just a bit irritated, but I'm sure it's as much at himself as it is with me.

The normalcy of that tone reassures me. "Can you get the car out of the ditch? Maybe you should get out and look it over."

"Yeah," he mutters. "Good idea."

I listen as he opens the car door and climbs out, as he moves around checking the vehicle.

"I can probably get it out," he affirms finally. "No need to call Triple A. Nothing's damaged and it looks like I can get some traction here." There's another pause and I hear the car door shut. He must be back inside. "I'll be on my way in a few minutes," he says, his voice sounding stronger.

"Are you sure you want to drive more tonight? With that headache? It's already late, Jim."

"I was going to stop around now anyway. As soon as I get back on the road I'll look for a hotel. I am tired."

"Okay, that's good. I wouldn't be able to sleep if I thought you were out there trying to keep going. Get a good night's sleep and start out in the morning when your head's clear."

"Yeah. I was going to get up pretty early in the morning and try to get to Baltimore by early evening tomorrow."

"That'd be great, but don't push it. Sleep as long as you need to. I'll be here."

"I know." I can hear a smile in his voice and my heart starts racing, thinking about seeing him so soon. "I'll be glad when I get there."

"So will I," I whisper, my voice involuntarily turning intimate. "Even if you get here in the middle of the night, whatever. I'll keep the lights on for you."

"Okay. Sounds good. I might just sleep in and get a later start. Don't worry, okay?"

"Keep in touch and I won't," I tease. "If you don't call me, I'll call you."

"God, you're a nag," he says, but there's no malice in his tone.

"You got it." We talk a few moments more and he says his headache is easing up some and he's okay to drive. I finally hang up, still a bit concerned, anxious to see him, shivering in anticipation. Tomorrow night...

Jim...everything's going to be all right for us, isn't it? Please, please let everything be all right....

Man, that was weird last night. It was almost like zoning, with a sensory spike for good measure. Really wiped me out. I found a motel and crashed. Didn't wake up until noon. I checked out and got on the road. Fortunately the car wasn't damaged and Blair's stuff is okay. I was lucky.

I probably won't make it to Baltimore until after midnight. I called Blair and he's okay with that. I don't want to be too late, don't want him to have to wait up for me.

I keep wondering what's going on with my senses. It's like they're trying to come back. Wish I could remember when they first came to me in the jungle, but I don't. That's repressed like so many other things from the past...No, I'm not going to think that way.

I've decided I've gotta stop doing that. Thinking negative thoughts, worrying about what I've repressed or forgotten or done wrong. Now the only thing is, figuring out how. But I want to understand my feelings. I need to accept my feelings. Maybe I already am and that's why the senses are starting to... what? Thaw out? Come back out of hibernation? Am I through punishing myself about what happened to Blair?

I don't know if that's true. If it was, I wouldn't still feel guilty. I don't think I'd have any more of those spiking, zoning, migraine spells if I had really let myself off the hook. Maybe when I'm with him, we'll be able to figure it out together.

The one thing I'm sure of is how I feel about him. I don't know if he can ever feel the same love for me... not after the accident... but I accept what I feel and I'm not ashamed of it. And I know that the key to my senses is being with him. They totally disappeared after the accident. Nothing happened, not so much as a flash, until after Blair left Cascade. Thinking about him, seeing his handwriting, touching his clothes, hearing a song that brought back memories... those things are triggering the sensory episodes. When I'm with him again... I'll have to wait and see what happens. I hope being around him doesn't set them off so badly I end up constantly zoning... No, that won't happen. He'll be with me. He'll know how to handle it. He'll talk me through it.

I used to love the closeness we shared when he helped me with my senses. I don't think I ever told him how it made me feel to have his help. He used to talk about a bond that could exist between tribal sentinels and their guides. I don't know if I quite understand that or believe in the metaphysical stuff, but it did bond us together, working on my senses; he came into my world, understood me, didn't think of me as a freak, helped me work with them and backed me up on the street. I once told Simon that Blair understood what I was going through, telling him I trusted him and needed him with me. I don't know if I ever let Blair know the depth of my feelings about what he did for me. Maybe now I'll get the chance. And maybe I can go even further, tell him that the closeness came to be love.

Damn, gotta stop this thinking, keep my mind on the road, pay attention. I've gotta get to Baltimore in one piece and if I can just hold on, I know I'll find all the answers with Blair.

I check the clock for the hundredth time in the last hour -- it's eleven thirty. And still no Jim. We spoke at about six and he said he'd be late, but I know he probably won't get here until after midnight. He sounded better than he did last night, swore he slept fine after the sensory episode. Those are really beginning to worry me. It seems like they're getting worse and I won't really be able to help Jim with them until I actually observe one. And even though they are triggered by Jim seeing or touching or hearing something that is related to me, who can say for sure they'll stop once we're together? I've been going on the assumption that it was my leaving Cascade that caused them -- and I feel guilty about that -- but what if it's Jim's guilt that's causing them? It was so strong it caused his senses to shut down permanently but Jim kept stuffing his feelings about the accident; he never really expressed them. Ha, big surprise. Well, no wonder. I didn't exactly help him get them out, did I? I used to patiently work with him, draw him out, get him to face his feelings, but this time I couldn't. I was hurting too and too overwhelmed to be able to do anything for him. He shut down -- hell, I shut down. The result was two totally closed off individuals, living together but with a wall between them. Alex Barnes couldn't build that wall, the dissertation couldn't do it. But the accident did. With my pain, my grief and my anger piled up on top of Jim's pain, Jim's grief and his guilt, we both built that wall. When it was finished, there was nothing left for me there so I left. I had to do it if I was going to survive, but I knew it wouldn't help Jim. Still, although I could have figured what it would do to him emotionally, I didn't realize what it would do to him physically.

We're tied together more than I ever knew. Part of it is because I'm his guide, apparently whether he's a functioning Sentinel or not; part of it is on another level. Beyond all Burton's theories about the mystical bond between Sentinel and guide, there's something much more basic, though no less possible to prove. We love each other. I know Jim loves me just like I know I love him. Because Jim is a Sentinel, his emotional feelings are often manifested in physical reactions. I hope that means that, once he's here, the spikes, the zone outs and the bad migraines will stop. And now that I've had some time to begin healing emotionally, maybe I'll be able to find the strength to help Jim with his guilt. Maybe if I can just get him to know I don't really blame him...

A huge yawn interrupts my train of thought. I glance at the time again -- it's midnight. I'm not used to keeping late hours any more. Jim'll probably be here in an hour or so...but I think...yawn... Think I'll just close my eyes for a little while.

Damn light's too bright...gotta switch it off...reach..uh...there. That's better. Just a little nap.

Close now. Almost there. Following Blair's directions, down the streets of Baltimore, looking for his apartment. My heart is pounding; I can almost hear it. My breathing is heavy; I keep wanting to inhale deeply, as if I can scent him. I'll have to be content with just seeing him though, and that can't take place until I get to his place, park and go knock on the door. It's late, but he told me he didn't mind, that whatever time I got in was okay with him. He needs to get up early to teach though; I wish I could have gotten in while it was still early evening.

There's the right street... now to find the block with his building...

I'm listening, listening hard -- what, am I crazy? I'm not going to be able to hear his heartbeat. I probably wouldn't hear him if he yelled my name.

There! 407 Park Avenue... there's a parking spot right in front. I slide the Suburban into it, my body going tense with nerves and anticipation. Taking a deep breath, I turn off the ignition and open the car door...

It's a beautiful day...the sun is shining... it's warm...I'm down at the beach. I look around, knowing Jim will be here soon. I can hardly wait to see him. We're going to have a wonderful day...

The sound of the waves catches my attention. I watch them, letting them soothe me. It's so comforting to see them endlessly rolling in and out. No matter what happens, nothing can ever stop them... unless the world ends...

The thought makes me a little uneasy but I try to shake it off...deciding it would be fun to walk in the waves. I take a step forward... the sand feels warm and soft under my bare feet. I wiggle my toes, flexing them through the sand. It feels good, like I'm a kid again... I glance down and notice a little shell near my right foot. I nudge it with my toe, flipping it over. It's broken and somehow that disappoints me.

Where's Jim? I turn, shading my eyes against the sun, but I still don't see him. He's bringing his surfboard. I've always wanted to watch him surf... maybe I'll try it myself, shoot the curl, hang ten...

"Jim? Where are you, man?" I say it softly. With his senses, he probably heard me, if he's listening. He is... I know he is...

I turn again, watch the waves, stroll down close to them so I can let the water wash over my feet and ankles. It's cool, foamy, wonderful.

"Jim!" I yell it this time, impatient for him to be here and play in the water with me...we could wrestle. I could grab him around the waist, like I did the time he was zoned on the red frisbee and the garbage truck almost hit him. "Jim!" I'll grab him around the waist, pull him off balance...knock him down, get him wet and mad so his eyes will flash blue fire at me. And then he'll grab me...

"Blair!"

The sound of his voice startles me, despite my anticipating hearing it. I turn sharply, twisting my body, stumbling, feeling off balance...

Ow! I open my eyes, barely awake, surprised to find myself out of bed and on the floor. Damnit, I hate when that happens. It's so damn hard to get back up again. Without my legs, there's no way to get any traction, any leverage. I flounder around, trying to get my bearings. Damn dream...more like a nightmare... I hate when I dream I have my legs...

"Let me help you, Blair."

The voice that breaks the silence of my room isn't the one I was hearing in my dream. It brings me fully awake with a chill running the length of my spine, I look around, awkward from my position on the floor.

"Bill?" I can't even comprehend what he's doing here. I'm more shocked than angry, more angry than scared. No, I am scared. Instinct tells me he's not here to be my guardian angel. "What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?" I demand, all my pent up anger at him in my voice.

"You fell out of bed," he says softly, taking the three steps needed to get in front of me. He looks down from his superior height, his legs appearing endless to me even though I know he's not more than about five ten.

"Yeah, I know," I answer dryly. "That doesn't answer my question. What are you doing here? How'd you get in?"

"You know, it's dangerous to leave your windows unlocked, Blair. Anybody could climb in through them. You wouldn't want to find a thief in your room in the middle of the night, would you? Lucky for you, I'm no thief." He smiled, but instead of making him look pleasant, it seemed to make him appear even more evil.

"Get out." My voice is a snarl. I try to glance at the clock, wondering where Jim could be. Shouldn't he be here by now? But to see the clock, I have to take my eyes off Bill.

In that split second, he kneels down over me. I can smell alcohol on his breath so I lean back further, the bed supporting me but preventing me from getting very far away from him.

"Let me help you back into bed." This time his voice is soft and pseudo-seductive.

It makes me want to barf. Or slug him. Maybe both. As his hands reach for me, I pull back, away, but slumped here on the floor beside the bed, there's no place for me to go. I'm conscious of being in nothing but my boxers and t-shirt.

Bill reaches out --

*

In the lobby of Blair's building, I look at the row of mailboxes, feeling odd when I read the scrawled "Sandburg" above the one for apartment number two. That belongs above my name at 852 Prospect, on the box for 307, doesn't it? Thinking of that, I feel an ache deep inside, part melancholy, part anxiety. He doesn't belong here. He belongs at home. I swallow down my emotions, trying to deny the hurt, since I know I'll see him in only a few moments.

His apartment is on the first floor, just down the hall. I take a deep breath, feeling like I'm walking the last mile in a hard journey, still not knowing what's waiting for me at the end.

Needing to be ready for whatever will happen when we see each other again, I stop a second, take a deep breath...wishing I could reach out with my senses, hear him, his heart, his breathing...smell his scent...

My head jerks to one side as blade of pain shoots through my temple. The spike is worse than any I've had in the past, palpable, burning, razor sharp. Through the blaze of agony it produces, my hearing and sense of smell seem sharp, online and fully functional. Blair's heartbeat is clear -- but pounding like a jackhammer. A sweat has broken out on his body, stinking of fear... no horror and loathing. What the hell?

I rush to his door, certain he's in danger. As I move, I can hear his voice, shaky and desperate.

"No! Don't you touch me, you creep!"

The pain in my head is unimportant, meaningless. There's nothing but Blair, needing me, clear as a picture. My hand's on his doorknob, twisting it savagely. It's locked. Frustrated, I slam my shoulder against it, cursing when it holds.

"Get off me, you sick fuck!"

His voice is louder now, angry. Enraged by the idea of someone in there, touching him, I take a step back, kicking in the door.

The door splits open with a crash. There's a startled yelp from Blair; my abrupt and loud entrance probably added to his terror. Worry about that later --

I look to the right, seeing the hall that must lead to the bedroom. I sense the man in there before I see him. And when I see him, on his haunches beside a recoiling Blair, his hands on Blair's body, everything goes white. Everything but the stranger.

In a stride I don't remember taking, I'm on him, grabbing him by the shoulders, his jacket half torn off as I rip him away from Blair and in the same move throw him against the wall. He staggers back, grappling with me to no effect, his weaselly face contorted in shock and outrage. He opens his mouth to shout a protest. I ignore it, my fist drawing back to slam into his face.

He sags in my grip and I pull him back up, shoving him against the wall. I can see every pore in his face, feel the leather of his jacket, the sweater underneath, the shaking of his body as he realizes my strength. His blood is literally running cold in his veins. With grim satisfaction, I pound my fist into his gut. He drops to his knees, struggling to get free.

I'm on him without let up, pummeling without mercy, one thought in my brain. You touched Blair, you touched Blair, you touched Blair and I'm going to kill you!

I'm zoning on the stink of fear that breaks out on the intruder. I can't see, I can't hear, I can't think. I can only lash out, over and over and over --

"Jim, please! Stop! You're gonna kill him!"

The voice that penetrates my hellish zone-out, desperate to reach me, is the one that sent me into this state of depravity. I let Blair's words register, slowing my punches as their meaning sinks in.

Stop. Killing him.

I can focus now and see on the floor a battered face belonging to a stranger, bloody from the blows I'm inflicting. The man's not moving, but I can see he's breathing.

Not dead. What Blair wants...

I turn, my eyes seeking Blair, starved for the sight of him. He comes into focus: real, not imagined, safe and unhurt. He's there, still on the floor, leaning awkwardly against the bed, his body crooked and uncomfortable looking. When I look at him, our eyes lock.

A deeper, more desperate hunger ignites in my soul. I move, barely breathing, every sense reaching out for him and I end up on my knees by his side. I reach for him, then hesitate. Only seconds ago, the intruder had his hands on him -- I can't do that to him now.

"Jim." His voice is so different now, not scared, not angry. Soft, only for me. Smooth, like a salve on my sensitized nerve endings. He reaches out, able to when I can't.

We're in each other's arms.

I gasp out my relief as I enfold him, careful, awestruck, pressing him gently to my heart, one arm around his back, the other higher so my fingers can slide into his hair. His arms go around me, squeezing so tight I can barely breathe. He was always the stronger of the two of us, though I don't think he knows it.

I could stay in his arms forever, but my brain is slowly coming back to normal, reality crashing back to fill in the gaps from when I wasn't thinking. I jerk as the reality hits, turning without fully letting go of Blair to see what I've done.

The intruder is sprawled on the floor, his bloody nose making a mess of his shirt and the floor. He's breathing. His heart is beating steadily. I can hear it...I can hear it?

I turn back to Blair, focusing my attention on the state of his heart. It's beating strongly, steadier than before but still fast. I gasp in shock, not fully understanding what my being able to hear it means. Is it just some residual effect from the spike? My imagination?

"You okay, Jim?" he asks, his voice like raindrops on the dry sand of my heart.

"Yeah, fine." I shrug off his concern. Whatever's going on with me isn't important. What's important is Blair. "Are you all right?" I ask, my voice tight with the need to know, my eyes looking him over for any sign of injury. "What happened?"

"I fell asleep waiting for you. I must have been dreaming or something...whatever, I fell out of bed. That's when I found him in here. He said he got in through the window."

"Have you ever seen him before?" He's shaky, looking as though the incident is just now sinking in.

"Yeah, I know him. He's Bill, the guy I fired, remember?"

The words hit me like a ton of concrete. "What happened before I got here?"

"He wanted...was trying to help me get back into bed." Blair's voice sounds chilled, disgusted, ashamed.

Unable to tolerate the sound, I stroke his cheek, my hand tentative and anxious. "Easy. It's all over."

Blair shook his head. "He's crazy, Jim. He's got some sick fascination with people who've lost limbs..." He glances away, his face reddening.

The thought is so repugnant it makes me shudder. Blair must have felt my revulsion because his hand rubs my shoulder, calming me slightly. I drift on the sensation.

"You beat him up pretty badly, I think," he says after a moment.

Pulled back to the present, I turn again to look, finding him still unconscious. "I should call the police, get them to handle this."

Blair's fingers tighten on my shoulder. "Do we have to? I mean, this is kinda... embarrassing."

"I want him locked up. You need to get a restraining order against this guy. We've got to report this." I hold his gaze. His eyes are so large, so blue...so vulnerable. It feels like I'm looking deep into them for the first time.

"I know," Blair sighs finally, his body sagging as he breaks eye contact. He rubs a hand over his face. "I'm glad you got here when you did."

"Me, too." I manage a smile and the one he answers with is like sunshine to me. I want nothing more than to bask in it, but there are things to do. "Let's get you up off the floor, okay?" I ask gently, hoping the offer doesn't make him feel more awkward.

"Yeah. I'm ready for that," he admits. "I really can't get up by myself," he says diffidently. "No way to get any leverage..."

His voice trails off and, in an effort to keep him from feeling any worse than he already does, I don't say any more. I get on one knee, grasping him under the arms, feeling the damp hair of his armpits against my hands. The sensation slithers through my being like pepper on my tongue. My palms are wet, my knuckles battered from punching Bill's face. I'm painfully conscious that Blair is in only his underwear and how that must have added to his humiliation at Bill's hands. He doesn't deserve to be treated like a piece of meat, shouldn't have to need this kind of help. It's all so damn unfair!

He notices the hitch in my breathing as I begin to lift. Our eyes lock in understanding and I nearly gasp at the overwhelming tenderness that rushes through me. Very carefully, handling him with the utmost care, I maneuver him back onto the bed, letting go as soon as he's able to take over, using his own strong arms to push himself back against the wall. He quickly pulls the tangled covers over his lower body.

I wasn't looking, couldn't look. Not at where his legs end now. Not at the plaid cotton boxers that cover him but reveal his vulnerability. I don't blame him for his newfound modesty. It makes him feel safe.

Once he is settled, I turn, making sure that Bill's still unconscious, then ask Blair where I can find the phone. He points it out on the desk across the room and I go pick it up, quickly dialing 911.

It's all over. All over... I try to keep telling myself that but I'm still shaking. I managed to get some clothes on while Jim was on the phone and I've moved into the living room area -- I couldn't stand staying in the bedroom where Bill is while we wait for the cops. Jim's standing at the bedroom door keeping an eye on Bill, who's still unconscious.

There's a knock at the door and a new wave of tension sweeps over me. I head for the door but Jim gets there first. I'm too upset to object to him doing that for me and he looks like he needs something else to do anyway. He lets the cops in.

There are two of them, a man and a woman. She introduces herself as Officer Michelle Watson, smiling and coming right over to me when Jim tells her this is my place. She looks young, maybe mid-thirties and has dark hair that's cut short, kind of spiky on top. Her partner is a black guy, Officer Joe McGrath. I realize it's the first time I've talked to cops in a long time. Remembering my friends from the Cascade P.D., I hope these officers will be as helpful. Trying to relax, I answer Officer Watson's questions as well as I can. Her partner accompanies Jim into the bedroom.

A few minutes later, paramedics arrive to check Bill out. I don't think this apartment has ever had so many people in it, at least it hasn't since I've been living here. This wasn't exactly the way I pictured Jim's arrival. He looks upset too and I'm sure something was happening with his senses while he was beating up on Bill and that he's not back to normal yet. He tries to shoot me reassuring glances as Officer Watson talks to me.

"What's your involvement in this?" she asks Jim after I've told her how Bill broke in through the window.

"I'm Mr. Sandburg's friend," Jim answers. "I just got in from Washington State -- just in time to keep him from being assaulted."

"So you're the one who beat up the intruder?" She looks pointedly at Jim's bloodied knuckles. "You couldn't have just called the police and let us take care of things?"

He reaches into his back pocket, producing his badge. "I'm a detective with Major Crimes in Cascade, Washington," he tells her softly. "I think you can understand how I felt when I came in and saw this man trying to assault Mr. Sandburg."

Officer Watson's whole attitude changes at that. Now she's talking to Jim on a cop-to-cop basis and I think things are going to be okay.

The paramedics finish with Bill, and Officer McGrath brings him out of the bedroom. He's holding a cloth to his face, muttering about how he intends to file charges against Jim for beating him up. I don't think the cops buy his story of stopping by here for a "visit". It's pretty clear they believe Jim and me, the unspoken bond that exists between cops no matter what their jurisdiction proving to be as real as it's always been. Maybe I should write a paper on that sometime...

"This guy'll live," a paramedic declares, approaching the woman officer talking to Jim. "I think he has a couple broken bones in his face though so we should take him to the ER for some x-rays."

"He broke my nose and probably my jaw!" Bill growls, his words muffled by the damage to his face. "He hit me for no reason -- he's crazy!"

"Mr. Bookman, we're putting you under arrest," Officer Michelle tells him while pulling out her cuffs. "We'll go along with you to the hospital and make sure you get those x-rays and any other medical care you need first." She snaps a cuff over his left wrist as her partner, Officer McGrath, reads Bill his rights.

Bill turns white with shock and starts to sputter more of his bullshit. Jim leans toward him threateningly.

"I'm going to get a restraining order against you to stay away from Mr. Sandburg," he tells Bill, who draws back in obvious fear of Jim's fury. "If I ever see you within a hundred yards of him again..." Jim doesn't finish his sentence; it's enough though. Bill suddenly shuts up.

"Are you sure you're all right, Mr. Sandburg?" Officer Michelle asks me again, coming over to where I'm sitting in my wheelchair. "The paramedics can take a look at you if necessary."

"No. I'm fine. I'd've taken a slug at Bill myself if Jim hadn't gotten here when he did." I glance over at him, grateful he downplayed the part about Bill having his hands on me when he came in, even though it made him seem to have been over-reacting to what looked like a burglar being in my apartment. I told the cops Bill was angry that I'd fired him and had no idea why he'd broken in except to bother me or to steal something.

"You'll be contacted about the charges against Mr. Bookman," she tells me. "If you're all right -- and if Detective Ellison here is okay too?" she continues, glancing over as Jim rubs his battered fist.

"I'll clean this up and it won't need anything more than a Band-Aid," he assures her.

Nodding, Officer Watson concludes, "Then my partner and I will be taking Mr. Bookman downtown." She smiles at me and then turns back to her partner. Officer McGrath takes Bill by the elbow and urges him forward.

I notice Bill glaring at me but he shifts his gaze when Jim steps between him and me, cutting off his view. A shudder runs through me again and I sag back in my chair, feeling chilled despite being fully dressed now in jeans and a sweater. My legs are throbbing; the phantom pain like a toothache you can't do anything about. Jim follows to see the group out of the building.

In a moment, Jim re-enters the apartment, coming quickly to my side. He hunkers down in front of me, his eyes alert to my condition.

"Are you all right?" he asks, with emphasis on the first word, as though he understands that I wouldn't have admitted otherwise in front of the cops and Bill.

"I will be." Swallowing down the emotion that seems to be washing over me in waves, I run a hand through my hair. I meet Jim's eyes, searching for some way to get back to normal. "Oh, by the way," I offer, smiling past the pain, "Hi. Welcome to Baltimore."

He looks surprised, then his expression blossoms into one of those beautiful smiles of his. My breath catches in my throat; it's been more than a year since I've seen him smile that way. "Hi," he nods back. "Seems like a nice place to live." There's a bit of irony in the statement.

"It is, most of the time. I've got nice neighbors here. Some of the other disabled people around here know Bill," I add somewhat shyly. "They told me he bothers the ladies on the women's wheelchair basketball team. A student of mine also told me he dated a girl who's an amputee last year." My stomach clenches. What made me bring Bill up again already? Jim isn't smiling any more.

"He won't bother you again, or anybody else if I have anything to say about it." Jim's voice is quiet, his hand on my arm gentle.

I nod, but can't say anything more about that subject for now. "How was your trip? You must be exhausted." I glance at my watch. "It's almost three o'clock."

"Is it that late?" Jim checks his own watch as though he can't believe what mine says. "I was going to bring in your stuff..."

"No, man, it's too late to think about that. Bring it in tomorrow when it's daylight and you've had some rest."

"Will it be safe out there all night?" he asks, going to the window to look out.

"I think so. As long as the truck is locked." Jim begins to pace the perimeter of the room, checking the window locks, his head cocked to one side as though listening for whatever might be out there in the street. "Jim?"

"Yeah?"

Seeing him in protective mode I finally feel myself starting to relax. "Come over here."

He looks at me, then approaches quickly, again getting down so he's on my level. "What?" he asks in concern.

"How did you know he was in here? I mean, we were way back in the bedroom."

Jim's gaze seems to unfocus and he puts a hand to his forehead, rubbing as though he has a headache. "I don't know. I just...heard voices." He glances away. "I knew you were in some kind of danger. I don't know how I knew...I just did."

"Was it your senses, Jim?" I can't raise my voice above a whisper.

The muscle in his jaw twitches and his eyes lock with mine. "It was like a spike," he offers, his voice husky. "Everything was there all of a sudden. I could hear you telling him to get away from you... "

"So you broke down the door..." I continue when his voice trails off.

"I'd better get that fixed." Jim abruptly changes the subject, striding back to examine the damage he did to the door. "I've got some tools in the truck," he offers after a moment and before I can say anything else, he's leaving to go get them.

Guess I'm not surprised things are going to be a little awkward between us for awhile. There's so much we need to talk about -- and so much that neither of us knows how to put into words. The thing with his senses... I'd like to talk about that, see what really happened -- if he knows. I think he was so overwhelmed by his protective instincts that he isn't even sure how much was enhanced and how much was normal. He was totally out of it there for a couple of minutes, not even hearing me when I was yelling at him to let up on Bill. Not that I didn't want the pleasure of seeing him beat Bill's face in, but I was afraid, really afraid for a minute, that Jim was going to kill him. He was like a machine, repeating the same motion over and over, just hitting and hitting, like all the anger and worry of the past year was coming out in this one incident.

The idea brings me up short. Maybe that's it. He's held it all in, the accident, saving my life, my rejecting him for it, my leaving... God, maybe now at least he can work through all of it, and maybe I can too.

He's back, paying more attention to the door than to his battered knuckles or me, getting out tools to reattach the strike plate to what's left of the doorjamb. I watch a moment, conscious of the tension in his back as he works. Every couple of minutes, he stops to rub at his head too. I take the time to really look at him, seeing that he doesn't appear well. He seems pale, and it's clear he's lost weight since I last saw him. I didn't realize my leaving would upset him that much. I mean, I knew he would be hurt, but I thought that in the long run it would help him too, not having to worry about taking care of me all the time, not being reminded all the time of what he did to save my life.

"That should do it," he says finally, turning after putting his hammer back in his toolbox. He glances toward me but his eyes slide away quickly as though he's half afraid to meet my gaze. He stands awkwardly by the door, looking more lost than I've ever seen him.

"Jim, come here."

He obeys instantly and this time kneels down in front of my chair. "I'll go out and get you a new lock tomorrow."

"You look exhausted." I want to say so much, but the words die in my throat. I lift my hand, letting my palm curve against his cheek. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too." His eyes look bright with emotion. There are lines around his eyes that I don't remember being there. My fingers slide up to circle at his temple and he closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

I'm almost afraid of the emotion between us. I can't handle much more tonight myself but I at least want to let him know that I believe things will work out, that I think our friendship is going to survive. "It's going to be okay, Jim," I whisper, hoping I don't need to put everything into words for him. "You're here. We can talk now, if you want to."

"I do want to." His voice is tight, strained, as though if he lets himself, all his feelings will show in it. The way he looks and sounds reminds me so much of how he was when we first met that I have to swallow down my own emotions before I start to get really sappy.

A bad twinge goes through my legs at that moment, further distracting me. "Mmnn."

"What's wrong?" Jim's once again in his protective posture.

"Nothing really." I move my hand from his face to my thigh, rubbing at it. "The usual." I try to act like it's nothing but he won't take that for an answer.

"It's bad, isn't it?" he asks, his intent gaze on me.

I shrug. "It's just the stress. With everything that's happened tonight, it was bound to start up. I'll get my pills... "

"Let me." His voice is needful. He gets up from the floor. "Where are they?"

"The bathroom medicine cabinet. The neurontin."

He turns to find them and I let him go, realizing he needs to be able to do something concrete to help me.

I roll into my bedroom, struggling out of my jeans and sweater, exhausted and wanting to sleep. Going through the motions of undressing about does me in and my arms are shaking by the time Jim returns with a glass and my pills.

"I took a minute to clean up my knuckles," he says as if in apology for taking more than a few seconds.

I heave myself from my chair to my bed and reach for the glass of water, taking a sip before I open the bottle for the pills. Swallowing two of them, I hand them back to Jim who puts them on the desk next to my bed.

"Will they work?"

"Maybe. It depends. They'll help a little, I guess. I just... this whole thing tonight really stressed me out." I don't want to let on how much it really has thrown me; I'd wanted to show Jim how well I'm doing, not how much of an invalid I still am.

"That's understandable," he nods, sitting beside me. He pauses a moment, then meets my eyes. "Isn't there anything else that can help the pain though? I mean, I know you've never wanted me to... do stuff for you but, would massaging them help at all?"

His voice is so deeply sincere that I can't meet his eyes. Maybe I shouldn't worry so much about looking weak in front of Jim. Who else has seen me at my worst -- and who but me has seen him at his worst too?

"Actually, it might." My voice is barely working. "If you wouldn't mind..."

"I don't mind." He reaches out, I turn, and for a moment we search for a way to position ourselves. Finally he urges me to lie back with my thighs across his lap. There's a hitch in Jim's breathing as he looks down at me and I shove aside my own embarrassment in an effort to help him. "I'm okay, Jim," I whisper, tugging at the legs of my boxers to move them up out of his way.

He clears his throat and after a second or two, puts his hands on my thighs, just resting them there, and I feel how warm his hands are. My eyes drift shut; this is Jim. I can trust him. His hands begin to move, careful with me, skilled, gentle. They squeeze and rub at my muscles, easing the tension, working out the knots, imparting his warmth. It feels better than I could ever have imagined. I wish there was some way he could ease the ache from the parts of me that aren't there any more, but this is still good.

"Do you still have the phantom pain?" he asks cautiously, as though it's too much of an intrusion.

"Yeah," I answer without opening my eyes. "It's there now. It's weird, man. Sometimes I get this sharp sting, right in my big toe, I could swear. It's so real."

"The nerves remember," he says. Then after a second, "Wish they could feel my massaging them the same way."

"Yeah." I open my eyes and he's looking at me, all his heartfelt wishes so clear in his gaze.

"Keep them shut," he says suddenly, "okay? I want to try something."

"Sure." I close my eyes again, waiting for him. I hear him take a breath, then his words come to me in a whisper.

"You can feel your knees and your calves, right?"

"Mmhmm. I sorta try not to -- "

"Feel them. Feel them now."

I can't ignore his whisper. "Okay..."

"Now feel my hands..." And they leave my thighs, seeming to move down.

"Jim -- "

"Keep your eyes closed, Blair? Please?"

"Okay," I agree again.

"Just feel..." He hesitates. "I'm rubbing your shins, your calves... easing the pain..."

"Oh, God..." I can feel it. It's amazing. His touch, his gentle, caring hands... it's like it's really there... and it feels so good. How can he do this?

His voice comes to me as a whisper sharing a secret. "When I had my senses, I could feel things before they touched me. I know... I remember, I mean... how it must be to have phantom pain." All his caring and deep desire to help me is plain in his voice.

He was a Sentinel... he's still my Sentinel. He saved me tonight, hearing what he shouldn't have been able to hear. And now he's taking my pain away, touching what nobody else is able to touch. I sigh, feeling such great relief at the easing of the pain I can't even speak. He's here, he's with me, we're together the way we were so often in the past, sharing what only the two of us could understand.

"I don't want you to hurt," he tells me, his voice still hushed. His hands are still moving, but not on my thighs. I keep my eyes closed tight, believing his hands are on my lower legs still, taking away the pain. It's pure bliss.

"It's working," I manage to gasp out. "Jim, it's working. You're doing it..." I push myself up on my elbows, a surge of adrenaline flashing through me, but I keep my eyes shut, determined that opening them will break the spell. "Oh, man... that's so good..."

"Shhh..." He's concentrating, I can tell, working, the way a Sentinel works, feeling what a Sentinel feels. Maybe he can feel my legs, maybe that's why I can feel his hands on them. Maybe, even with what both of us have lost in the last year, we're still tied together the way we've always been...

It's too much. Too much to believe, too much to hope for. I hear a choked groan from Jim and I can't help it, I open my eyes, not looking down though, looking at him.

What I see goes through me like a lance. His face, his beautiful face, is creased with pain, with such utter sadness it rips at my heart. There are tears on his cheeks, trailing silently down as he works so hard to make me feel better.

"Oh, Jim, no!" I push up, wrapping both arms around his neck, begging him not to cry, not for me. "You helped, you really helped the pain, man..."

His hands lift from my legs and wrench themselves around my back, clenching, clinging hard as though I might disappear at any second. "Blair -- " His voice is torn, desperate.

"I'm here," I tell him, not letting go, squeezing him tighter. "I'm here. I'm okay, Jim..."

"Blair, I'm so sorry," he gasps out, "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you this way. I never wanted you to be hurt. If there was anything else I could have done... "

"I know. I know... " I breathe the words out against his neck, my own tears breaking free. "I'm okay. I'm really okay. I'm gonna make it. I know I can now. It's all right. I'm really all right."

He groans again, his arms clenching tighter around me.

"It was hard. It was so hard, Jim, and I know I hurt you. I didn't mean to but I couldn't help it. I couldn't face it, I fell apart. I was weak and I couldn't let you know I didn't hate you. I didn't want to punish you... "

A hand goes up my back, into my hair, the fingers tangling in it. "You've never been weak. You're strong, you're so strong, but the things I've done to you -- "

"Jim, no. Don't go there. Don't pile on anything more. We both did what we thought was best, all along, all the time. We hurt each other, but there's always hurt in relationships, always hurt when there's love. You were my Sentinel, I was your guide, but there were no guidelines for the stuff we went through, nobody ever wrote down how we should be in the modern world. We both made mistakes, but that's all in the past."

"This isn't the past," he says and I know he means my legs. "This is permanent. I hurt you... I hurt you so bad... but I couldn't lose you, I couldn't watch you die and do nothing -- "

"I know, Jim. I know." I'm stroking his back, trying to soothe him. "And I didn't die, I'm here. You saved me. I'm alive and even though I thought I was sorry at first, thought I couldn't live this way, I was wrong. I'm going to make it, Jim. I'm better now, I'm so much better and I'll prove it to you, believe me. I don't blame you and I don't hate you, Jim. I love you!"

"Blair..." His voice is anguished, breaking, barely above a whisper. "I love you."

We cling together, closer than ever, no more distance, no more uncertainty. There's still hurt, but it's going to get better. We're talking now. It's going to be okay.

His arms are like iron around me. I don't think he'd let go if an earthquake happened. His breathing is ragged and my cheek's getting wet. His tears are still falling and I don't know how to stop them. Maybe I can't, maybe I shouldn't. Maybe he has to let go like this. He's held so much in, all his life. And I never let him talk about this, get his feelings out. Mine were so sharp, so immediate, I had no room to deal with his. But now I can and it hurts to see how much he's needed my forgiveness.

I let him hold me, taking my own comfort in his arms. It's so sweet, so good to feel those barriers between us falling. I've needed him so much. And I know I've hurt him. But as much as he couldn't help hurting me physically, I couldn't help hurting him emotionally. I think we can heal now, both of us, now that we're together again.

The tension in his arms finally eases, his breathing finally evens out. He doesn't let go or pull away, and I sense he can't look at me right now, not after letting go like this. I reach up to stroke the wetness from his cheeks.

"You must be exhausted," I say to him softly. "You need some sleep. We both do."

He shifts but I hold on to him. "I didn't bring your futon in... "

I realize there's no bed for him with the futon still in the truck and nothing but my daybed here. But it's okay. I don't think I want to be that far from him tonight anyway. And unless he's too embarrassed by his emotions, he'll understand.

"This is big enough. It's okay." I stroke the back of his head. "How's your headache, by the way?" I ask, just remembering it.

"It's gone," he tells me in a voice of awe, like he can't believe it. He leans into me closer a moment. "It's been there so long, since you left..."

"I'm sorry."

He hugs me close as though to stop me from saying that again and I pat his shoulder, finally letting go and moving my thighs off his lap. My pain is gone for now too. I just want to sleep...and stay close to him.

His eyes are shadowed by dark circles. I help him out of his jacket, suddenly surprised to find him still wearing it. He leans down to untie his shoes and toe them off, then pulls his sweater off over his head, revealing a gray t-shirt underneath. He settles back, making no move to undress further. I lie down too, settling beside him, tugging the bedclothes out from under me to cover up. He helps, pulling the blanket up over my shoulders.

"Hey, you need some covers too. It gets cold in here by morning."

He sighs, pretending to be put upon, and rearranges his legs, managing to get them under the covers. "I don't want to crowd you," he says diffidently.

"It's okay. I'm not uncomfortable." I meet his eyes and try to let him know how okay with me this is, how I have no other expectations or needs, just to be close to him.

He seems okay with that too. The essence of our relationship has always been like this, pure friendship, pure touch, simple caring, and it feels so good to have it back again.

Jim puts an arm around me, drawing me close, spooning himself against my back. I can feel his jeans against the backs of my thighs and know his knees are slightly bent; it's as if his legs are completing mine. It's hard to sleep sometimes, there's no way to get into the position I used to sleep in, with my legs bent together. I've missed that. God, I can hardly believe it. Nothing hurts right now. Everything's good. Jim's here, fixing things even he didn't know he could fix.

"'Night, Jim," I tell him, even though it's almost morning. At least I don't have an early class.

"'Night, Blair," he whispers, nuzzling into my hair at the back of my neck, sounding contented.

I'm content too, and I'm drifting to sleep....

I'm used to waking with pain, in my head, in my heart. I wake to another day of emptiness, of hopelessness... I resist waking from a sleep I only find in the hours when light is beginning to break over the city, the fatigue in my bones, in my soul...I try to sleep in the dawn but I gradually wake to the headache that's always with me.

Something's different... I'm waking... but something is gone... still half asleep, I'm trying to figure out what...

It's my headache. It's gone. Its absence startles me. I've grown so used to it I thought it was part of me, nagging always, like my grief and my shame for hurting...

Blair...

Am I dreaming? Is my headache gone? Am I close to him or is that something I've dreamed?

Holding my breath, I allow my eyes to open.

Oh God...it's not a dream.

He's next to me. Right here. He's on his back, still asleep, breathing softly. His hair is draped over my arm, his head right next to mine on the pillow. His eyelids are closed, his lashes moving slightly as he dreams, his face soft in slumber. God...I lie here looking at him, drinking him in, letting the sweet, sweet sight of him fill my starving soul. He's like a breeze in the jungle, water in the desert, warmth from the sun. My friend. My Blair.

Last night rushes back to me, first the danger and fight with that guy that broke in and tried to harm Blair, then the aftermath, what took place here in his bed. He let me hold him, let me touch him. I think I helped him, soothed him... I broke down, all the pain and regret... but he said -- said he was going to be okay, that he didn't hate me, didn't blame me... God, can that be true? Can he mean that? He looks good, so much better than he did the last time I saw him, like he feels better, stronger. He looks like Blair again.

I can't stop looking at him, cataloguing his features, that turned-up nose, those full, soft looking lips, those sculpted cheekbones, that vulnerable throat. His hair, so untamable, curls spilling freely everywhere, catching the sunlight that's sneaking in the window. Holding my breath, I reach out, my fingers lifting one lively strand that instantly curls around my fingertip. He doesn't wake and I stroke the curl, closing my eyes to appreciate its silkiness.

He's real, not a vision, not a dream. My heart swells with all the feelings I have for him, feelings without names, needs without direction, but I'm untroubled. I'm next to him and for the moment, that's enough. I can live on this for a long time, this and the words he said to me last night...

"And I didn't die, I'm here. You saved me. I'm alive and even though I thought I was sorry at first, thought I couldn't live this way, I was wrong. I'm going to make it, Jim. I'm better now, I'm so much better and I'll prove it to you, believe me. I don't blame you and I don't hate you, Jim. I love you!"

Dear God, did he really say that? Or was that dreamed, some fevered fantasy I concocted out of my empty hopes? I've told him before I was sorry. I've heard him say before that he didn't blame me, that he didn't hate me... but never with such conviction, never along with saying he was wrong when he thought he couldn't live any more. He said he was going to make it, that he's better now... and he said... he said he loved me.

I don't know what's more overwhelming, the idea that he believes he can make it, that he doesn't wish he was dead, or that he said he loved me.

I know what he meant. He meant he cares about me, meant he believes in our friendship, our relationship, that despite the pain of the past and everything we've both lost, we can still have that relationship. It's more than I deserve, more than I ever dreamed we could have, so I'm not going to think about other dreams now. I love him, in all the ways he means and more... but I know he's not ready or able to even think in those terms now. I'm not really either. This new safety close to him is too delicate, too fragile. I don't want to ask him for anything more than he can give at this moment. Anything more isn't on the table. Besides, I'm no good at the anything more stuff anyway. Blair's love is the world, the whole universe and I'll cherish whatever he can give me. I'll cherish him. I'll protect him better in the future. I'll do anything to make him happy, to keep him safe, to try to make up for what I took away from him.

He shifts slightly, his lips parting as a little frown pulls at their corners. I'm instantly on alert, concerned about him hurting, uncomfortable, crowded here with me in his bed. I've gotta get up, get his stuff in here, can't take up his space like this... But God, this is sweet, this is so good, being here next to him like this, like everything in the world is all right.

"Jim?"

His voice is sleep-fogged, his eyes are open and so blue they tug at my heart. They look into mine, full of questions, but not anguished, not hurting.

"Blair..." It's all I can manage. Without thinking, I pull him closer, resting my forehead against his, filling my lungs with his scent, trying to cover the embarrassing tremor that washes over me. I thought I got out all my pent up emotions last night, but it seems I'm still shaky. I feel his hand come up and stroke the back of my head and I let the comfort float through me. It's going to be okay. It's morning. I'm here with him. It's okay.

"Did you sleep all right?" he's asking, his voice modulated and deep.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"How's your head?"

I swallow, trying to get a grip before he thinks I've lost my mind. "It's fine. No headache." I draw back a little to meet his eyes and find them smiling, crinkling at the corners like I just gave him a present. I smile back, all my shakiness dissipating. "You're better than Advil."

He grins, tapping my forehead lightly with his knuckles. "How about your fist?"

I roll my eyes, lifting my bandaged hand to look at it. "Now that's a different story." It aches, but I've felt worse. "It'll be all right. Besides, it was worth it."

Blair chuckles. "I'll go along with that. I wonder how Bill's feeling this morning."

"Like he can't decide what's worse, having a broken face or being locked up in jail, I hope." I smile at him, content to let him take the lead in conversation.

"Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy." Blair pauses a moment, then changes the subject. "What time is it?"

I lift my arm to read my watch. "A little after ten. Do you have a class this morning?"

"Not 'til noon, but I'd better get up. Takes me awhile to get ready." He uses his arms to push himself up to a sitting position. "You need the bathroom before I go shower?"

"Yeah, actually." I realize my bladder's been sending me signals, so I shift carefully, not wanting to touch him someplace I shouldn't as I swing my legs over to get out of bed. Blair seems comfortable though, not embarrassed or shy next to me; maybe he is feeling better these days. I head for the bathroom and do what I have to, checking my bruised knuckles and applying some Neosporin I find in his cabinet before putting on a new bandage, returning quickly to let Blair get in the shower.

He's in his chair when I return, having pulled his t-shirt off, his hair more mussed than ever, his boxers not hiding his injuries from my sight. I freeze up, confronted with his reality in the light of day.

He glances up and immediately knows what's wrong with me. "Jim..." He wheels over. "What's wrong, man? You saw this last night, touched me last night... " He reaches out to take my hand. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

Numb, I nod, dragging my gaze away from his limbs to his face.

"I meant what I said, Jim. I'm okay. I don't wish I was dead any more. This is who I am. Maybe it's not the greatest, but I can live with it. And if I can, you can too."

"Blair -- " How can he look at me? How can he want to be friends with me? I turn my face away, unable to accept his forgiveness.

He pulls hard on my hand and I end up crouching in front of him. "Jim, look at me."

How many times have I obeyed his voice? I can't ignore it now. I meet his eyes.

"No," he says, "I said look at me." And he takes my hands, both of them, and places them on the ends of his legs. "You've seen this before. You've touched this -- last night you touched this and you touched what isn't here any more too. It's no different this morning."

I look down and my breath rushes out of me in a groan. I can't look away, can't take my hands off him, though all I want to do is propel us both back in time to before the accident happened so I could do something else, save the truck, save the bridge, save him, save us.

"Maybe you didn't understand last night," he says softly. I thought I had; until this moment, I thought I had, but I can't believe, can't accept... "Jim," he repeats with gentle urgency, "listen to me." His hands caress my own as they rest on the place where his knees used to me. "Last night I said I didn't hate you. I said I didn't blame you. I said I'm not sorry I'm alive. Right? You heard me say that, didn't you?"

"Yes..." The word rasps out of me.

"And I said I love you, didn't I? And you said you love me."

This time I can only nod. My eyes are starting to burn.

"Well," he continues, "I forgot to say one other thing. Are you listening to me?"

I nod once more. He leans forward, his hands still holding mine on his legs, his eyes seeking my gaze. "Thank you, Jim."

I don't understand. My mouth drops open but I can't speak.

"Thank you. I never said that before, man," Blair's saying, all his earnest vitality in the words, in his eyes. "Thank you. You didn't let me die. You saved my life. You didn't listen to me when I told you to give up. I know what that cost you and I've been an ungrateful son of a bitch for not -- "

I cover his mouth with my hand, stopping his words. "Don't you ever say that," I tell him, my voice harsher than I want it to be. "I'm -- "

Blair's hand moves to my mouth. "No. Don't you ever say that again," he orders. "Don't you ever apologize to me for saving my life again. Got it?"

My mouth works but nothing comes out. Finally I swallow. "Uh... okay." I'll try. I'm not sure I can keep a promise like that.

"Okay," he goes on, mock sternness in his tone. "I mean that. Stop saying you're sorry. I'm sorry too. I left Cascade and came out here to move on, so I could get a grip on what my life has become. It's starting to work and I can't go backwards. I don't want you to keep apologizing to me, I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I'm done feeling sorry for myself and you have to be too."

I'm shaking again. "But... every time I look at you, I see... I know what I've done..."

"You saved my life. That wasn't wrong of you, it wasn't selfish or weak or whatever else that mixed-up brain of yours has been telling you all this time. That's what I want you to see when you look at me, Jim. See me here, alive. Nothing else."

He takes both my hands again and again places them on his legs. "Close your eyes, Jim. What do you feel?"

A shudder runs through me. He can't be asking that... But I can't ignore his wishes in this. I feel carefully, with the palms of my hands, glad for once that my senses are only normal.

"What do you feel?" he whispers. "You don't have to tell me out loud. Just feel and understand."

Freed from the need to speak, I relax a bit and try to comprehend what he wants of me. I feel smooth flesh, solid muscle, firm bone... and he doesn't flinch in pain... and I don't feel scars or mutilated tissue or crushed bones. They've healed and he's healing. He wants me to heal too. My heart starts pounding.

I look down and softly let my hands caress him there, still wishing it hadn't had to be this way, but grateful, so grateful for his precious life and for the chance to get back our friendship.

"Okay?" he breathes. He's letting me off the hook still, understanding I can't find words at the moment.

"Okay," I agree. I swallow the enormous lump in my throat. "Thank you." It's just a whisper, all I can get out, but he knows, he understands.

"Okay, then," he grins, breaking the tension, "get outta my way, man. I've gotta get ready for class."

I stand abruptly, my head nearly spinning with the enormity of what just transpired but as eager as he is to return to some kind of normalcy. "I'll... go start some coffee," I offer. "You do have a coffee pot around here, don't you?"

"Yeah, I've got one." He grips the wheels of his chair and starts forward. I move over to let him pass, watching the play of strong muscles in his shoulders as he propels himself into the bathroom. Shaking my head, I turn for the kitchen.

Oh my God. I sit here in the bathroom, hands clenched on the sink, taking deep breaths. I can't believe what I just said to Jim.

"This is who I am. Maybe it's not the greatest, but I can live with it. And if I can, you can too"?

And the rest...

"Thank you. You didn't let me die. You saved my life. You didn't listen to me when I told you to give up. I know what that cost you and I've been an ungrateful son of a bitch for not -- "

I can't believe I said those things -- I'm not sure I believe them myself. Why on earth did I say them to Jim?

I know. I said them because he needs to believe them. He's been carrying so much guilt about what happened. The hurt in his eyes is worse than the phantom pain in my legs. Now all I've gotta do is believe them myself.

Can I do that? Have I really convinced myself that it's okay to live like this? That I accept myself as a man without legs, an amputee? That I believe that this is better than being dead?

Of course it's better than being dead. I've been sure of that for awhile now. And there could be worse things -- I could have lost my eyes, could have lost the ability to think, to use my brain... to communicate... that would be worse. I may be... less than what I was before, but it is better than the alternative, better than being dead. And if I'm glad I'm alive, I know I owe Jim my thanks, my gratitude for keeping me alive despite... despite everything.

I believe it then. So I can help Jim believe it. If I'm okay with being alive this way then he can be too.

I just don't know if I'm going to keep feeling this way, every single hour of every single day. Sometimes, it's just so shitty to not be able to walk, or to run up the steps of a building, to have to allow enough time to get where I'm going, to not be able to drive without getting special controls for the car, to not be able to reach even as high as I used to be able to. It's shitty to have the kind of pain I've gone through in the last year -- and to know that it's going to come back, despite the good Jim's massage did me last night. Dear God, help me... help me to believe this is okay as much as I can. I can't keep hurting Jim, seeing how hurt he is, because this is what happened to me. There's only one way to stop all the hurt. That's to believe that I'm going to be okay like this and to make Jim believe it too. God help me to believe it. Please...

Taking a deep breath, I move to the shower and turn it on.

Finished, I emerge from the bathroom, noticing the smell of coffee brewing, mixed with some other aromas. Jim must be cooking. I smile, thinking how cool it is to have him here, that things have been going so well. I hurry to get dressed and gather my papers and books for class.

I check the time as I come rolling out of the bedroom. It's only eleven so I have an hour before class. Jim sticks his head out of the kitchen, smiling when he sees me. That smile of his... god, I can't believe what it does for me to see that smile. It's irresistible. I can't do anything else but smile back at him.

"You hungry?" he asks, looking hopeful.

"Sure am," I answer, wheeling into the kitchen to see what he's managed to whip up. Jim looks pleased with himself and I can't help teasing him. "You know, these courtship rituals you're trying don't necessarily mean I'm going to forget about you breaking my door down last night."

"Courtship rituals, huh?" he asks, his voice low and light. "Hey, we've both gotta eat, don't we? And I'll fix the door this morning."

"This looks great, Jim." I pull up to the table and find that he's cooked bacon and eggs for me, along with toast that he's already buttered. It gives me a warm feeling to have something to eat that I didn't fix myself and Jim's a decent cook. I pick up my fork and dig in as he sits beside me and starts in on his own plate.

"So, you have class today at noon, right?" he asks after swallowing a mouthful. "When are you finished today?"

"I have a second class at two and then office hours until four-thirty."

"That doesn't sound too bad," he observes, sipping his coffee. "How do you usually get to class?"

"My wheels, man," I answer as nonchalantly as possible, gesturing at my chair. "It's not far and it only takes me about ten minutes. We're pretty close to the campus and my classes are in the first building we come to. My office is in the same building."

"I was thinking I could walk with you and then come back here to unload the truck. I can have most of your things set up here by the time you're done."

"Jim -- you don't have to do everything. I'm capable of helping... "

"I know." He puts his fork down and looks at me. "I'm not trying to say you aren't capable." He glances away as though embarrassed.

"It's okay," I tell him quickly, reaching to cover his hand with my own. "I didn't mean to act like you were. Just, let me help okay? I know you -- you'll drag everything in here and think it has to be all put in order immediately so you'll go to too much trouble instead of letting me put things where I want to put them."

"I don't plan on color-coding the leftovers," he says, his gaze moving to my hand on top of his.

"Okay, as long as you don't do that," I chuckle. "Look, you're probably still exhausted from the drive. Take it easy this afternoon, okay? Don't do too much."

"I won't. Tell me where I can find a hardware store and I'll get the door fixed though."

"I think there's a Home Depot in the shopping center that's a couple blocks away. You can ask directions at the anthro building. Not driving, I don't get out to that many places."

"In that case, we'll take a few drives around town while I'm here," he responds. "That way you'll get to know some more of the city. If you want to, that is."

"That sounds great." I take a breath. "I know I wasn't much for getting out when I was back home, but that's changed, Jim. You don't have to be all reticent or anything with me now."

He smiles again, this time a little less broadly as when he saw me coming down the hall, but still genuinely. "You really are doing better here, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I am. I've had a lot of time to think. And like I told you, I'm going to be okay."

"That's good, Blair. That's really good." He smiles again, then attacks his scrambled eggs as though he needs to break the emotional tension.

I watch him fondly for a second, then return to my own breakfast.

Getting to class today is so much different than when Bill used to walk me there -- I feel so good having Jim at my side. He just walks along, letting me push the wheels myself, adjusting his pace to mine without appearing to, and commenting on things he notices in the area as we go. He seems enthusiastic about my getting back into teaching and there's nothing he says that makes me feel less than what I am. I find myself noticing more around me too, since I used to feel so uncomfortable about myself and with Bill that I kept my head down a lot while traveling.

Today, instead, I'm looking around eagerly, pointing out stuff to Jim, looking for my students, feeling proud of what I've accomplished in getting my new job and new place to live.

"Mr. Sandburg!"

The shouted greeting that would have made me nervous in the past is one I welcome now. I grin and look around, recognizing the voice as my student, Sherry's. I wait up as she wheels our way from the parking lot next to the building.

"Hi, Sherry," I greet her as she gets close. "Good to see you."

She beams at my welcome and then looks up curiously at Jim.

"This is my friend Jim Ellison from Cascade," I tell her. "Jim, this is Sherry Armstrong, one of my best students."

Sherry blushes. "You don't have to say that, Mr. Sandburg." A little hesitantly, she extends her hand to Jim.

He takes it with a gallant smile, charming her quickly. "Good to meet you, Sherry. This is my first trip to Baltimore."

"Oh, you'll love it," she tells him enthusiastically. "There's so much to do here. The Inner Harbor, the National Aquarium, museums, sports... We're close to the new stadium, so it's too bad the Ravens season is over, but there's indoor soccer, all kinds of things. You look like you like sports," she concludes, winding down.

"We both do," Jim responds, glancing down to see my response. "Right?"

"Oh yeah," I answer, thinking of the wheelchair basketball team. I'll have to tell Jim about that tonight, I guess. I glance at my watch. "Looks like it's about time for class."

"I'll see you inside," Sherry nods. "Nice meeting you," she tells Jim, some of her shyness returning as he smiles at her.

Jim and I wait a moment while she passes by, then I look up at him. "She had bone cancer," I offer when I'm sure she's out of earshot, explaining her amputation.

Jim nods, looking solemn. "That's too bad." His hand comes to rest on my shoulder.

"You know, early in the semester, she came to the office to tell me she admired me. I didn't even know what she meant at first," I sigh, remembering those days when I felt I was doing nothing special, when I couldn't imagine how she could find me any kind of a role model.

Jim's fingers tighten on my shoulder. "I admire you."

I look up. His eyes are serious, full of truth. I swallow hard. All my emotions seem right on the surface this morning, intense and crisp as new bills from the bank.

"You better get to class," Jim says after a moment when he realizes I can't say anything.

"Oh yeah." Hastily, I start moving again, glad to have to push my chair wheels rather than come up with something to say at the moment.

Jim leaves me at the door to my classroom, after I point out my office location to him, telling me he'll be here to pick me up at four-thirty. I roll into class, feeling happy to face my thirty students, grinning first at Sherry and then at the whole group of them.

Pulling out their graded essays, I start the class.

I look around Blair's small apartment, realizing I've pretty much filled up any empty spaces that had been in it before I started unloading the truck. I'm tired and I think I pulled a muscle lugging the futon frame in here, but it all fits in pretty well. I sat up the futon in the living room since there wasn't a couch -- I'm not sure about that idea though. Blair might prefer having the futon in the bedroom since that's really his bed. If he wants, I'll move the daybed out here. I really shouldn't sleep on the larger bed if he'd like to be able to use it again; that's the bed he was used to, after all.

A look at my watch shows me it's four o'clock. It'll be time to go pick Blair up soon. I'm glad of that. My headache is starting to come back. I didn't think it would bother me any more but it started up shortly after I left him today.

I'm not sure what that means, if anything. I thought they happened because he left, because without his grounding presence my body reacted that way, despite my senses not being operational anymore. Since the headache went away when I was finally with him again, I didn't think that being just a few blocks apart was going to bring it back.

I felt so much better with him... maybe I shouldn't try to figure it out. Senses or not, there have always been unexplained aspects to our relationship, things I long ago stopped questioning.

He'll question though, try to figure out what's going on with my senses. Well, the box with all his books and notes and papers on sentinels is on the desk in his bedroom, all ready for him if he wants to look at them. I put it there, along with that envelope that Taggert wanted me to give him right on top of it.

I glance at my watch again; it's quarter after four, time to go get him. As I get up to retrieve my jacket, I feel anticipation flooding over me. It's only been a few hours, but I've missed him. Hurrying out the newly repaired door, I head off down the street toward the campus and his office.

It doesn't take long to get there. I head down the hall and find his office door standing open. He's alone inside. I peek in and he looks up.

The smile that breaks across his face is beautiful and I smile back, relief washing over me like it did last night when I realized he was okay, that I was with him again. I move forward, needing to get closer, to touch him. I put my hand on his shoulder and he turns his head to look up at me, his smile broadening. His hair brushes over the backs of my knuckles.

"Good day?" I ask.

"Yeah, but I'm glad it's over," he says, pushing back from his desk. "I'm all set." He grabs his backpack and looks at me. "How about you?"

"Well, the door's fixed and the stuff is unloaded." I hold up a hand, forestalling any complaint. "And yes, I left stuff for you to do." It feels so good just to be with him, to be able to tease and smile. My head feels fine now, the headache having faded immediately upon seeing him.

"Good." He grins and together we head out of the office and toward his apartment.

The sun is shining, the air feels fresh and warm and I feel fine.

When we arrive at his apartment, Blair wheels inside enthusiastically, remarking on everything I've arranged as he looks around. He seems pleased.

"I put the futon in here," I point out, still feeling awkward about the choice. "There wasn't that much room in the bedroom."

"Yeah, I was wondering if it'd open out all the way if I put it in there," he says, nodding agreement. "It's fine in here. Looks like a couch and you can open it out tonight."

"If you want to sleep on it, that's fine," I tell him.

He glances up at me through messy curls and doesn't answer.

"I put the box with your research papers in your room on the desk." I figure changing the subject is appropriate. "Oh, there's an envelope there too. Something Joel wanted me to give you."

Blair's head comes up at that and his eyes look wide and worried. "What?"

"Taggert handed me a manila envelope for you just as I was about to leave Cascade," I explain. "Told me he wanted you to have it."

Blair's face seems to pale. "Did...did he tell you what's in it?"

"No." I try to gauge what he's feeling but I can't. "He told me not to look inside."

Blair's tense posture seems to ease when I tell him that. Whatever's in the envelope is something neither he nor Taggert want me to see, apparently. I can respect their wishes, though it does worry me a bit.

"Well, go check it out if you want to," I offer. "I was going to see if you needed anything from the store for dinner."

"It can wait," Blair says quickly, turning from the direction of his room. "Could we go out?"

"For dinner?" He hasn't suggested that in ages. "Sure. My treat."

"Should be mine, since you took this whole long trip to come out here with my stuff and spent the whole day lugging it all inside."

"You can get the next one." I put my jacket back on and nod toward the door. "You ready?"

"Yeah." His expression smoothes out as though he's put whatever Taggert sent out of his mind. "I would just love a nice big steak."

"I think I saw an Outback on the way in o town," I respond.

We're back home. Even now, three hours after getting home, my stomach is stuffed with steak and baked potato and all the Outback trimmings. Jim and I had a good time; it's been over a year, I guess, since we went out to dinner together. The food was good and the company... well, it couldn't have been any better.

We talked. I told him about my classes and he filled me in on some of his recent cases, adding a few stories about the gang at Major Crimes. Now that we're back in my apartment though, I start to feel as though we should talk about more serious things.

Like Jim's senses. Something definitely happened with them last night. He heard Bill in my bedroom, heard me speak to him. He's been having spikes and things that resemble zone-outs since I left Cascade. I never thought his senses would be gone forever...

"Jim," I begin tentatively, "about last night... you did hear voices inside my apartment, didn't you?"

He looks uncomfortable. "Yes. But you were getting pretty loud."

"Uh-huh," I agree, but there had to be something more. "But... didn't you say you felt you knew I was in danger? What was happening?"

He paces across the room. "I don't know, Blair. I did sense something... I felt... I don't know how to describe it. I wasn't analyzing it though -- I was just reacting. I knew you needed my help. I could hear every word, but... "

"What? But you don't think that means your senses are coming back?"

"It's been a year. Yeah, it was like they were working last night but... today they're back to normal. Nothing heightened."

"Jim, they went away other times and they always came back."

He shrugs. "This is different, I guess." His look is pained, like he expected more. Like he's chastising himself for that desire.

"How is it different?" I press, wheeling closer to him. "You lost them at times when you were emotionally upset. That's why you lost them this time too. And they've stayed away longer, I'll give you that, but this was... a bigger emotional trauma. But things are getting better now. I'm feeling better, I'm doing better. We've been really talking. You know I don't blame you and I'm not mad at you and I don't hate you. It's only natural that they'd start to come back now."

He shakes his head, his face looking panicked. "No. I'd know. I'd feel... something. But they're gone. And anyway, last night I didn't know for sure how you felt, so that doesn't explain anything. Just because you're adjusting doesn't mean... I don't..."

"What?" my voice gentles, "You don't think you deserve to get them back?"

Looking miserable, all Jim can do is shrug. He doesn't look at me.

I slide closer to him still, reach out to clasp his hand. "Jim, think about it. You've had spikes. You've had zones. You heard me last night. I think your senses could come back. These episodes can't be anything else. But you're blocking them. You've got to focus on them, not push them aside because you don't think it would be okay to have them again."

He turns, but not before I see his eyes are full of emotion. "It's not okay." His voice is nothing but a whisper.

"Yes, it is," I whisper back.

"But you lost... "

"I know -- "

"And you can't get them back," he rushes on. "You can't get your legs back. I caused that to happen. Whether it was the only thing that could be done, whether you forgive me or not, I caused it to happen. My senses... are just the price I had to pay."

"No... " As painful as it is for him to say, it hurts me to hear the words, to relive those moments underwater. "I'm not exacting that price."

"I am." There's something too final in his tone.

"Jim, it's a gift. It's something you were born with. You know that. You can't turn your back on your senses."

He pulls his hand out of mine and turns away. I can see the tension in his back. He tries to suppress a shudder but I see that too.

"You should try," I venture.

He doesn't move, doesn't react.

"Jim... " I sigh, understanding his dilemma but wanting to fully absolve him of his guilt. "I can help you. Remember when Incacha died? He gave me the way of the shaman. I helped you find your spirit animal then and you got your senses back."

He turns back, his face seeming to carefully suppress his feelings. "I haven't seen the panther in all this time," he admits. "I don't think it's ever coming back either."

"We could go look for it together," I offer, reaching to take his hand again.

He looks down and lifts my hand up, twining his fingers through mine, bringing his other hand to clasp over our joined ones. "We have this," he chokes out. "This can be enough."

"Being friends?" I lean forward, trying to catch his eye. "That's a good thing too, Jim, but we've always been more than that. You're a Sentinel. I'm your guide. We can't run away from that."

"We didn't run away." As if without his intending to, his eyes move to what's left of my legs. Then, paling, he turns his face away again. "I'm sorry."

"Jim, will you stop saying that?" He can be so irritating, such a damn fool sometimes. "I'm sorry. What if... what if losing your senses wasn't some price you paid, but a reaction to the way I felt about the accident? You lost them before when you were emotionally upset, when you felt guilty about things. I kept you feeling that guilt, intentionally or not, because I was so depressed and had such a hard time accepting things. But that's changed now. I keep telling you that, but you don't seem to believe me."

"What?" he asks. "It's proof I don't believe you if my senses don't automatically leap back into action?"

"I didn't say that. Every other time, we had to work at it, to allow them to come back. You were repressing them and you had to stop doing that and it was never easy. I'm just saying, don't close the door on them altogether. Let's work at it. I think they could come back... I think they should come back." I squeeze his hand. "They're part of you. You can't repress them for the rest of your life."

He doesn't answer, but his eyes stay on our clasped hands.

"You're a Sentinel, Jim. It's what you're meant to be. It's what your life is all about, protecting your tribe, so to speak." He looks about to speak. "And cut out that crap about not protecting me. I'm alive, aren't I? You did protect me. You saved me. And even the way I am now, I can still be your guide." At the last, my voice begins to falter. "Is that is? You don't think a guide with no legs can help you?"

He moves abruptly, bending down, releasing my hand to grasp both my shoulders. "No, Blair. God, don't even think that. You're my guide. You'll always be my guide. Whether I have Sentinel senses or not, you're my guide." He pulls me into an awkward hug. He groans as though in physical pain.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders. "Okay... " I soothe. "It's okay." He trembles against me. "Are you hurting, Jim?" I ask softly. "Is it your headache?"

He nods. "It kinda came back this afternoon. It started up again after I left you at class."

Amazed that happened -- and amazed he admits it -- I stay silent, thinking. We're connected, closer than we ever thought. It makes me more sure than ever that his senses are meant to return. But perhaps I shouldn't push it.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to him, stroking his head. "Just relax."

He draws in a breath, letting it out in a sigh. We stay like we are for a long moment, until finally the crouched position becomes uncomfortable to him and he pulls back, standing up. He looks at me, seeming a little embarrassed.

"Okay now?" I check. He nods. "Let's go sit down, huh? Maybe watch some TV?"

Jim rubs a hand over his face, which is regaining its color. "You must be tired," he says, changing the subject.

"I am, a little." Now that I'm not so focused on him, I can feel my legs hurting, the way they usually do this time of day.

"Are you in pain?" he asks, and I realize I've started rubbing my thighs.

A little sheepishly, I nod. "Yeah, some."

His eyes focus intently on mine. "I could rub them for you again." His offer is shy, his voce rough.

All I can do is look into his eyes. They're the most beautiful blue I've ever seen. "Okay." It's the only word I can manage to get out.

Within moments, we're on the daybed again, me stretched out across Jim's lap, his warm hands gently massaging my legs. Like some kind of magic, the warmth flows into me, lifting my aches away, relaxing me utterly. I close my eyes, lying there with him in silence, one arm thrown up and across my face. Jim doesn't say a word but gradually, the massage changes, once again somehow soothing the phantom ache in my calves and ankles and feet. I start to drift, feeling sleepy, peaceful.

With a sigh, Jim finishes and I feel his hands resting on my bare thighs. There's a reverence in his touch, and his devotion makes my heart swell with feeling for him. I want so badly for him to be the Sentinel again. Maybe, maybe if he gets used to me being better, to my acceptance of what he did...

He starts to move, but I don't want the connection between us to break. Yet I can't speak. I don't know what to say, what to do. Jim's hand gently smoothes through my hair, brushing it back from my forehead, then he slides out from under my legs and gets off the bed. I catch at his hand before he can leave.

Opening my eyes, I take in his face as he bends over me. He looks as though he's about to ask me if something's wrong. Nothing's wrong though, as long as I'm close to him.

Before I can speak, he bends down and I feel his lips, warm and infinitely gentle, press against my forehead in a wordless 'good-night.' He starts to turn away...

"Don't go," I whisper.

Our eyes meet, his questioning.

"Please?" I say.

He straightens, but only to pull his sweater over his head and lay it aside on my desk. Then he unbuckles his belt and undoes his jeans, stepping out of his shoes as he pushes the jeans down his legs. His eyes ask a question and I lift the covers for him. Carefully, he climbs in and over me to settle on the inside, against the wall like last night. To give him room, I roll to my side. He spoons against me again, one arm wrapped protectively around my waist. I can feel his legs against the backs of my thighs again and know I will sleep well again tonight. With a sigh, Jim's big body relaxes completely. Warm and secure, feeling all is right with the world, I let myself drift off.

*I'm in the forest, feeling the breeze that stirs the leaves like a caress on my skin. It's warm but dark, the sun filtering through small breaks in the foliage overhead. This is a good place. I'm safe here. I know this place. It is mine... *

All at once, I need to see it, be part of it. I start to move, slowly at first, then gaining speed. I'm running, feeling the power and strength of my body, the muscles of my legs pumping, flexing effortlessly. I'm looking for something, someone, but I can't express the thought in words. I'm running on all fours, I realize, feeling the wind in my fur as I lope through the forest. It's so good to run, to be free like this, able to go anyway as fast as I want. Ahead is a clearing and I know instinctively what I seek is near. I slow, panting for breath, eyes seeking through the dappled sunlight. There -- a darker shape moves against the deep green of the foliage. Black... moving with supple strength... large... the other animal is powerful. He is alone. My panther... I move slowly now, not wanting to spook my friend whom I haven't seen in so very long. He's up ahead, just walking, perhaps waiting for me. Peering intently, I see him stop, then turn. His green eyes recognize me and he opens his mouth to roar a greeting. I bound forward, eager to be with him... I stumble. A sharp snap brings me down and I am caught in a hunter's trap. My friend is wary, wanting to help me, yet afraid. But this trap is old, its hinges rusty. I think... I can try to get myself free... I let out a sharp bark to call to my friend. I look to him, but he's disappearing into the mists...

"Jim... it's okay... come back... "

"What?" a sleepy voice murmurs very close to my ear. "I'm here."

I open my eyes, take a deep breath. "I was dreaming." I lift my hand to stroke Jim's forearm that's still draped across my waist. He moves subtly, like a panther stretching,I think, somewhat bemused. I can feel his face pressing close, his nose nuzzling my hair and ear. "You were the panther..."

His body reacts, tensing and coming more fully awake. "In your dream?"

"Yeah."

"Blair." His arm tightens around me. "I saw the panther in my dream too..." There's wonder in his voice.

"That's good, Jim." I turn slightly, coming into closer contact with him as I lean to look into his face. Before I can say anything else, I become aware of something. It makes me hesitate. I know Jim is hesitating too.

Pressed against him, I feel a solid stiffness against my hip. It's an awkward moment. I shift slightly, attempting to move away a bit without embarrassing Jim.

"Sorry," he says, already shifting. "It's morning," he explains with a small shrug. "You know how it is."

"Actually," I say almost without thinking, "that's something that hasn't happened to me in a long time. Jim, your dream... what was it like?" I'm eager to know if we shared the same images or if Jim was just watching the panther in his dream, or if he saw me, the wolf...

"What did you say?"

"Describe your dream."

"No, before that."

"Oh, it's nothing." Realizing what he's getting at, I feel myself flush. That was a stupid thing to say. "I just," I begin, figuring I might as well get it over with, "I haven't... since the accident." Why are the words 'gotten an erection' so hard to say? All at once, the good feelings from the dream vanish and I'm left in the cold reality of my own world. It's not like the lack bothers me usually, but somehow thinking about it alongside the evidence of Jim's normal manliness, my losses seem magnified.

"Blair... " Jim breathes. "I... I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal," I say, not totally believing it.

"Yes it is," he says. "Have you talked to your doctor -- ?"

"Jim, do you mind?" This is unreal. I can't believe I'm discussing this with Jim of all people. Flashbacks of past conversations flood me, memories of him teasing me about being ready to jump a table leg at any moment. I heave a sigh. It's not like this is about sex anyway. I haven't thought about sex in a long time. This is about me not getting a morning hard on. It doesn't mean... well, does it? Feeling worse by the moment, I push up to a sitting position, reaching over to grab my chair and transfer into it. "I'm going to grab a shower," I say as I wheel quickly from the room, leaving Jim apparently speechless.

Ellison, you're an idiot.

I flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling as if the sight of it will drive the last five minutes out of my brain. I'm usually good at repressing things, why can't I forget this?

Could I have said anything that would have embarrassed him more? It wasn't bad enough he woke up with my dick pressing against him... I thought my comment about it being morning would be the end of it. I thought he'd figure that was it and forget about it. Damn. I never even thought about him. It never occurred to me he...

I don't know what's worse, the fact that I woke up hard next to him or that I caused him to tell me he doesn't wake up hard anymore. Maybe it was a good idea he moved out after all. I can't seem to keep from reminding him of all the stuff he came here to forget.

God, he said he was doing better. He said he was adjusting. I guess there's even more to adjust to than I ever realized. He's never said -- yeah, right, what'd I expect? That he'd just tell me this?

Guess I was right when I was thinking he wasn't able to consider us being more to each other than friends just now. More right than I realized.

I hope he's not thinking I meant more when I said I loved him. I don't want to put any pressure on him, not when I said it, and not now. Especially not now.

But the dream I had... it was so good. When we were talking about my senses last night, I told him I hadn't seen my spirit animal in all this time since he was hurt... and then it came to me in a dream. I was following it through the jungle like I have so many times. I knew it had something to show me... but I woke up before I could find it. I thought it was my senses.

I woke up wrapped around Blair and suddenly I realized the panther might have been trying to lead me to him. I came awake with his hair tickling my nose and all I wanted to do was fill my senses with him, even before he told me he'd dreamed about the panther too.

He started to roll over. I wanted him to, wanted him closer. I'd been about half a second from kissing him. Damn -- and that's when he felt me down there like a ball bat or something. It is morning, yeah, but it was more than that. God, I didn't want him thinking I'm some crude... I was just trying to pass it off as nothing when he dropped that bombshell.

I guess in a way it was a good thing I said what I did. I mean, I know he's mortified; I know I would be. But that's better than if I'd kissed him or something. Damn, I kissed him last night, after I rubbed his legs. I'd been feeling so good, so close to him. It wasn't meant to be anything more than a chaste good-night, but then he asked me to stay...

And that gave me hope. I wasn't thinking, my heart was just so full of him and when he asked me to sleep here, I couldn't say no. I didn't really expect anything else... making love to him wasn't even in my mind until this morning.

I won't make that mistake again. I can't put expectations on him now, make him feel inadequate. Or more inadequate... Damnit! I realize my clenched hand is pounding on the mattress. I force myself to relax it, to try to get my head together before he gets out of the shower.

It's just as well. With things on the fragile level they are right now, with my senses probably confusing me, I shouldn't be thinking about that kind of thing anyway. I don't want to mess up what we have, what we're struggling to get back. The connection is between us, the friendship is there, the possibility of my senses returning... I'd be a fool to think about anything else.

That settled, I climb out of bed and head into the living room, pulling out my suitcase to find some clean clothes. He's just turned off the shower. It's my turn next. Think about getting the day started, not about anything else. Don't embarrass him by saying anything more -- no more dumb ass questions about whether this is a medical condition -- and maybe he'll forget what an idiot I am.

You know, this wasn't such a bad day after all. We managed to get past my blunder, mainly by what I know must have been a Herculean effort on Blair's part; he was very effective at pretending the whole thing never happened. Either that or he was doing his own repression bit. At any rate, we moved on. We were up early, given that it wasn't all that late when we went to sleep, but Blair had an early class so it worked out.

I spent the day puttering around the apartment, fixing a few things like the leak in his kitchen sink and putting new locks on his windows and when he got home, Blair made space in his closet and bureau for my things and told me to unpack. I guess that means he really does want me to stay for awhile. I know I'm not anxious to get back on the road. I feel good here with him. I feel grounded. I feel more positive.

Last night, when he started talking about my senses coming back, I was uncomfortable, even though before I got here I was getting to the point of thinking they might be resurfacing. It was easier to think about them when my only contact with Blair was by phone, though. I felt so out of control when Bill was in the apartment attacking him that I'm not sure how it would be if I did get them back now, after all this time without them. And, face to face with Blair, I would feel guilty if my senses came back, if I was... whole and he wasn't.

I'm trying to do what he asked though, and not feel guilty. I know it's not good for me to be dwelling on what happened. He's made such wonderful progress and I'm glad for him. It's just taking me a little while to catch up.

He helped me do that a bit more this evening, I think. After a quick dinner of sandwiches and potato salad that we picked up at the store, Blair said he wanted me to meet someone. It was his neighbor, a guy named Tony who's in a wheelchair too. Then Blair really astonished me -- he said he was going to basketball practice with Tony and wanted me to come along!

Wheelchair basketball -- amazing. I'm still wired from the experience of seeing him do it. He says he didn't tell me about trying out for the team because he wanted it to be a surprise. It was. I'd never imagined him being able to come out of his shell enough to join with other guys who were in the same shape as he is. The Blair that came home from the hospital last year was so different from the guy who had always been social and loved to engage in sports of any kind before the accident. But he joined this team and is learning to play the game with its wheelchair rules and he looked like he was having the time of his life.

I just about had the time of mine too. He did pretty well, managing to get the ball, to manage the tricky way they have to dribble and push their chairs at the same time, to even make a basket at one point, but the best part was just watching him move. He flew down the court, speeding past the other wheelchairs, looking almost as nimble as he had running down the street. He was pure strength, pure adrenaline, his face alive with eagerness, his eyes so lit up I could see it from the sidelines. And something more, something struck me that I'd not even thought about, hadn't realized I'd missed, though when I saw it, my heart just about burst.

When he was zooming down the court, his hair flew back in the breeze created by his speed.

His hair flew back.

I haven't seen that in the year since he was hurt. I thought I'd never see that again, never see him able to move fast enough for his hair, for those free tumbling curls of his, to fly back from his face.

The sight hit me with the force of a heart attack. I'd been standing up and I had to sit down. I coughed, feeling like I couldn't quite get my breath. I felt like my eyes were going to tear up. I felt proud and amazed and it was all I could do not to run out there and hug him.

"You okay, Jim?" I heard Tony say. He'd pulled his own wheelchair next to the folding chair I was watching the practice from. I turned to look at him, not really sure I could, or should, put into words what I was feeling.

Finally I realized that Tony would probably understand. "He looks good out there," I said in explanation. "It's been awhile, you know? Since he's been able to have fun like this."

"I know," Tony answered. "I don't know the circumstances, but I understand it's only been a year or so since he lost his legs." His glance returns to Blair on the court. "I'm glad I asked him to try out for the team. He's a natural. I don't think he was sure at first if he wanted to do it, but the first time he tried it, I think he was hooked."

"Looks that way," I said, watching Blair again myself. I couldn't get enough of that hair spilling back like a wave as he careened down the basketball court. "Blair was always a good player. Did he ever tell you about playing against the Cascade Jags?"

Tony grinned. "Well, he mentioned something to that effect, but I didn't know... "

"Yeah. I'm a cop with Major Crime of the Cascade P.D. and Blair spent four years observing me for a paper he was doing in anthropology. When our division took on the Jags for charity, he played too. He held his own with guys a foot or more taller than him." I smiled, the memories fond this time, less painful than they would have been before seeing Blair play. "We used to do some one-on-one, too." I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. The only thing better than watching him out there would be to be able to play with him again...

"Hey, able guys play against us sometimes," Tony said. "You'd be surprised how hard it is for them."

"I'd say you have the speed advantage at least," I chuckled, doing my best not to get maudlin.

"That's not all," Tony grinned back at me.

After a few more brief words on the subject, we went back to watching the practice and later, Tony got back into the game with his teammates. When they were finished, a sweaty, smiling Blair wheeled up to me.

"Errrrch!" He screeched to a stop in front of me, his voice providing the sound effect of a truck slamming on its brakes. His hair was plastered in tendrils on his forehead and at his temples. His eyes were as big as dinner plates and twice as bright as they'd looked from the court. "What'd'ya think?"

"I think you're wonderful," I told him. The full effect of his eyes and his smile hit me and I found myself just standing there staring at him with what I assume must have been a really stupid grin on my face. I'm pretty sure it was because after a moment, Blair grabbed a towel from the nearby bench and snapped it at me, effectively bringing me back to earth.

"I'll be just a minute. You mind waiting while I grab a shower?" he asked. Dazzled, all I could do was nod.

He'd played basketball. His hair flew back. He'd laughed and carried on with other people. He'd gotten sweaty. He'd even been playful about the wheelchair he had to use, making that screech when he stopped. It was almost too much for me to take in. I felt so happy seeing him this way, so happy for him. It was the best surprise I could have imagined getting.

We're back home now. He's relaxed and happy, working on some papers from his students while I catch the local sports broadcast. Every so often, my gaze strays from the set to look him over. Seeing him feel good is like an amazing gift. He's almost the Blair I remember like this, more sure of himself, without pain lines marring his face.

Damn, I care about him so much. Part of me wants to show him... but then I remember what happened this morning. I can't push him, as good as he seems to feel at the moment, I know his pain will come back at some point, and another day he'll be upset by the things he still can't do for himself. I'll be here for him those times too, and the times when he feels this good will continue, until they outweigh the bad moments, I hope.

He puts his papers aside and stretches, lifting his arms high above his head to loosen his back. "I'm pooped, Jim. It's after ten. I think I'm going to sleep."

I look over at him, noting the glow still in his eyes from the game. I smile at him fondly. "I didn't have quite the workout you did, but I guess I'll go to bed too." I pick up the remote to shut off the TV. "How are you feeling? You're not going to be sore after all that exertion, are you?"

"No, I don't think so. Not much anyway. I talked to my therapist before I got on the team and she agreed it would be good for me. My phantom pain seems to be better after a good workout too."

"Oh," I nod. It's not like I want him to have that flare up, but it was... nice working on that with him the last two nights. It made me feel so close to him, affirming our connection. But maybe after this morning, the distance is something he needs. "Okay. You let me know, all right?"

"Of course." He looks at me closely. "I liked when you rubbed my legs for me, Jim," he says softly. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn't really know what it should be.

I smile back, letting him off the hook. "I know. I'm glad you feel better tonight."

He nods, his look saying that he didn't want me to feel unneeded. "'Night, Jim." He smiles at me, then he turns to head for his room.

"'Night." I sit in the silence for a few minutes, then go get a drink of water before getting ready to bed down on the futon.

I feel lonely out here. In two nights, crowded into his narrow bed, I got the best sleep I've had since he's been gone -- hell, I slept better in there with him than I have any night since the accident. But he needs his privacy after all. He showed today how much better he's getting. And part of getting better is being independent. I can handle that. I think.

Contenting myself with remembering how terrific he looked out there zooming down the basketball court, I settle for sleep. I wish I had my senses back. If I did, I could listen to his heartbeat and it would ground me from out here, the way it used to when I slept upstairs in the loft and he was right beneath me. Those days seem so far away now. And Blair, in retrospect, seemed so innocent.

I remember hearing his heartbeat. And other sounds. His pen on paper. The hum of his laptop as he worked into the night. The fluttering of pages in his books. And sometimes, the sound of moist flesh being stroked, of breath caught and held, of moans stifled for my benefit. As if I didn't know. Blair was young and his hormones apparently raged in those early days. If he didn't have a date for awhile, he took care of his needs himself when he thought I wasn't awake. It used to make me smile, thinking of the kid I'd taken in jerking off beneath me, forgetting in his horniness that a mere breath could easily wake me from a sound sleep. I didn't date often so I understood; I took care of my needs that way too, but usually when he was out of the loft entirely, even though I could have done it without him hearing what I was perfectly capable of listening in on. Sometimes, it made me smile, knowing he was down in his room masturbating. Sometimes, though I never questioned why, it made me hard. I'd usually roll over and force myself to stop listening and fall asleep as soon as I could make myself. It was just that we were so attuned, I used to tell myself. Later, I knew it was because I loved him and wanted to be with him, but I still didn't take advantage of the need listening to him aroused in me. Not often anyway. I felt like a stupid voyeur, or whatever you call a guy who listens in instead of watching. I couldn't go down and tell him it was driving me crazy, either. Not with the evidence of my hard on from the sounds I'd been hearing. He wouldn't have understood.

At least I used to think that. Maybe he would have. Maybe I should have spoken up sooner. Maybe he was just waiting all that time for me to say something first.

All the wasted days and nights and all the pain since then slam home to me and I'm plunged into the familiar despair I've lived with for the last year. I try to force it from my mind, reminding myself of his progress, our renewed closeness, but I feel lost, unable to do for him what I really want to do. I want to make him happy. I want to make him feel good. I want his body to sing for him, to feel whole, not to make him think that he's less of a man now.

I don't suppose I'll hear him masturbating tonight or any other. This morning's conversation floods back and I feel such regret. I love him so much. A part of me imagines that my patience, my caresses, could make him feel again, could make him whole, but that's a fantasy I don't dare indulge. I would love to hold him, to make love to him, but to try to do that now... that would just be wrong.

Change the subject, I tell myself sternly. Think of something else.

Blair wants me to get my senses back. He thinks I should try to find the panther, listen to my spirit animal. I did dream of the panther last night... think about that... look for him... let him come to me...

Today was a good day. It didn't get off to that good of a start, considering what happened when we woke up, but it got better. I think Jim got a real kick out of seeing me play basketball, almost as much as I enjoy it. I do feel wonderful out there. We've got some games coming up. I really think I'll be able to help the team. This is the best thing that I've done since...

My eyes fall on the box of Sentinel books and papers that Jim brought me, still unopened on my desk, with that envelope from Joel on top of it. I haven't gotten close to it the whole time it's been here.

But it is here. Jim brought it dutifully, just like Joel asked. Taggert didn't wait for me to decide to ask him for what's inside. He sent it with Jim. I guess he realized I wouldn't ask for the pictures he told me about. This way, they're here if I want to see them. And even though I've paid as little attention to the envelope's presence as possible, it's been in the back of my mind, nagging at me like a phantom pain, since Jim told me about it.

Maybe I should just get it over with. Open the damn thing and see what even my nightmares haven't visualized in all this time. I've never tried to imagine what's in those pictures. The thought of looking at them makes me shudder. I can't imagine what it must have been like for Joel's Viet Nam buddy to have to see his ruined limbs that Joel and the other guys brought to him to see...

But Joel said that made him accept that he'd lost them. That they couldn't have been saved. That seeing them was what made him able to pick up and go on with the rest of his life.

And Joel thought I needed to do that.

Hell, I know I need to do that.

Even with all the stuff I've been doing lately, in some ways, I haven't gone on.

I told Jim this morning that what happened to him hasn't happened to me in all this time. He got embarrassed when I told him and I guess he was worried too since he asked me what my doctor said about it. I haven't asked -- what's the point? It doesn't even really bother me. I hadn't given it that much thought until the last couple weeks. And since Jim got here.

But even though I didn't give it conscious thought, it did bother me. I can admit that now to myself. I remember looking down and seeing my dick limp morning after morning and wondering about it. And yeah, I knew about trauma and how it could affect a person's sexuality. That much was pretty obvious. I used to think, it was my legs that got cut off, not my balls, damnit. It didn't matter, I thought. Who wanted to have sex with a guy without legs anyway? Gross. Maybe that was it. My own body grossed me out so I didn't feel like sex, even by myself. Or maybe I had turned off all my feelings, including those. I hated feeling the pain, both the physical and the emotional pain, so I shut down. I stopped going out, stopped socializing, stopped watching TV, stopped talking, even to Jim. If I interacted with the world, the pain would get worse. If I closed down, I couldn't feel. My body closed down too, so much that even certain autonomic responses didn't function anymore.

But I'm not shut down now. I've taken steps to rejoin society. I'm not passively sitting around any more. I feel. I talk. I work. I play basketball. And Jim is here. Why won't the rest of me wake up?

I don't know what I'd do with it if my dick did get hard. I told Jim I love him and he said he loves me but that's still a long way from us being together. Like I said, why would anybody want to have sex with a guy with no legs? Jim's certainly not like Bill. That thought makes me shudder, so I shove it aside. But it would be nice if I could just get a regular old morning woody like Jim had this morning. It'd make me feel normal again.

Jim looked so embarrassed about it. He was so close to me, pressed all along my side and I couldn't help but feel it. His dick felt nice and big and really hard. A part of me was envious. And a part of me wondered, was he hard because he woke up close to me? That look in his eyes... It had seemed, just for a second that he wanted to kiss me... He'd been nuzzling my neck as he woke up.

What would have happened if I'd stayed pressed against him, if I'd been hard too?

Don't go there. That's stupid. Sure he loves you, but you know it's not going to be like that now. Maybe, like I used to think, if we'd said something about our feelings before the accident... but not now.

Still, I kind of miss sex. I'm glad, I guess, that I had a lot of it when I was younger, 'cause it doesn't look like I'm going to be that much of a hound dog anymore. Sex felt good. It was a way to be close to someone, to feel like I belonged... it was a way to release tension too...

Thinking about it seriously for the first time, I look down at my lower body. I'm in my boxers so my legs are the first thing I see. Great. But I'm used to that sight. I can see my dick under the fabric, but it's the same as always, just there. What if...? Maybe if I give it some help...

Closing my eyes, I reach inside my underwear and take it into my hand. I haven't handled it except to pee in what feels like forever. I give it a stroke, nice and slow. Relax, Blair, I tell myself.

I stroke it again, this time flicking my thumb over the head on the upstroke. It feels dry and unresponsive. I take my hand out and lick my palm to wet it, then reach down and try again. I feel a little tingle so maybe the thing does have some response left.

I keep working it, eyes closed, trying to think myself hard. It feels like maybe it could happen, like it could get stiff, but after ten minutes when there's no real difference, I finally give up. All I got for my trouble was a tired hand. I'm still limp, and even though what I was doing didn't feel bad, it didn't exactly set off fireworks. Shit, that was stupid.

I pound the mattress in frustration. Stupid, one part of me says. Give yourself time, a saner voice whispers. Time? It's been a year, dammit.

A sob catches in my throat and I'm propelled into despair. Why did this happen to me? Why couldn't I be living my life back in Cascade, with Jim, being his partner? Being a cop wasn't so bad. It was a good job for a guy who'd told the world he'd faked his research. Lots of people can't write papers. My friends understood. Things were going okay. I liked my life -- dammit, why can't I have it back? Is that so wrong? To want to have my life back?

If the accident hadn't happened...

If the radio would have worked...

If Jim could have moved the truck...

If the water hadn't been rising...

Damn it to hell!!

Shaking all over, I push off the bed and transfer to my wheelchair, pushing it across to my desk and grabbing the envelope from Taggert. My movements are so uncoordinated, I can't get the clasp open so I rip the envelope, yanking out the photographs inside.

I look down at them.

Oh. God.

It's what Joel said.

Pictures.

Color, eight by ten pictures.

A muddy embankment with pieces of broken bridge at the bottom of the photo. The truck must have been moved. In the wet dirt, I can see the remnants of a pair of blue jeans.

The next picture is closer. The photographer has zoomed in on the scraps of cloth, way close. I can see more than denim. I can see flesh. And blood. And bones. There're legs in the ripped fabric, but they're all crushed and smashed, bent and broken. There aren't any shoes. The accident must have thrown them off. I can see one foot, twisted around the wrong way --

I quickly shove that picture under the rest to look at the third. Oh god, it's worse. This is a different angle, like the camera was on the ground and to the side. The jeans are so torn up on this side that it's a lot easier to see the damage to what was inside them. There's more skin showing, more blood and ripped up muscle. Shit, it's all gory, all wet and ruined.

There's one more picture. I move the third to look at the last one. It's a different angle too, more from the front. Where... where the knees would have been...

Oh shit... oh fuck...

It's just... just flat, practically. Smashed. Crushed. Broken like a stepped on cracker. Like a dish that fell on the floor.

Beyond repair.

The picture blurs and that's when I realize my eyes have teared up. I rub them absently, swallow hard and look at each of the pictures again, just to make sure. To let it sink in.

The torn jeans... no, not 'the' jeans... my jeans... and my legs... my twisted foot, my crushed knees...

Jim was right. The doctors were right. They couldn't have been saved. To save a cut off limb, you've gotta get it to the hospital, pack it in ice or something and sew it back on right away. But Jim left my legs there under the truck and the doctor's didn't have them, didn't have a choice. But I don't need to be a doctor to know that these legs couldn't even have been picked up to take with us.

Jim was right.

No wonder he'd done it. No wonder he'd been able to do it; it looked like they were half off to begin with. Whatever, he was right. The only way to save my life was to separate me from my legs -- from what was left of my legs. I might not even have lived with injuries like that even if he had been able to get the truck off me. I might not have ever been able to walk again. I'd be right where I am now, sitting in this wheelchair, with legs that would never heal, never be right. They'd probably always hurt.

I wonder, would they hurt more if they were still attached to me? Is the phantom pain, bad as it is, less than the real pain would have been? And could I stand it if I had my legs and still couldn't walk, still couldn't use them?

Jim was right.

I was right, when I told him yesterday morning that living like this was okay, that I knew it had to be this way. It's not okay, not really, but I accept it.

Okay, I accepted it intellectually. I said the words to Jim, but inside, I wasn't sure I believed them.

I believe them now.

I sigh, the breath dragged up from deep inside, like from my soul. The pictures are still in my lap. For a second there, I wanted to rip them to pieces, to throw them across the room, but it's not their fault. Besides, if I did that, Jim would end up seeing them, and I don't want that.

The envelope's pretty torn but it'll do. I manage to get the pictures inside it and then I pull out the bottom drawer of my desk and slide the whole thing in there, shoving it closed and sitting back in my chair, taking deep breaths.

I thought there would be some kind of epiphany. From what Joel described, that's how it had been for his friend. But there was no epiphany. Just the final piece of a puzzle I'd taken a long time to put together. It was almost done for months now. I could tell what the picture was going to be. I just needed this one last piece to finish it up.

Thanks, Joel. You're a good man. A good friend. I'll have to call and thank you. Someday soon. When I can maybe talk about this.

Tears are still dripping down my cheeks. I scrub them off, but they don't stop falling. God, I'm tired. I need some sleep. I wish I had let Jim rub my legs again tonight. They don't exactly hurt but it helped me get to sleep when he did it, and when he was close by. And having him in here, I'd've never tried to get myself hard. I wouldn't have failed. I wouldn't have looked at the pictures.

But then again, I wouldn't have completed the puzzle.

Without that one missing piece, I'd always wonder exactly what the picture was supposed to be. But I know, now. It's finished. All I can do now is go on from here.

Maybe I can really go on now. At least, if I have to remind Jim I accept things completely, I'll believe it. Believing it myself, it'll be easier to make him believe it. He needs to know that. We both did.

I'm so tired. I roll back to the bedside and transfer again, wriggling under the covers. It's warm underneath, comfortable. I'm by myself, not wrapped protectively in Jim's arms, but right now, that's okay. I need to be able to think right now. And though having Jim close would be nice, at this moment, I'm strong enough to deal with this on my own.

He's sleeping nearby anyway, right out in the living room. I should sleep too.

I wipe off my face one last time and with resolution, close my eyes.

I wake up, gradually aware that it was a noise that disturbed me. My head comes up, started at the realization, reminded of Bill being able to break in. No, Jim fixed the locks. It can't be that. Wait... I rub the sleep from my eyes... it must be Jim.

There it is again. A low groan. Oh man... he sounds awful. Is he having a nightmare?

Jim groans again, louder this time. It must be getting worse. Pushing back the covers, I quickly transfer to my chair and head into the living room.

He's sprawled on the opened futon, his blanket kicked to the floor, his body bare to the light coming in from the street lamps. I can see he's covered in sweat. It highlights his body and for a second, all I can do is admire him, the implied strength in his muscles, the perfect masculine beauty he presents to the world. Then he jerks as though in pain and moans again and I'm pulled back to reality. Before I can get closer, his legs draw up and he folds into a near-fetal position, shivering uncontrollably.

I reach the futon, bend down to grab the blanket and push out of my chair, climbing into bed with him. "Jim. Jim, come on, man. It's a nightmare. Wake up." I'm sitting beside him, my hand at his shoulder.

His muscles are totally tensed, his eyes closed tight. Another cry is torn from his mouth and the agony in it rips at my heart.

"Jim! Man, come on! Wake up! It's me, Blair. You've gotta wake up, now! Jim!"

He comes awake all at once, with a great gasping breath as he desperately sucks in air. His arms come around me, pulling me down with him. I can feel the tremors shaking him as he sobs for breath.

"It's okay," I promise. "It's okay. It was just a nightmare. You're okay... "

"Blair..." His voice wavers as he says my name.

"I'm here. It's okay."

He opens his eyes and focuses on me with apparent difficulty. One hand rubs at his forehead. "Uhnnnn... "

"Easy. Try to relax."

"My head... "

"Your headache's back?"

He nods, obviously trying to sort out what he's feeling. "I was trying to find the panther, to go to where my spirit animal lives, like you had me do when Incacha died. I couldn't... couldn't do it. Oww... man, this hurts."

"Was it hurting before you fell asleep?"

"No. I don't know. I don't think so. Maybe it was just starting up." He suddenly seems to realize where we are and pulls away slightly, looking embarrassed. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," I tell him. I shift slightly, giving him space and straighten out the blanket, pulling it over him. "Here, you're shivering."

He helps, taking the cover in a shaking hand to pull it up over his shoulder. I shift up on one bent arm, leaning over to rub gently at his temple. His hair is damp with sweat, like his body. Using the blanket, I blot his shoulder and back a little. "You're soaked. You want me to get you a towel?"

He shakes his head, just pulling the now damp blanket higher. "This is okay. Don't... don't go..." His hand wraps around my wrist. His eyes are clenched shut tight.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him, settling beside him. I take hold of him, pulling him to me so his head can rest on my shoulder and I can stroke his cheek.

He groans again, but this time the sound is one of relief. "Shhhh... just relax... "

He's quiet for a few minutes. Then he speaks, his voice soft but steady. "I was trying, Blair. I wanted to try."

"I know." I wrap my arms around him protectively and feel his body gradually begin to untense.

"I can't find the panther. But I saw the wolf again." On the last two words, his voice breaks.

"You shouldn't try by yourself. If you want to, we'll do it together." I pause. "You saw the wolf?"

"In my dream."

"What was the dream about?" It wasn't a vision, but Jim's dreams are always meaningful too. I felt disappointed and I knew he was too -- he'd dreamed of the panther last night.

"I was in the forest. Wandering... searching. I thought I saw something move. I heard an animal yelp in pain."

Oh god... I try to control my breathing. He's getting agitated and doesn't need me upset now. "It's okay. Go on."

"It was the wolf. He was caught in a trap... He was looking at me -- " He groaned, a hand coming up to rub viciously at his head. "I couldn't... save him... "

"Jim, it's over. It was just a dream and it's over. I'm okay. I'm really okay. I've been telling you that since you got here and it's about time you believe me," I say finally, punching his shoulder jokingly to try to lighten his desperate state of mind. "Relax. How's your head feel?"

"Still hurts, but it's getting better." His arm comes around my waist and he settles closer to me.

I can tell he's exhausted. His voice is slurred and I know he's drifting. His head was okay when we slept together; this happened when we tried to sleep apart. Okay. No Brainer. I'll stay.

"Just relax. I'm here. I'm okay. We're both going to be okay, Jim. you sleep now. I'll be right here." Gradually, while I murmur comfort and stroke his back, Jim falls back into sleep, his rest much more untroubled now.

"Okay, Jim, try it again."

He sighs heavily and leans back in his chair, a look of great concentration on his face.

"Relax. You look like you're about to file a report with Simon."

He heaves another breath out and I can see the conscious attempt to untense his body.

"That's better. Now just breathe with me. Slowly. In... and out... in... and out..."

We're out in the Patapsco State Park trying, this time with some vegetation and wildlife around us, rather than making another attempt back at my apartment. Jim's seated on a lawn chair and I'm in my wheelchair facing him. It's quiet here; the only sounds are rustling leaves and the occasional bird's twitter. It should be perfect.

"Okay now... keep your eyes closed and go to where your animal spirit is waiting for you... "

I turn on the CD player in my lap, allowing the tribal drum music to blend with the natural forest sounds. Jim shifts position, his body losing still more of its tension, and his face becomes blank as he drifts into the meditation.

"You've been away a long time, Jim. But you know he's still there, waiting for you. You need him. He can lead you back to your senses... " I don't touch him, don't want to distract him. He's cooperating and I know the relaxation techniques and guided meditation are helping him, but I don't think they're getting him any closer to seeing the panther or to regaining his Sentinel abilities. I try to keep that feeling out of my voice, though.

"He's all black... his fur is so dark he's almost blue... he's alone, the way he always is, a lone hunter waiting in the forest... he's looking for you... he has so much to teach you, to show you... you can look through his eyes... smell what he smells, hear what he hears... he's waiting, Jim... " My voice, already soft, drifts into silence and I wait, trying to keep relaxed myself, to see where Jim's senses take this.

Long minutes go by and he remains silent. I close my eyes as well, thinking that perhaps I shouldn't keep observing him so closely. He's probably aware of my eyes on him and that might inhibit his meditation.

We wait.

Just as I'm feeling sleepy, a hand reaches into my lap and picks up the CD player. I open my eyes to find Jim snapping it off, plunging us back into relative silence.

"This isn't working," he says in frustration. "I've done everything you've suggested and it's just not working. They aren't coming back!"

"Easy. Take it easy." I lean forward, taking the CD player back from him, and drop it into my backpack. The way he was fiddling with it, he'd probably break it in his annoyance. "I know you're upset. You're doing everything right. It just takes time."

He rubs at the back of his neck and sits back in the chair. "There's a time to know when you're finished with something... " he begins.

"Not that again. I refuse to give up on this, man. We just haven't found the right way to do it." I lean forward, my hand gripping his knee. "Maybe you could go on a sort of vision quest... "

"What? Sit on a mountain top without food or water for a week? Yeah, I'll be seeing and hearing things after that." He rolls his eyes.

"You know the Sentinel senses can be brought out by prolonged isolation," I remind him. His face is so annoyed it's almost comical. "Maybe we should try it for two weeks... "

"Blair!" He looks at me harshly a second before he realizes I'm joking.

He grins, his expression diabolical now. "Maybe what I need is for my guide to be in danger. I could throw you off a mountain top... "

"Very funny." I give his knee a squeeze to show him not to mess with me. "But you know, you could be on to something. You did have some sensory reactions the night you got here and Bill was in the apartment. Now if we could do something like that... in a controlled environment, I mean... "

Jim leans forward. "Blair, how is that going to work? I'd know you weren't really in danger. And there's no way you could set something up without me figuring it out as soon as I think something's endangering you."

Sighing, I have to agree with him. "I know. I just... " I want to help you so much, is what I want to say, though I've repeated it a million times already. He's been here for two weeks now and things are going well. I'm feeling better; I still have the occasional day when I'm feeling down or anxious and when the phantom pain comes back, but Jim helps the pain, and I want to help him. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out how yet.

Yesterday was pretty rough. We went to court about Bill breaking in to my place. They didn't call either of us to testify -- Bill pleaded guilty and because he doesn't have a record, he got probation. At least that's something. If he gets arrested for anything else, he could get locked up. But how likely is it he'd try to break into my apartment again, or that he'd go climb in some other amputee's window? He's not stupid. Jim spoke to a lawyer at the University Law School about getting a restraining order against Bill though and we've got an appointment with him next week.

Last night, my legs were killing me, even though I went to basketball practice, which usually helps. Jim rubbed them for me for a long time and that mystical thing he's able to do where he actually rubs out the phantom pain is still wonderful. I'm not sure how he does it, but I'm not complaining, not questioning. He can and that's enough for me. After he rubbed my legs, we went to sleep on the futon together. Ever since his nightmare we've been sleeping in the same bed. Neither of us has said much about that, but we both know it works. We both feel better keeping in close proximity to each other. And with his legs in back of mine, I sleep more comfortably than I have ever since the accident. Jim's headaches haven't come back at all.

The thought of how he massages my legs gives me an idea. "Jim, when you're rubbing my legs for me... you know... the phantom pain thing? What are you feeling?"

He looks surprised. "I don't know. I'm not thinking about it that closely. If you analyze something too much... "

"I know that," I answer, understanding, "I don't want to figure it out myself. But just think about it for a minute. How do you know what you're doing? What do you feel?"

He sighs and sits back. "I close my eyes and I can just feel your legs... the way they used to be."

"Wow. How do you do that?" I say staring at him raptly.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Sense memory?"

"Jim -- you never rubbed my legs before. What do you mean, sense memory?"

There's a long pause during which his face turns red. He clears his throat and glances away a moment. "I know what legs feel like, you know. I've felt a few in my time."

"Guys' legs?" I ask, incredulous.

"No," he answers quickly. He shifts position again. "I know in general what legs feel like. I know what yours look like. I guess I put that together in my mind... "

"Do they feel hairy?" I hear myself blurt out, only half teasing. "My legs were pretty hairy."

He meets my eyes. "I know." There's a tremor in his voice now, as though thinking of my now-missing legs is hurting him. It's harder for him when I mention them than it is for me. Lately, I've been able to make little jokes like that, obvious stuff like "Class, I don't have a stand on that issue, I don't 'stand' on anything," or when Jim suggested we go for a walk, "Jim, you can walk, I'll ride." I probably would be mortified if someone else or even Jim teased me like that but I think it shows I'm recovering a lot that I can say those things.

All at once, something he said a few seconds ago registers finally for me. "You said 'look.' You know what my legs 'look' like. Not what they looked like."

He looks away again. "Yeah."

"It's okay, man. I sorta think about them in the present tense too, especially when they're aching like they're still there."

"No, it's not that," he says, turning back to meet my eyes, his own full of emotion. "I do see them. I do feel them. Maybe I never touched them that way before... but I have you memorized, Blair. I've known you for five years. I know your heartbeat, your scent, your sounds, your size, everything by heart. I close my eyes and I use my hands and I can feel your legs, just like they're still there, just like you can still feel them sometimes."

"Jim... " I never imagined I'd hear him say something like that to me, never imagined that he knew me that well, even though I did intellectually since he was a Sentinel and I was his guide. I knew he could find my heartbeat in a crowd or smell my shampoo and stuff, but memorized? I don't know what to focus on, the idea that he can actually feel my legs which should mean something about his senses returning, or the whole concept of him knowing every inch of my body in his mind like that. Or maybe I should focus on what it means that he still sees me that way, the way I was, whole, before the accident. It's all too mind-boggling.

Jim leans forward, bringing our faces closer. His eyes are intent, calm, beautiful.

"You left out taste," I whisper, caught up in the spell. His eyes look sad for an instant, then it's as though he pushed the feeling aside, denying he'd want to know what I taste like. "It's okay. If you want to find out, I mean," I tell him, not quite believing what I just said.

"Is it?" he asks, bringing his mouth to mine, accepting the invitation I hadn't known I was going to make. Our lips brush softly, once, twice and then Jim melds his lips to mine, pressing with more conviction, really kissing me now. Our mouths are closed, but it's still a real kiss. It's Jim, really kissing me. Not just helping me breathe under water, kissing me.

My head is spinning. I can't remember how to breathe. I don't know what to think, how to feel. I don't want him to stop but I don't know what's going to happen, don't know if I can handle this...

My train of thought is blown away by the sensation of Jim's tongue pressing between my lips. He wants to open my mouth, to taste inside. Unable to do anything but follow his lead, I comply and feel his rich wet tongue seeking whatever it can find in my mouth. It throbs against my own tongue, licks at my palate, my teeth, and Jim's lips fasten on mine more securely as he pulls taste out of me, sucking on my tongue like he means to devour me and leave nothing left. I can suddenly hear the thumping of a heartbeat. I'm not sure it's mine or his, but it's getting louder, drowning out the sound of the woods around us, the thoughts in my head, the soft moans of pleasure Jim is making. I'm going to pass out.

Jim's hands come up to my shoulders, steadying me, or maybe holding me still, not letting me escape. I don't want to anyway. I could live like this, without even breathing, as long as his mouth stays on mine this way. I can taste him now too. He's like coffee and evergreens and citrus and spice. Like Jim...

I could be drowning. I could be soaring through space. I could be dreaming. I can taste everything about him, all his hopes and his dreams and his love and his passion. I can feel it in his kiss, in the desperate way he's now holding my head, fingers deep in my hair to tilt my face just right for his access. I know he's burning up, hot with emotion and desire. I'd love to be what he needs, feed his fire with one of my own...

I come back to reality all at once. Jim's kissing me. Jim is turned on. I like him kissing me, but other than feeling good, the rest of me is the same. I'm not on fire. Below the waist, there's more missing than just my legs. I don't know if Jim is hard, but I know I'm not.

A small groan slips out of me, a sound of disappointment and longing and sorrow. I couldn't help it, but Jim hears and he finally breaks the kiss and lets me go.

His eyes are full of questions. He's still close, looking me over anxiously, trying to gauge my feelings with his eyes. He carefully lifts a wayward tendril of my hair and moves it back from my face. He traces my swollen lips with a delicate finger.

I'm trying to catch my breath without making it obvious. The noise of the breeze in the trees and the birds' singing seems loud. My heart is going like a metronome.

Jim leans in to me, his forehead against mine. He uses both hands to gather fists full of my hair again, sifting through it with his fingers. "I know what you taste like now," he says in a whisper. "Thank you."

"Jim, I..." I don't know where to start, what to ask. I wasn't prepared for this. I know I asked him to but I didn't know what I was getting into. Some small part of me thought it would work to make me feel turned on, hoped it would at least. That part of me is disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "You didn't really want to do that, did you?"

"I don't know," I answer. "Honestly. I liked it. It's just... I'm not... " I'm the one blushing now. This is embarrassing. My eyes are downcast and I'm looking at my legs, what's left of them. I'm not good enough for you to give yourself to.

"You're not ready," he says for me. "I know. I don't want to push you. That's why I said I'm sorry."

I look up and meet his eyes. "I don't want you to be sorry. I used to think about kissing you."

"You did? I thought about kissing you too." His warm fingers stroke my cheek. "Blair, you're so beautiful... "

I have to turn away. I can't handle him saying stuff like that. I can't respond to it and I sure don't think it's true.

"What?" he asks gently, turning my gaze back to his. His eyes intently search mine. "I don't mean to embarrass you."

"I'm not embarrassed. Exactly." I shrug, trying to make a joke of it. "I just think you need glasses."

"I may not be a Sentinel any more, but I don't need glasses to know what's beautiful." His sincerity is endearing, but I still don't believe him.

"Is it that word, 'beautiful'?" he asks. "I guess it's not that masculine. Okay. You're handsome."

"It's not that." I shake my head, needing some distance between us. He lets me go with a look of regret in his eyes, though all I do is sit back in my chair. "I'm not hung up on vocabulary, man. I just... you know, look." With a sweeping gesture, I indicate myself from head to... well certainly not toe.

"Blair." His voice is soft but full of command. I slowly turn back to face him and he takes my face between his hands again, pulling me close to him so I can't do anything but look him in the eye. "I told you I can feel your legs, didn't I? I can feel them and I can see them. I see all of you, inside and out. And you don't look any different to me than you did that first day I saw you in a stolen doctor's coat with those ripped jeans and worn out sneakers on. You look just like you've always looked to me. You've always been beautiful. Every single bit of you. The parts I've seen and touched and the parts I've seen and never touched." His voice is hushed. His eyes are wet. "I know you don't feel beautiful or handsome any more, but I'm going to change that. You're not ready yet, I know that too. But I'm going to wait until you are. I've gotten good at waiting."

I look at him and all I can do is put my arms around him. He puts his around me and we sit there in facing chairs, hugging each other in the fading sunshine of a March afternoon until the breeze starts to cool.

"I don't know how long it'll be," I say finally. My head is buried on his shoulder so I feel safe enough to try to put this into words now. "I've been waiting myself. I even tried a couple times... but it's like that's gone too."

"You've been hurt so badly," he murmurs back. "It takes a long time to heal when you've been in that much pain. Everything about your life changed." He pauses. "This would be another change too, wouldn't it? Maybe that's why.... No, I can't ask you to change again," he says suddenly, letting me go.

"This isn't a change I'd be sorry about. I honestly wanted it, for a long time. I never thought I'd get it. And then the accident happened and it was too late. At least I thought so." I take a breath. "Until we started talking again. And you came here and that night... we both said we loved each other. I meant that, Jim. Didn't you?"

I pull back to meet his eyes again and find them desperate with certitude. "I never meant anything more."

We sit there looking at each other for a long time.

I love him in all the ways it's possible to love someone. I always have. I always will. We're connected, right down to our souls and nothing can break the commitment we have to each other. We've even been sleeping together every night. I'd like to make love with him. But I don't know if I ever can.

"When you're ready, Blair," he says, reading what's in my heart.

"What if I never am?" I ask haltingly. I don't want to disappoint him, don't want him to think I don't return his feelings.

"Then this is how it'll be. I have everything I could ever want right now. You let me hold you... "

I'm back in his arms, holding on tight, forgetting the rest of the whole world for a few moments. I can't even speak, say what I feel. But Jim knows.

"I might never get my senses back," he whispers after a long time.

"Yes, you will."

"And you'll be ready someday," he counters. Then he rubs my back soothingly. "I'm not pressuring you. Things will happen when they happen."

"Maybe we should stop trying to force the Sentinel thing," I say thoughtfully.

"That's different." He reaches up to pull a leaf from my hair and I can tell his mind is not on being a Sentinel. He looks at me with contentment.

"Why is that different?" I persist.

"It brought us out here today," he says simply. His eyes tell me how significant that is to him.

"Oh." Yeah, well, that it did. We didn't get his senses back but we did talk. And kiss. That was pretty monumental all right.

"You ready to go home?" he asks a minute later. "I'm getting hungry."

"Sure," I answer, unable to stop smiling at him. "Anything you say."

I'm sitting in Blair's kitchen area, drinking my coffee and looking through the Baltimore Sun, skimming the sports pages, wondering what happened in the most recent Jags game. All the Sun has are the final scores. I've been here three weeks and Blair and I have made a lot of progress. He's looking and feeling much better than I'd ever hoped and although I haven't had any big breakthrough with my senses, it seems my headaches have gone away completely. The cure seemed to be sleeping with Blair.

As far as our relationship is concerned, then, we've made progress there too.

We aren't lovers yet. It hasn't come that far. But there is a new intimacy between us. We share a bed, we hold each other. After the day in the park trying to work on my senses, we kiss.

That's been a major revelation. Blair kisses like nobody else I've ever known. He's all out, totally into it, his mouth as expressive that way as when he's using it for talking. I'd never let myself speculate about what those lush lips of his might feel like, but I don't think I could have ever done an adequate job imagining them anyway. They open and cling, soft and strong at the same time, succulent and hungry and plush and wet...

I'd better stop thinking about this. He's about to come out of the shower looking all fresh and awake. His hair will be hanging in damp ringlets, framing his face in tendrils I want to run my fingers through and his face will be fragrant with the mild after shave he uses and his lips...

God, I'm sitting here hard. I can't do this. Blair's not ready -- not able -- to take our relationship to the next level and I won't push him. I'm willing to wait until he's recovered enough but sometimes the wait is frustrating. There are times when all I can think about it taking him into my arms and pulling him under me, kissing him everywhere, getting him aroused...

I don't let myself think further than that. I don't want to torture myself. I'm in love and I can't show him how much I want him and need him. We don't even make out much. Though he's willing to kiss me good-night as we lie there after I've massaged h is legs for him, it's obvious that Blair feels uncomfortable after a certain point, embarrassed and unwilling to frustrate me further. Once, just once, he offered to go further because he knew I wanted to, but I wouldn't use him. It's not about the sex, though I'd love that to be part of what we share someday. It's about feeling good enough about ourselves and trusting enough in each other. That's a precious gift I never hoped to have. If Blair isn't able to do more, I can live on that for the rest of my life if I have to.

But god, I live for his good-night kisses...

I hear the bathroom door opening and he emerges in a cloud of steam, ready for his day.

"Mornin', Jim," he says wheeling out to the kitchen. "Sleep well last night?"

I've already poured him some coffee and buttered his toast and he smiles up at me in thanks.

"Yes, I did." I put the paper aside; there's nothing much in here of interest to me anyway. "You?"

"I slept okay," he says after swallowing a bite of toast, "but I'm wired. Can't stop thinking about the game tonight." He rubs his hands together in eager anticipation.

It's his first official game with the team. You'd think it was a playoff, the way he's been thinking of it. He's so eager to get out there in a real game and score some points. He's been doing great at practice, but I've cautioned him that he doesn't know how much court time he'll get tonight, since he's the team rookie. He's told me he doesn't care if all he gets to do is play for two minutes, as long as he gets out there.

"What are your plans for today?" he asks, draining his coffee cup.

I sigh. I don't have many, that's for sure. "Not much."

He looks at me, then glances away. "You must be getting bored just hanging around here, Jim."

"It's not that. You know that, Blair."

"Hey, I think it's great you've been able to stay this long and being together all the time is great but," he folds his napkin and unfolds it again, "aren't you going to have to go back to work soon? I'll bet Simon is pretty sick of not having his best detective around."

Now I'm the one who feels like doing something with his hands to cover feeling awkward. "I spoke to Simon yesterday," I admit. "he does want me to come back. I told him I'm not ready to leave yet."

"But you must be running out of leave... "

"Even if I run out of paid leave, Blair, that's not something I'm going to worry about. I've got money in the bank, I can live off that for awhile if I have to."

A strange shadow crosses his face. "I don't want you to have to. But it's not just about money. Jim, you're a cop. You're used to being out there protecting and serving. That's what you do. You can't sit around here three thousand miles from your city forever."

I look at him, feeling like the bottom just dropped out of my stomach. I'd known this conversation would come, I just never thought about it coming this soon.

"Are you getting sick of me?" I ask, only half joking.

"No. You know that's not it. I love havin' you here, man. It's just not like you to sit around for a long time. I... I can't expect to take you away from your job forever."

I realize I'm trembling. I don't know what to say but I know I've lost a lot in my life from not being able to find the right words. I decided recently that there are no right words, though, just words. It's better to say something... and Blair can usually figure out what I really mean anyway.

"You could," I answer his last statement.

"Huh?" I smile a little. He asked the question but my answer's confused him.

"You could," I say, indicating the apartment we're in with a gesture, "take me away from my job forever."

He just looks at me and I realize his eyes are getting brighter, full of moisture. I'm almost mesmerized by them, but not so much that I miss his adam's apple bob when he gulps hard.

"You'd want to stay?" he whispers. "Leave Cascade?"

I thought once that I'd live there all my life. Now I know my life is with him. But still, making this big a change isn't something I take lightly. "I could. They have a police force here, too."

He nods. "Yeah. But I'd feel... man, I don't know how I'd feel about uprooting you... "

"Or," I venture, "you could come back to Cascade with me."

He looks at me, his eyes full of a thousand things: hope, enthusiasm, fear, frustration, confusion. "Jim, it's the middle of the semester... "

"And you just got involved with the team. You've made friends here. Your therapist you have here is good. I can't ask you to uproot yourself from here either. I'd be afraid you'd get depressed back in Cascade. Here, you don't get reminded of so much... "

"But Cascade's my home too, man," he says though I can see returning would cause him mixed feelings.

"Kind of a dilemma," I say, reaching across the table to take his hand.

His fingers immediately grip my own but he doesn't look at me for a minute.

Finally he sighs. "I love it here, but you're right, going back to Cascade might bring up some issues... not about us, man," he rushes to add. "It's just... I've made progress on myself here, you know? I did it myself. Making myself be independent was what I needed to do to stop feeling sorry for myself and figure out how to live again. It scared the shit out of me to do it, but I made myself cause I knew it was either that or go crazy or stop living or something... "

His palm is growing damp against mine. I squeeze his fingers in understanding, trying to blot out my fears for him that were so similar to his own.

"And I admit I think I might be a little scared about going back. I didn't know people here. It was easy to go out and be looked at. I was uncomfortable around strangers, don't get me wrong, but it was somehow easier than being around people I knew. Somebody would always come around who wouldn't have known and ask me what happened, I'd be afraid people would only ask me to do stuff with them out of pity and when it got inconvenient to have me around, they'd stop calling... "

"I know. I know... "

"But maybe I should, you know?" he says, looking up, hope and a terrible trepidation in his eyes. "That would sorta be, I guess, the ultimate test. Am I really okay with the way things are now? Can I actually go back and pick up my life?" As though suddenly something else occurred to him, he shakes his head, pushing his hair back as though it's annoying him. "And then there's the whole... the other issue. Nobody remembers what happened with the diss here, man. I mean, the department head talked to me about it when I was first hired and like, he didn't think I was the pariah of the anthropological community. I told him something went wrong, that the publisher who got hold of my writing leaked it to the press and Ranier acted as though I had published a dissertation that was fraudulent when in reality, I never published the dissertation, or had a chance to turn it in, in the first place. That was good enough for him. He didn't ask any questions I couldn't answer."

"You got a raw deal, Blair. Ranier should have supported you -- "

"Hey, no argument here. But the fact remains... I can teach here. I don't think I could there." Gesturing, he releases my hand.

I glance down at the table top, my heart pounding. I had a thought the other day, one I didn't think I'd be bringing up to him this soon.

"If you couldn't teach there," I say slowly, "I know a cop who needs a partner."

He doesn't say a word and finally I have to look up, terrified of what I'll see in his face.

It isn't what I expected. I'd been afraid he'd think I was patronizing him, or suggesting something impossible. But he looks like a kid being offered the very thing he'd been reaching for that he though he'd never get.

"I... you... " He shoves at a wayward curl, his hand shaking. "Jim, I can't do that." He gulps loudly. "I mean, the gesture is nice man and you know I'd love to be your partner again, but... that's just crazy."

"Is it? There are a lot of cops who are disabled."

"Jim, you can't be manhandling a wheelchair into the truck every time you go out on a call. I could do office work, sure. What, are you tired of doing all your own reports?"

He's only half joking.

"You wouldn't have to... use the wheelchair," I venture, thinking of the prostethic legs I brought him that he left behind when he moved. He's tried practicing with them a few times, but they don't fit as well as they did and he needs to be re-evaluated for them. I think he's worried about changing what's been working for him. He got used to getting around in the chair and although it highlights his disability, it's become a kind of protective armor for him as well.

His face is blank for a moment. "Jim... "

"Think about it. You know prostetics are getting better and better. They make all kinds for whatever the person needs and wants most. It just takes the right doctor and a lot of work... "

"And a lot of money... "

"That shouldn't be the only reason for not looking into it."

"Jim, I don't have that much insurance with the University here. Legs like you're talking about cost, I don't know, thousands of dollars. What if I got them and never got the hang of it. You know, just because you see guys climbing mountains with artificial legs and stuff doesn't mean everybody is like that."

"I didn't say they were." I don't want to push him or judge him, but I don't want to see him chained to that chair for the rest of his life, either. "Just... think about it. It's an option. And Blair, whatever it costs... or if you buy your own chair for basketball, you know... I'd get you anything you need."

"Jim, I can't ask that of you."

"You can't?" I just look at him, my eyes saying what I'm not. I did this to you, I should damn well pay for what you need. Trying to dissipate the tension, I go on, "I'd tell you why I think I should but I promised you I wouldn't say that anymore."

"Jim -- " he says again, taking my hand back in both of his this time. He brings my hand up to his face and kisses my knuckles. He looks into my eyes for a long moment, thanking me for not saying what I'd only barely managed not to say aloud. He sighs and glances at the wall clock. "Shit, I've gotta go. Can we... can we talk about this after the game tonight?"

"If you agree to think about it. You've got a lot of options, Blair. I've got options too. Cascade isn't the whole world. Sure I was the 'Sentinel of the Great City,'" I say with sarcastic inflection, "and it's my home and I love it there, things have changed. I feel like... my home is wherever you are."

"But I can't dictate where we live. You're part of this too... " He's pushing away from the table, grabbing his backpack and getting ready to leave.

"Blair, for four years, you put your life on hold to be with me, to help me, to be my partner. I think it's your turn now. We should be where you want to be and you should do what you want to do."

He turns to face me, his eyes more emotional now than even before and I know it's not just from what I said. "Jim, that's the most terrific thing you've ever said to me, man, but I gotta admit, I don't know what I want to do right now. I love teaching here, but I did look at it as the only option available to me. If I could be your partner again, I mean really be your partner... that would be so... " He gives me a tiny smile and it goes straight to my heart. "That would be the best, man."

I get up from the table and go to him. Bending down, I take his face between my hands.

"We'll work it out," I say, my mouth half an inch or less from his. As his eyes speak volumes to me, I close the distance and kiss him good-bye.

I can't believe I'm going to play in this game. The team has been doing pretty well but the guys are all worried tonight. The team from D.C. is known to be pretty good. They've got a guy who used to play college ball before he was paralyzed and they say he's really good at wheelchair ball too. Our league is just a community one but we take it pretty seriously. Some of the guys, like Tony and Carlos, have been on the team for close to ten years. I'm really glad Tony told me about the team that day in the hall.

It looks like we're going to have a pretty good crowd tonight too. The gym is filling up. Lots of families -- they're probably here because they know someone on the team, but lot of other people too, some I recognize from the campus. I guess they just want to see a good sporting event. That's cool, but I wonder if any of them are like Bill, here to get some weird kick out of seeing a guy like me out there on the court.

"Mr. Sandburg!"

I look up and see Sherry sitting in front of the bleachers, with a row of others in wheelchairs. I head over to thank her for coming.

"Good to see you! I'm glad you could come tonight, Sherry."

"Oh, I wouldn't have missed it," she says, looking excited. "you must be having a lot of fun doing this."

"You know, Sherry, I really am." We share a smile and I remember the day she came to my office to tell me she admired me. Maybe now there's more of a reason than there was that day.

"This is my friend, Darly," Sherry says, introducing me to a blonde girl sitting in the row just behind her. "She's a psych major."

"Hi, Darly. Hope you like basketball." I put out my hand and the smiling girl shakes it shyly.

"Oh, I do. I hope you win tonight."

"Hey, me too. I hear this team we're facing is good though."

"Well, with us rooting for you, you're gonna win," Sherry tells me. She and Darly exchange a glance and grin at each other. "Um, is your friend Jim coming tonight?"

Now I know what they were grinning about. Sherry must have told Darly about Jim.

"He'll be here," I assure her. "I had to get here early but he's on his way."

"He's nice," Sherry says but I have the feeling she also thinks Jim is cute. I smile back, agreeing with that.

The sharp sound of a whistle cuts through the noise in the gym. "I've gotta get going," I tell the girls. It's the signal for us to get ready to start. "Enjoy the game."

They wave and smile as I turn my chair to head to our bench.

Tony is giving us some final instructions and when he's finished, Carlos leads us in the team motto and cheer and we circle around each other, doing high fives and clasping hands and punching each others' raised fists as we psych ourselves up to win.

I study the crowd, looking for Jim, needing to know where he is while I'm playing -- or while I'm riding the bench if that's the way this works out. Finally, I spot him. He's seated at center court, up in the top row. I see him at about the same time he sees me and we wave at each other, Jim giving me a thumbs up sign. I know he'll be rooting for me tonight and it makes me feel great to know that.

It's time for the game to start. A shiver of excitement runs through me as I watch the starting players wheel out on to the court. There's Jackson, the guy that would have played pro if he hadn't been injured right after college graduation. Man, the guy is amazing. He's powerfully built, with broad shoulders that top bulging biceps and sinewy long arms. He's probably got a lot of upper body strength that will translate into speed and endurance on the court and a long reach to grab the ball from little guys like me. Looking down though, I can see his injuries must have been pretty bad. His upper body is well developed but that's a sharp contrast to the lower half. His legs, motionless as he maneuvers on the court, are thin as sticks from not being used any more and I can tell he's got no movement from the waist down. I feel for the guy. He might have been a star athlete once but now he's just like the rest of the guys in this room in chairs. It's a pretty leveling thing, ending up in a wheelchair.

The game's going pretty well; our team may not have a player like Jackson, but we've got determination mixed in with our respectable skills. I'm on the sidelines but just being with the team is cool.

It's cool, but man, I really want to play...

At half time, we're ahead by two baskets. I look over to where Jim is sitting and he waves again. I'd love to go over there and talk to him and I'm just thinking about doing that, when Tony calls my name.

"Blair! I want you to go in when the second half starts," he says and it's like he told me I won the lottery. I'm thrilled, but at the same time, an unexpected nervousness strikes me.

"Are you sure, Tony? I mean, I know we're ahead, but... "

"Blair, if I didn't think this was the right time for you to go in the game, I wouldn't put you in. You're new, but you're good. I mean that."

Hearing that means even more to me than being told I was going to play. I grin and slap Tony five. This is gonna be so great!

We've got a couple of minutes and I've gotta tell Jim. I can't wait to get out there, with him watching me. It'll be almost like old times, when we played together. I used to love to go one on one with him. He loved to tease me, and always tried to use his height advantage to keep the ball from me, but he couldn't always beat me. Even though he was taller, I had skills he had to work to keep up with.

I maneuver through the people near our bench and go around the outside of the floor to find Jim. I spot him easily enough. He's standing near the door, obviously looking for me. I roll up to him and I can't stop beaming.

"I'm going in the game! Right after the half!"

"That's great, Chief! You go get 'em!" Jim claps me on the shoulder and I see that his eyes are all lit up.

Then I notice something else too. He called me 'Chief' -- god, he's always used my first name ever since the accident. No more 'Sandburg' and no more 'Chief' either. It was weird. I didn't mind him using my first name; it used to be a sort of fantasy of mine that in a moment of intimacy he'd call me Blair. But I liked 'Chief' as a nickname. It even felt like an endearment at times. Yet Jim didn't seem to be able to use that after I got hurt, any more than he could call me Sandburg.

I grin back at him, not sure whether I should tell him I noticed. Maybe it just slipped out or maybe, since we've been getting so close again, he feels it's okay to use it. Whatever, I don't think I should say anything. It might make him self conscious. And although that can be one of his endearing qualities, I don't think it would be appropriate at the moment.

"And Tony said he wasn't just putting me in 'cause we're ahead, it was because I was a good player. Isn't that...?" Jim seems distracted. His attention is on something behind me.

Jim is looking at someone and his eyes have gone hard and cop-like. There's a tension running through his body that I can feel even with two feet of space between us.

"Jim, what --?"

"What the fuck does he think he's doing here?" Jim grates, not even seeming aware that I was asking him what was going on. He's totally focused on whatever has him so agitated.

I turn in my chair and it only takes a second for me to comprehend Jim's reaction.

It's Bill Bookman. He's here at the game.

All at once, I don't care any more about the idea of playing. I just want to get out of here and forget I ever saw the guy. I hadn't expect such a visceral reaction to seeing him. It's been weeks and we have the restraining order against him now. I was totally thrown.

Jim's hand on my shoulder was a welcome anchor for my careening emotions. Instead of the anger he'd been emanating from the first instant he noticed Bill, Jim was calm and soothing to me. I put my hand up to cover his on my shoulder.

"Should we get the cops to get rid of him?"

"That would be one way of handling it," Jim said grimly and I know he'd rather toss Bill out of here himself.

Then, on top of the shock of seeing him have the nerve to come to the game, I see Bill heading toward the front row of spectators, the row in front of the bleachers. The one where the people in wheelchairs sit. He's noticed Sherry and he's heading straight for her.

"Wait a minute," Jim says, his voice hard and angry. He's seen Bookman's intentions too. "No way. Not on your life, scum bag." He's away from my side and moving toward the bleachers without saying another word.

"Jim!" He doesn't stop.

I push forward, desperate to stop him. I'd wanted for this to be a good evening!

"Jim! Stop!" I grab for his wrist and he stops, turning to see what I want.

"Blair, I'll take care of this," he says in a voice that's too patient, too pat, one that clearly said he wasn't going to take 'no' from anyone.

Anyone but me. "Jim. Please."

He looks at me and his face goes in an instant from annoyance to concern. "I'm not going to beat him up again."

"That's not what I mean," I say, suddenly more sure about how to handle the situation than anything I've done in the last year. I look up at Jim, putting every ounce of sincerity I can in my expression. "He's bothering Sherry. She's one of my students. She was the first person here that I talked to about my accident." I look into Jim's eyes. "I'm going to take care of this.

And Jim knows that I mean every syllable.

Still, he clearly has misgivings. "Blair... " I can see the battle he's waging, part of him wanting to protect me, the other valiantly supportive. "You shouldn't have to deal with him. You've got a restraining order against him."

"And I'm perfectly capable of telling him he's violating it." I take my gaze off Jim and look back to where Sherry is sitting and my anger increases. Bill has joined the girls by sitting on the first row next to Darly and he's leaning forward to talk to Sherry. Looking at Jim again, I reach for his hand. "I have to take care of this, Jim."

Jim looks at me and I know he understands. His hand clenches hard on mine. "I'll back you up if you need me, partner."

"I always need you." My eyes hold his a moment longer, then I turn to head toward the spectators.

When I get close enough, I can see how uncomfortable Sherry is and I remember the conversation we had in my office about Bill, how she knew he'd dated a girl who was an amputee and that Sherry found him creepy.

He was paying so much attention to her, he hadn't noticed my approach. "You've got a lot of nerve, Bookman, coming here where I'm playing basketball."

He jerked in startlement and turned to look at me, but I could tell he wasn't surprised to see me.

"It's a public place, Blair. I have every right to be here." It was the most cutting tone of voice I'd heard him use.

"No, you don't. No one has a right to come harass people, no matter where it is."

Bill glances out of the corner of his to see what Sherry's reaction was. "Sorry, sweetie," he says, his voice going silky again. "This guy is some kind of a weirdo."

"No, he's not," Sherry says tartly. "He's my teacher."

I flash her a grin, then look back at Bill. "And you're bothering her. I think you should leave now."

"I don't." He looks at me, eyes moving directly to my legs. I'm wearing athletic shorts, the long ones, but they're tucked under my legs, making my amputations obvious. He glances back to meet my eyes. "I like it here."

A shudder of revulsion runs through me, but I fight it off, keeping my face calm and determined, meeting his eyes with total confidence. That's the important part, not blinking. I remember staring down Garrett Kincaid when he took over the police station the day I first got my credentials to ride with Jim. That was a life and death situation but I didn't lose it and I did pretty well against an armed terrorist. Bill isn't a criminal like Garrett Kincaid, but in its own way, this situation is life and death for me too.

"I don't care if you like here it. That restraining order I took out against you says you can't be within five hundred feet of me."

"Like I said," Bill responds with exaggerated enunciation, "it's a public place. Besides, how was I supposed to know that you were going to be here? I just came to watch the game."

"I don't care. I want you out. I can call the police and you'll be in jail. Or I can throw you out."

Again Bill rakes his eyes over my body. "Yeah, right." he snorts and tries to turn back to Sherry again, as though she'd put up with his obnoxious behavior. As he does, he notices something over my shoulder.

"Oh, I can see why you're so confident tonight," he tells me sarcastically. "I see you have your bodyguard with you. The tough guy." He puts a hand up to rub at his cheek and I can see the broken bone that Jim inflicted.

I turn slightly and find Jim standing about ten feet away, his cold eyes staring unflinchingly at Bill, though he's making no threatening moves.

He's leaving me on my own to do this. He trusts that I can do it myself. Jim's faith in me boosts my confidence. I turn back to Bill.

"I don't need a bodyguard to deal with with a wuss like you. You like to get your kicks from hanging around watching people who've lost limbs. Is that because you don't have all your body parts too?" I let my eyes roam down his body now, stopping at his crotch, making it clear what body parts I'm referring to.

Bill's face goes white with fury. He leans forward, fists drawn up menacingly. The fool.

"I guess that hit home," I taunt him again.

"Sonofabitch!" he yells, off the seat and in my face in an instant. Before he can do anything else, my hand is on his collar. He's so shocked his voice cuts off mid-curse.

I pull him even closer, enough that my breath hits him in the face. "How would you like to be thrown out of here by an amp, Bill? Most people would be humiliated by something like that. But I guess you'd like it. Come on, let me give you a thrill." With that, still holding his collar, I start to turn, fully intending to drag him to the exit.

Bill sputters another curse at me and his hands come up as though to push away from me.

"If you put your hands on me, you're dead." I can hardly believe the hiss in my voice, the surge of adrenaline rushing through me. It's like when Jim and I were on the streets. I feel no fear. Just disgust for this guy who I'd let into my home. "I want you out and I want you out now. And if I hear you ever talk to Sherry again, I'll have you locked up. You come anywhere near me or any of my friends again or set foot in this gym and I'll make sure your probation officer knows and you end up behind bars."

All of a sudden, I'm aware of the silence around me. I'm in the middle of a noisy confrontation, all eyes are turned my direction. I hadn't meant to call attention to myself, to make a scene or to cause anyone to be uncomfortable. Realizing that we could be in the midst of a real fight in the next few seconds, I release Bill's collar and roll back from him a few feet.

Not backing down, I mutter, "I mean that. You'd better get going now."

His face white, Bill finally straightens up, trying to act nonchalant. He smoothes his jacket back into position and with a scornful look at me, he turns to leave. It's then that I notice the security guard who was on his way over to intervene if need be. He stops, his eyes on Bill. I'm confident Bill will be leaving the building.

Just then, the whistle sounds. Half time is over. The game is starting again. I've gotta play. My head is spinning with what just happened. I've gotta refocus, get it together. No time to react to the confrontation.

A warm, calm presence has moved up behind me. I turn my head and find Jim's eyes on me. They are glowing with real pride, and so much love.

"I think he got the message," he says in his typical 'man of few words' style. "Pretty good work there, partner."

"Thanks." I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair. "I've gotta go get ready to play. Talk about this later?"

"Sure." Jim squeezes my shoulder as he passes on his way regain his seat in the bleachers.

I wheel over to the team as quick as I can, ready to apologize for making a scene. Carlos rolls up to me first, his gloved hand out-stretched. "You did it, Blair-ito! Good going, man!"

"Huh?" I'm taken by surprise, confused for a second.

Carlos grabs my hand in his firm grip. "You got rid of that idiot. I couldn't hear what you told him, but I can bet it wasn't too nice."

The others are surrounding me now, all congratulating me. Here I'd thought I'd embarrassed the team and instead they're applauding me. My face heats up so I guess I'm blushing.

"I've gotta tell you," says Tony, "you've got guts. That was cool. And not only did you get rid of someone who was causing trouble to you personally, you helped that girl he was trying to make a move on -- "

"I know her, " I interrupt to tell him. "She's one of my students."

"Whether you know her or not, you still did something good for her by keeping Bookman away from her. And not just her, you've helped all the amputees who come to use this gym today, Blair. They don't need guys like that hanging around here any more than you do."

Wow... I hadn't been thinking about doing a service to a whole community, but I guess I did.

"Come on, man," Tony says, "we've gotta get back. You ready to play?"

"Am I ever," I respond. The adrenaline is still firing through me, and I feel like I could roll my way from here to New York City without getting tired.

The other four guys who are going to start the next period roll up to confer with Tony. It's Carlos, Phil and Taevon. As I pull my hair back into its holder, we listen to Tony's instructions and Carlos again leads the cheer to galvanize us. Just then the whistle sounds again and we head to the court.

I'm playing forward. I get the ball easily and move it down the court. It's cool to do it, with the ball in my lap and me concentrating to remember I only get two pushes between bounces. Phil is guarding me and we're going to get the ball to Carlos so he can shoot. Jackson and another guy from the other team rush up, their chairs colliding as they push into our group. We've gotta keep the ball from them so we can set Carlos up.

Taevon gets the ball and he charges further up the court. I follow, ready to take the ball when he needs to hand it off to me. I'm surrounded by panting, sweating men in wheelchairs, their motion a blur, the noise of the crowd a din in the background. My concentration's intense. I don't need to slip up and get knocked out of my chair or lose the ball the other team.

I can do this, I can do this. I'm chanting the words in my head, hoping I can just manage not to mess up when Taevon heaves the ball in my direction. I get it, managing to keep Jackson from getting it, then wheel down the court again. I can do this, I can do this.

I can feel Jim's gaze on me, though I'm moving too fast to pick him out on the sidelines. I want to do good for the team, sure, but it's Jim I'm really playing for. Look, I want to tell him, I'm okay. I'm alive and well and playing basketball for the Baltimore Harbor Wheelers. You never expected to see me do this, did you? I never expected to be able to do it. But I'm doing it and I love it. I'm so glad I'm alive!

The whistle blows and we stop play, roll back to briefly guzzle some water and listen to Tony's coaching before the final period begins. It looks like I'm doing okay; he's not taking me out of the game. We scored two baskets, but so did the D.C. Devils, with Jackson making both of them. The guy is hot, really cooking, but his team isn't as good on the defense or they wouldn't have allowed us to make the points we've scored.

Final period of the game. I wheel out with others, my heart pounding, still anxious not to mess up. I can't get over confident, can't let my mind wander. But just for a second, I take the time to scan the crowd. It's easy to pick out Jim. He's in the back row, but standing up, easily visible against the white wall. He's wearing his Jags cap and that gives me a good feeling. When he sees I'm looking at him, he gives me a thumbs up signal and a grin.

God, when he looks at me like that, a feeling rushes me that nearly takes my breath away. It's love; love in his eyes, love in every line of his body. I love you too, Jim. I want to show you...

I tear my thoughts from Jim to the game, alert to get the ball and move it down the court. Jackson looks determined to score more this time, to get the score on his teams' side and win the game. I know basketball games can be won in the last second, so I'm not letting him worry me. I want us to win, though. And I think we can do it. This is our night. My night. I can feel it in my bones.

Jackson has the ball and tries to get into position to shoot. His guards come up with him, fast, moving to cut off Taevon. There's the noise of metal striking metal as the chairs bang against each other. One of Jackson's teammates pulls ahead with the ball.

Phil goes in to see if he can get it back. He races ahead of the guy, pulling into a hard right to cut him off. But he's misjudged it, turning too short and with another big crash, the chairs collide, the D.C. player's chair tipping sideways. Before I can blink, he's out of the chair and on the floor.

Damn. I had hoped that wouldn't happen. I feel like I was the one hit and thrown out. I wasn't using my seat belt and the guy on the floor wasn't either. As we wait for him to get re-seated, I reach down and pull my belt into position, locking it around my hips.

Phil helps the D.C. player holding the fallen guy's chair. Competition has stopped for this moment, all players understanding the logistics of what's needed, helping regardless of their team affiliation. In a few moments, the player is back in his seat and the game proceeds.

It's all a blur now. I'm not thinking, just moving, letting my body's knowledge of the sport take over. I'm following my team up and down the court, propelling the ball to an open player or making sure it's where it needs t be for the shooter to pluck it out of the air and aim for the backboard.

It's going to be close. We haven't scored and the Devils did, pulling ahead by one basket. The clock is ticking down fast. We're down by the basket, when Jackson fouls Phil, touching him as the ball is being passed to him. Phil goes t the foul line and we sit by, watching him get ready to shoot. He hoists the ball, lets it leave his hand and it sinks into the basket, giving us a point away from a tie with the Devils. Taevon and Carlos get the ball and start passing the it back and forth, but each time Carlos tries to shoot, he misses the opportunity. The guy guarding him is just too good, despite Carlos' agility.

Only seconds now. I won't give in though, my eyes strainingly alert, looking for any opportunity. There -- I see it.

"I'm open, I'm open!" I yell, realizing the other teams guards are distracted.

Carlos looks up, the ball in his hands. He pins me with his eyes, fixing my position. He throws the ball.

I have to get it . Yes! Now turn, lift, eye the basket and heave with all my strength --

The whistle signals the end of the game. there's a split second of silence, but it must be only in my head. My whole concentration fixed on the ball leaving my fingers, its progress through the air, I'm not breathing, I'm not sure my heart is even beating, I see what I'd hoped to -- the ball dropping through just as the whistle ends the game.

Two points -- I made two points -- that puts us ahead --

We won! We won by a point -- a point that I made!

The sound comes back on after a split second and I can hear cheering and my name being yelled in a cheer. The crowd is on their feet, surging forward toward the court and my whole team is surrounding me, clapping me on the back and grinning and cheering me. God, this is unbelievable. This is so cool. This is... god, it's like a miracle.

There's so much noise, so much confusion, I'm getting disoriented. Dizzy, from the commotion, the tight concentration I'd needed to use, from the altercation with Bill. I'm almost woozy, glad I hooked my seat belt.

"Whoa!" Strong hands grip my shoulders as a form stops in front of me. It's Jim, looking like he's going to burst. "You did it, Chief. You won the game!" And he's hugging me close, blotting out the team, the yelling people, the gym, the world. I dig my fingers into his biceps, feeling a surge of delight and pleasure race down my spine. I can't remember feeling this good.

"Man, that was so cool," Blair says for the hundredth time as we return to the apartment. He's on top of the world, riding high, and I wouldn't tell him to stop saying it for anything.

I think it's pretty cool, too. I flash back to a year ago, even six months ago, and see a different man than the one still reliving the game. Then he was pale, hurting, depressed and withdrawn. Now, like daylight after the darkest night, he's lit up from within, skin glowing, eyes bright and sparkling, hands gesturing, full of life and eagerness. So much like the old Blair Sandburg I feel myself getting choked up. He's practically bouncing in that chair and the thought tugs at my heart, a bittersweet feeling flooding me as I still grieve for what's been lost but revel in the good things, the knowledge that inside that broken shell, my Blair still lives and now he's coming back to me.

"Jim? You okay? Are you still listening?" he asks, half concerned, half teasing. "You're not getting bored with the play by play are you?"

"With this play by play? Never. This one should go in the hall of fame."

"Yeah, it should. I wonder if there's a wheelchair basketball hall of fame. If there isn't, we could start one."

He's off and running with the idea, sharp mind ticking off the possibilities. All I have to do is listen and nod and smile at him. No problem there. I'm so proud of him I could listen to the game story another hundred times, just to watch his expressions as he tells it, just to bask in the sound of his voice and the deep blue of his eyes.

I head for the couch, nodding and agreeing and he follows behind me, still chattering, high as a kite though we had nothing stronger to drink at the restaurant after the game than lemonade. I flip on the round wall light fixture as I pass, then sit on the futon. He parks right in front of me.

The light hits his face and I'm speechless at the sight of him. He's a beautiful man, a face like a dream, boyish and mature, handsome and mysterious, huge eyes and full lips, and the full force of his personality is directed at me. He's wearing his glasses which make him look cute and sexy and his hair is falling free of his tie. He's wearing that black leather jacket of his over an open necked shirt. I find myself fascinated with the planes of his face, the way his lips move as they form the words.

He's a complex man, one who's gone through so many changes since I've known him, though none as profound as this most recent ordeal. It's not really over, I can't change reality, though God knows, if there was anything I could do to bring back his legs, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But now that he's coming out of the worst of the nightmare, I think he -- I think both of us, have started to realize that our new reality might be a pretty good place to exist. Any reality would suit me fine, as long as he's part of it.

"Jim, you've got a sappy look on your face," I hear him say.

"I do?" I answer, making no attempt to change it.

"Yeah, you do," he says, looking me over appraisingly. "Do I have one on my face too?"

"Oh yeah. You're pretty full of yourself right now."

"Hey, I've got good reason to feel that way," he pouts, drawing my gaze to his mouth again.

"You do," I answer but my eyes stay glued on his lips. "You pulled it off, won the game and threw the bad guy out of the gym -- I'd say you pretty much deserve to."

"Yeah. And I want to celebrate," he declares, his eyes sparkling a little more brightly as he makes the statement.

"The party at the restaurant wasn't celebration enough?" I say, openly flirting, suggesting with my eyes that I can think of a way to celebrate with him. I hesitate, wary of pushing things too far with him yet.

"Nope," he answers. "I think I want to celebrate some more."

There's a subtle difference in his voice, a gleam in his eye. He gazes at me and the look makes heat rush through me. God, Blair, if you don't stop looking at me like this, I can't be responsible for my actions.

I swallow, feeling how dry my mouth is right now. "How can I help you with your celebration?" I ask, letting my voice make the question suggestive, putting the ball in his court.

"Hmmm... " Blair gives it some thought, then he smiles. "Just a second... "

Before I can say a word, he's pushing himself up out of the chair, reaching for me, and I automatically reach back, supporting him as he climbs over to me on the futon.

Instead of sliding over to sit beside me, he settles on my lap, facing me, his thighs on either side of my hips.

Oh god...

The proximity.

The intimacy.

What is he doing to me?

The weight of him is intoxicating. I can feel my body react, sparks of arousal starting where our bodies meet. He's going to make me crazy if he stays where he is.

"Jim?" he asks, his voice going soft. He shifts to get closer, thighs clamping against my hips, chest moving forward 'til it brushes mine. He doesn't stop, rising up on his thighs so his head is above mine, taking my head between his hands, fingers lightly stroking through my hair and his eyes looking down into mine. For a moment, nothing is said. Then his eyes flick down to look at my mouth.

"You look so good, Jim," he says in an intimate whisper, eyes never leaving my mouth. My arms go around and under him, pulling him to me more tightly; I'm caught in his spell, waiting for whatever he might give me. He lifts up, not seeming to mind a bit when my hands go under his butt to support him.

He's still studying my mouth, as though contemplating what to do with it. I'm gazing at him, full of love and desire, holding my breath in anticipation.

He doesn't disappoint me. He leans down slowly, lips pursed and ready, mine feeling like they could reach up to meet his.

At last he brings our mouths together, his moist lips clinging to mine, tasting and giving at the same time. We've kissed many times, and I've enjoyed it, but there's something different now. He's kissing me as eagerly as he has before, but somehow there's more... purpose in his kiss. The change is devastating. I'm being swept away, wanting him more than anything I've ever wanted in my life.

"Jim... " He breaks the kiss, moaning my name, then dives back to my mouth again.

The sounds propels me into full arousal. My every nerve seems alive with need. I'm shaking, balanced on a knife edge between fear and surrender. I vowed I wouldn't push him, but I'm beginning to burn with desire so strong I don't know if I can stop. Can't he feel...?

"Jim," he says breathlessly, his wet lips hovering over mine. "You're hard, aren't you?"

The question sends a current of electricity straight to my already aching groin. I don't know whether to be embarrassed or flippant. Neither... "Yes... you feel so good, sitting on me this way... "

He shifts slightly, pushing his crotch into mine and I think I'm going to pass out. Blair, don't do that unless you mean it, baby...

He pulls back slightly to meet my gaze, then very deliberately leans back just a bit and puts his hands on the collar of my shirt. He slides them to the top button and with calm assurance, slips it open. Just that action sends another tingle of need coursing through me. He opens a second button, then carefully parts my shirt enough to allow him access to my throat. He leans in and puts his lips against my skin, kisses me there, then licks, then sucks just a little, tenderly, before moving over half an inch to do the same. He treats my throat to his adoration for long moments and when he's done, my head is spinning. I can't see, can't hear, can't think...

He undoes another button and shifts to lower his head again, but I push him back, meeting his eyes in helpless need.

"I just want to make you feel good, Jim," he tells me. "I feel like... I want to show you how I feel tonight. I think... " He pauses, swallows hard. "Would you touch me, please? I'd like to try... "

Would I touch you? That's like asking a man dying of thirst if he'd care for a drink of water. And yet, the responsibility weighs on me. I want, so badly, to be able to give his body good feelings. No more hurt, not ever... "Please... " I gasp out, the last word of my thought spilling from my lips in anxious need.

And in response, he leans back a little, putting enough space between us so that I can put my hands on him. I keep my left arm around him to hold him steady while my right hand comes around to his front, up to touch first his lips. His eyes lock with mine as his lips nibble my fingers. My breath hitches, just that tiny intimacy escalating my need. I trail my fingers down his chin to his throat, then down his shirt front, the fiber of the fabric itself enough to push me higher. I reach his belt, but can't bring myself to touch it, to open it, and move down further to where our groins are pressing together. There, it's obvious how hard I am.

He looks down, watching my progress, so I carefully continue 'til my hand is over his crotch, touching lightly first, then with more pressure. He sighs.

Emboldened, I stroke over the area again, a little more explicitly this time. We shift simultaneously, so he can open his legs a little more, giving me greater access. I stroke him again, adding a little squeeze and he moans, the sound ending in a little gasp.

"Jim -- " His voice is desperate, surprised, needy.

"More?" I whisper, knowing the answer but needing to hear it, knowing that I'll give whatever he wants.

"Yeah... "

I give his crotch another stroke and squeeze, then boldly start to undo his belt. He leans back more, shoving his jacket further aside, making me aware only then that we're both still wearing them. And neither of us seems to care. I reach for his belt again, this time pulling it out of the buckle, the sound of the leather flipping back and forth and the metal clinking seeming loud in our intent silence. Once the belt is open, I move to the snap of his jeans and it yields to my fingers so that only his zipper stands in my way.

He breaths out heavily, and I glance up, encouraging him with my eyes, before returning to my task. One handed, I slip the zipper down and reach inside his pants.

It's warm there, the cotton of his boxers feeling like exquisite silk to me. And underneath, his flesh... I have to remember to breath as the idea of actually handling this part of him sets my brain reeling. He shifts a little more, and takes hold of the elastic of his boxers, pulling it away from his waist to allow me access.

Feeling dazed, I reach inside, down to the warm, supple flesh of him, find and circle and lift and ease him out to my gaze.

He's... he's beautiful. I've seen him before, in the awkward intimacy of helping him shower when he was first home from the hospital, but then with forced detachment, both of us embarrassed. But now, with his permission, I can look. Rose colored, living in a nest of dark curls, long even in repose, Blair's penis is the most precious thing on earth to me. He feels so good in my hand... I cup him firmly, then wrap my fingers around his length and carefully stroke him once. I hear him hiss in a breath.

"Blair?" I check, saying it all with the one word: is this okay, does it feel good, do you want more? When he doesn't answer, I look up at him and see how intent his eyes are. He's caught his lower lip between his teeth in anxious anticipation. Apparently unable to speak, he answers me with a vehement nod.

I stroke him again, with more confidence, tightening my fingers around him. I feel his pulse throbbing and my own erection begins to ache in counterpoint. One more stroke, trying my best to make it feel good, to be as sensuous and giving as I can.

"Oh... oh... " he gasps out. "Jim... "

I adjust my grip, every sense on alert for his reactions. "Come on, baby," I whisper.

"Yes..." he sighs, "oh, man... Jim... that's good... "

And I know it is because his body is reacting, the stimulation working. He's coming up in my hand. I'm helping him...

It's slow going, a job requiring patience, but I have that in abundance, and enough love to give him what he needs in little increments, only as much as he can take, not willing to push him or demand too much too soon, and gradually, he continues to firm and lengthen for me.

"I.. " he whispers, "I tried... but it just barely started... and then it wouldn't... " Confessing his defeat, his voice is small.

"Let me," I tell him. "Don't worry, there's no time-table... it's working, just give yourself time... " He nods, his bottom lip sucked into his mouth again, his eyes hot and desperate.

Blair was always a man of passions, for his work, for life, for sexual fulfillment. In my heart, I know he still is, always will be. I can give his passion back to him... god please, let me do this for him...

He tries to lean back more, and I bring my left arm up around his waist to steady him. The result is greater access for me, and I renew my strokes with persuasive intent.

For a long time, the only sound is our breathing and the soft rubbing of flesh on flesh. Blair is half hard. My balls are in knots. But I'm willing to keep going as long as he needs. I hear a groan of frustration and look up into his eyes.

"It's... it's okay, Jim... you don't have to... I mean, this was so... so good of you to do this... but it's... it's not... "

"Let me," I beg him. "You relax. You're ready, it just takes time. Don't push yourself, just let it happen. Look at what you did tonight, Blair. You put a bully in his place, you threw the winning basket..." I look up at him, catching and holding his gaze, "and you're going to come."

The word does something to him. He moans again, his tongue coming out to lick at his lips, and I lean up for a quick kiss, all the while still stroking him. I make the kiss intense, pushing my tongue into his mouth hungrily. When I feel a reaction in his dick, I pull my mouth free.

"You've got to tell me," I manage to say. "Tell me what you like, what you need."

"Oh... okay." His voice is endearingly agreeable. "Yeah... good idea." He takes a deep breath. "Like that, only tighter."

I follow the suggestion and he rocks back a little. I feel the result as, with a little pulse, he firms a little more.

"Oh, man... " He sounds as terrified as he does eager.

"It's okay, it's okay," I soothe him, never stopping. "Just feel. Feel how good this is. Feel how it's my hand doing you. You're mine, Blair. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm yours... " he promises. I hear a loud, wet gulp, then he goes on. "You know, that's what I thought. What you said a minute ago, about what I was going to do tonight. You know, like when you've gotten out from under a big project or done something really cool, you just... feel free to... huhhhh... oh, god, Jim... Jim..."

"What, love?" I whisper. "More? Like this?"

"Mmmnnnmmm... yes, please, yes." He breathes heavily a couple of times, then speaks again. "Jim... I want you too... Please?"

Confused for a second, I look up questioningly.

"You're already so hard... I want to take yours out, put us together. Okay?"

The idea sends my temperature soaring and I realize my trapped cock will welcome the release, is desperate for stimulation.

"Yeah," I affirm for him. "Yes."

My hands are busy, so Blair handles things, quickly undoing my belt and zipper, adjusting his position enough so that we're still groin to groin but with enough room for him to reach into my boxers and bring out my dick.

I gasp in reaction when I feel his fingers close around me, so close already that I'm scared I'll come all over him before he's ready. "Easy, easy, careful," I beg him quickly.

He makes a sound of agreement, then shifts again, so that we're closer, so we can fit together in my hand, so that I can stroke us both. My hard column against his not yet quite stiff one... no matter, we're together, we're making love.

The idea is nearly enough to push me over the edge but I hold back with desperate control, wanting to bring him with me.

"Oh man," he grinds out, "that looks... that feels... oh man... "

"That's it, honey, feel us, watch us." I change my stroke a little and he groans in reaction, his hips beginning to move with my rhythm. "You're gonna get there. It's gonna happen."

"I know, I know... god, Jim... I know... "

He starts rocking on me, grinding his hips forward to push into my heated crotch, adding to our stimulation. I'm pumping him harder now, increasing the pace, watching for responses. When his cock is almost firm, I look up at him, smiling.

"See how hard you're getting? Is that for me, Blair?"

"Jim... yes... " He's breathless. "It's for you. Only you... "

"Lover... " I continue, building the pace, feeling the build up of pressure in my balls, the blood racing through my veins. It's racing through his veins too. I can tell, I can feel it.

Images of sensation cascade over me in dizzying intensity. I'm feeling colors, seeing music, smelling forests and tasting emotion. Focus, I tell myself. Don't lose it. You need to take care of Blair... focus on Blair...

He's a god of the forest, beautiful in my eyes now and always... independent and fearless, he comes to me, asks me to give him a gift of love. I've prayed to give it to him, I've waited so long. He's smooth and stiff and steamy in my hand. Moisture is leaking from his tip and I smooth it wantonly down his length. He moans out in abandon, primal in his growing need. I look up to see his face and find him transported, head thrown back, hair bouncing with our grinding thrusts, his throat and forehead and upper lip beaded with sweat.

I bring my other hand into play, cupping soft mounds that hide his delicate jewels. I tease them playfully, smiling at his gasps of pleasure. He's getting harder, thicker. My hand is moving rapidly now, begging his arousal, pushing it higher. His hand drops to my body, wrapping itself around my own needful length and I'm catapulted into desperation. Yet I force myself to hold on, hold back, wanting only to pleasure him first, never mind about me. This is for him, for my guide, my shaman, my lover... for Blair.

"Come for me, sweetheart... come for me... feel it... come... come now, Blair."

He's gasping, crying out as though in pain when the blessed contractions begin. His erection jumps in my grip and I feel the fluid gathering, ready. Between the two of us, we're probably generating enough heat to light New York City.

"Oh... oh god... oh god, Jim... yes... I can feel it... I'm gonna come... " And he hisses in a breath of ultimate satisfaction, his cock and his whole body jerking hard.

I'm focusing tighter, harder, all my being concentrated on him. He yells out his completion... a cry that cuts into my soul. His semen flows, up and out and over my hand and my own cock and our clothes. The sight, the sound, the smell, the feel... they're all too much to me, heightened beyond comprehension... I'm craving one last sensation to make my soul complete.

He looks up at me, his face swimming in my constantly refocusing vision. All I know are his eyes, blue sapphires, and his lips. His lips come to mine, his tongue parts my lips and slides effortlessly into my mouth...

...and I can taste him. Completed, something short circuits in my brain, sending me spiraling out of control. I'm spasming, screaming, crying, falling... pleasure overloads all my senses and I feel every nerve in my body jolt again and again and again....

I'm running in the forest... power rippling through my body as I bound over fallen trees and leap past tangled foliage. I am seeking something I have not found in a long time. I scent the air, prick up my ears... let out a roar of need and longing...

There -- so close... please... let it be... I feel the fur on my back stand up in anticipation...

That scent... that sound... yes... it's the wolf I have been seeking... I plunge through the trees for a small distance and at last find him...

He's running too, eyes lock with mine... our bodies strain to reach each other... He isn't maimed as I had feared... yes... come to me...

I leap and he leaps... we come together, we merge... we are one...

"Oh, god... Jim... that was incredible... " I try to catch my breath after the unbelievable orgasm. Incredible because I thought I might never have one again and incredible because it was so hard. I thought I was going to keep ejaculating forever. Nothing ever felt so good, nothing ever felt so right, as Jim and I making love. And the vision... I can't wait to find out if he saw the same thing I did...

"Jim?" I push my hair out of my eyes and straighten up from my position of leaning against him. "Jim?"

Oh god...

He's sprawled under me, his head on the back of the futon, eyes open and staring. He seems to be barely breathing. I reach out and touch his face. No response... What?

If I didn't know better... I'd say he looked like he was zoned.

"Jim?" My heart starts pounding now, worried and confused. "Jim, can you hear me?" I stroke his cheek softly, trying to get him to respond.

He must have passed out. He couldn't be zoned, couldn't he? Looking down, I see what a mess I made of him, of his shirt and jeans. Well, he did help... I should really do something about that though before he wakes up. It's the least I can do.

Awkwardly, I climb off his lap. It's tricky with my pants open and without Jim's help. I manage to get moved to his left and shuck out of my pants, then transfer to my chair and wheel into the bathroom. I grab a washcloth and run some warm water over it, washing my dick and lower belly, feeling residual tingles wash through my newly sensitive flesh. I pull off my jacket, hanging it on the doorknob, then my shirt and toss it into the laundry basket. Naked, I head to the bedroom and pull some sweats out of my drawer and get into them. Wheeling back to the bathroom, I grab a clean cloth and wet it, then head back to Jim.

Jim's still passed out on the couch. I transfer back to the futon, settling beside him, and use the damp cloth to wipe over and around his now lax penis and balls, tender feelings washing over me. I look up, and see he's still staring unfocused into space. I take a clean corner of the cloth and wipe it over his face. Still no reaction. Worried, I reach to take turn his face toward me.

"Jim, listen to the sound of my voice. Focus on my voice, Jim. Come on, come on back to me... "

For a moment, I can't think of anything else but how beautiful he is. I love the planes of his face, his strong jaw, his handsome features, the startling crystal blue of his eyes. His mouth looks so inviting, so perfect. Drawn by it, I lean to him and press a kiss to those open lips. They're so soft...

With a gasp, he seems to startle back from wherever he had gone. "Blair?" His voice is hoarse and strained.

"Right here." Unbelievably, he winces in reaction. "Jim?" Again, his eyes squint as though something is hurting him. "Jim, what is it?" I ask loudly.

Both hands come up to cover his ears and he looks at me wildly. I lean toward him and he flinches back.

"Jim what is it?"

"Sss... shhh... " He hisses.

What?

"Jim -- " I repeat, softer this time.

"Not so loud!"

Oh my god.

"Is this better?" I ask, barely whispering. The wild blue eyes don't flinch in response this time and he nods. "Jim, tell me what you're feeling."

He swallows audibly. I notice that he's squinting, head canted away from the light to our side.

"It's... " he gasps, "too much... too loud, too bright... everything... "

"Easy, take it easy... " Lightly, I stroke his cheek. He leans into the comforting touch, so I take that as a good sign. "Jim... is it your senses?"

The wonder that floods his face is beautiful. He raises up, eyes traveling the room, then he looks at me again.

His hands come up to frame my face. "Blair... love... yes... "

He leans closer and brings our mouths together in a hungry kiss, his tongue sliding into my mouth, and I know he's using his Sentinel senses to taste me now. His fingers reach up to sink into my hair and he combs through my curls, his fingers trembling. I'm trembling too, at the super light touch that I know is sending him so much information.

He breaks the kiss after long moments of seeming to savor my taste and pulls back far enough to look at me. His pupils are dilated, his eyes seeming to still be bothered by the light. He loosens one hand from my hair and using sensitive fingertips, begins to trace my features, skimming across my forehead, down my nose, over my cheekbones. He looks at me intently, one finger delicately tracing my eyelashes. It tickles, feels like a butterfly kiss. His finger trails down my nose and goes to my lips where it carefully outlines them, seeming fascinated by their shape and texture. I part them slightly and the finger slips into my mouth. I touch it with my tongue, eyes on Jim's to catch his reaction. He doesn't disappoint me. My tickling tongue on his fingertip registers, widening his eyes and making them go hot and unfocused. I close my lips around his finger, sucking it deeper into my mouth and Jim begins to tremble under me.

"Oh man... " I say, attempting to speak around his very interested finger. I grasp his wrist and pull his finger from my mouth. "This is awesome... "

His eyes look into my and I see concern clouding them. "Do you... do you think they might stay?"

The question tugs at my heart. "Are you worried they won't?"

He nods.

"Do you remember anything specific about how they returned?"

He hesitates, as though gathering his thoughts, trying to remember. "When we... everything got heightened... and I... " his eyes widen in wonder. "And I saw the the panther. No, I was the panther, running through the jungle. Looking for you, for the wolf. And we saw each other and we leapt together... "

"Yes!" That's what I saw in my own mind as I slipped into orgasm. We shared the same vision. "Come on in man, the water's fine... " I murmur.

"You said that to me in the hospital, after... after the fountain," he breathes.

"It happened again. I saw us leap together too. We're together, man. Where we've always been meant to be."

It's like a miracle. The two of us together, Jim regaining his senses, me regaining the ability to love him physically.

Jim is still looking at me with wonder in his eyes. "I... feel strange. I'm not used to this anymore. It's all over the place. Out of control."

"We'll just have to practice again," I tell him, completely unworried. "It's been a long time Jim. It's bound to take some time to adjust. But I'm here. I'll help you."

He looks me over, his eyes so loving it makes me blush. "Yes. You're here."

He's kissing me again and in his touch, I sense a need that wasn't there the first time. He needs to experience us with his senses. He's running his hands up and down my back, kissing me deeply, passionately, as though at any moment his senses might desert him and he wants to fill himself up with everything about me before it's too late.

"Easy... easy, Jim. I'm right here." I try to slow the pace, worried that he might zone again if he tries to sense too much too soon.

"Blair... " He kisses me again, desperately. "Need you... please... "

He's literally shaking. With his powerful arms locked around me, he starts bearing me down on my back. I can feel his erection against my thigh. God, he's that hard again?

For a second, I think about his ability to come back that fast and question my own. It had been so long and took so much time for me to get it up the first time, I doubt I can. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to be touched.

Jim's hand runs down the length of my side, pushing up my sweatshirt to get his fingers onto bare skin. He gasps as though it's too much to take in along with our kiss and looks down, eyes going wide as he focuses in on our close pressed bodies. He struggles with my shirt, pulling it up and off over my head and tossing it over his shoulder. With that accomplished, he homes in on my chest, nuzzling at my nipples, scenting and tasting, licking and nipping, going from right to left to right and back to the left again. Finally, he latches on to the right, opening his mouth wide over it and licking with his flattened tongue until my nipple hardens even more than it already was. He bites down harder on it then and suckles, and the sweet pleasure-pain of it brings me up so fast I feel dizzy.

Guess that answers that question.

Jim's still at it, still biting, still sucking, and I arch up into his mouth, moaning incoherently begging for more. Jim obliges, closing his teeth over the sensitive nub and flicking his tongue over it rapidly while his teeth pinch. I try to stifle a yell and I hear a wicked chuckle from Jim. He lifts up, off the nipple that seems to strain back toward the stimulation suddenly torn away from it, his eyes lit with a feral glow that tells me how he hungers for this contact. He descends to my chest again, this time treating my left nipple to the torture, while bringing up his thumb and forefinger to pinch and pull at my saliva-slick right one. I'm so turned on I feel like I'm going to faint.

Jim is totally focused, his need and desire like a freight train, no way to stop it. But I'm not trying, just going with it. Jim is a Sentinel, one who'd lost his abilities following emotional trauma. He was like a man who'd willingly gone on a hunger strike who had finally won his reprieve and now found himself at a banquet.

Jim sits up a little, grabbing at the collar of his shirt and fumbling to get it unbuttoned. I reach toward the recalcitrant button, but he bats my hands away as though he doesn't realize I'm trying to help him, and continues on his own, finally gripping the two sides of the shirt and tearing it open, sending buttons flying. He lets me pull the shirt down off his shoulders and hesitates just long enough to get it down his arms and off before resettling on me, bringing our bare chests together for the first time.

The sigh he gives melts my heart. It feels so fabulous, his smooth chest in contact with my hairy one, those perfect pecs of his rubbing my sensitized nips.

He's nuzzling down the center of my chest now, turning his head from side to side to rub his cheeks against my chest hair, his tongue slipping out to taste as he goes. He's getting lower and I know it's only a matter of time till he gets to my waistband.

That's fine, but we don't really have much room here on the futon, set up like a couch as it is now.

"Jim... Jim, stop a second," I murmur.

He doesn't hear me; he's way too focused on what he's doing. "Jim!" I sit up, catching him by surprise with the upper body strength I've developed in recent months. He looks at me with bleary eyes, confused.

I have to smile. His hair's a mess, his mouth is wet and swollen, his eyes are glazed. "Jim, I just want you to wait a minute, okay? I want to open the futon out." He's still just looking at me. "You know, open the bed? So we'll have more room. Then you can get back to what you were doing."

Comprehension dawns but he doesn't answer. While I quickly transfer to my wheelchair, he just gets up and with single-minded concentration pushes the bottom of the futon up, lays it flat and shifted the mattress, efficiently releasing the back to open it out into a bed. He pulls back the covers as I scramble from my chair to what's now the head of our bed. He fixes me with his hot eyes and undoes his pants, quickly stripping out of his jeans and shoes and socks. He starts to climb onto the bed with me, but I put up a hand and say just one word, "Wait."

He stands there before me and, I take the opportunity to look him over, admiring the perfection of his body. He's so tall and long limbed, with that well cut, heavily muscled chest and rock hard biceps, but bare from the waist down, there's so much to look at I don't know where to put my eyes first. Not having seen that part of him as often, I take my time, first letting my gaze travel down his long thighs. They're hard muscled too, but not overly bulging, which I find I like. I glance lower, down past his knees. I used to envy him his legs that are complete, but now, I think that if it had to be one of us, I'm glad it wasn't Jim. I wouldn't have his beauty marred for all the world. His hips are narrow and the flesh of his groin looks smooth and fine. But his cock... whoa... It's standing straight out from his body, hard and dripping, rising from a small patch of dark curls. Underneath, his balls are blush-colored and exquisite.

Having been without sex for so long, I find my appetite coming back quickly and though I haven't done many of the things I used to fantasize about doing with Jim, I'm eager to try. So I scoot across the bed to its edge and, with my thighs on either side of Jim's legs, reach for his dick. Jim makes a questioning sound and I realize I sort of turned the tables on him, since he'd been exploring my body before I stopped him to open out the bed. I realize why I did it, and it wasn't just because he looked so irresistible just now. The next thing he'd probably wanted to do was to take the rest of my clothes off, but I'm not quite ready for that yet.

Still he's not protesting the change in his plans. I spend a few moments just stroking his cock, liking the way it looks and feels in my hand, and when I'm ready, lean closer and open my mouth. He must have his senses wide open, because he makes a low keening sound when I first take in the head and use my tongue to taste the fluid that was there. I glance up and find his eyes watching me, so I work to let as much of his length slide into my mouth as possible. Jim reacts with a helpless moan, his hands coming up to tangle in my hair. While I get used to sucking him, he plays with my hair, his fingers constantly moving through it. Wanting to give him more stimulation, I use one hand to cup and fondle his balls and Jim spreads his legs to accommodate me. His hips are moving now, rocking forward to meet my mouth, plunging his dick deeper every time. His hands are clenched in my hair, not exactly pulling but good and tight. He's panting heavily, and I when I look up at him this time, his head is thrown back in abandon, and sweat covers his chest and throat.

I can tell he's close so I work harder, embellishing on the technique I established when I started, sucking and swishing my tongue over his heated cock as lavishly as I can. Jim's hips start snapping and his balls are drawing up tight so I know it's going to be any second now. On every thrust, he moans, the sound drawn up from deep inside. I squeeze my thighs against his legs to hold him steady. All at once he freezes into stillness, his cock deep within my throat, then his body jerks hard and his come spurts into my mouth, pulsing warm and welcome for me to swallow. He begins to withdraw but I want to lick him some more. When I try, he flinches and gives a little yelp and shakes his head when I look up. Too much, I guess; he's overly sensitive for the moment.

He looks down at me and, still without saying a word, frames my face with his hands and leans down to offer me a kiss. It's gentle and sweet, as though he wants to thank me for making him feel so good. My pleasure, Jim...

Jim's still looking at me with those adoring eyes of his, the expression that turns me into a melting puddle. His eyes are questioning now too, as they return from roaming over what he can see of my bare chest and arms. His hands come up, stroking down my neck, separating at the hollow of my throat to each slide toward one of my shoulders. He's using his fingertips and I watch the play of reactions on his face. For a moment, his hands cup my shoulders, then they slide down my arms caressingly.

Jim looks as though he wants to speak but he's been silent all this time, so I try to encourage him.

"What, Jim? What do you want to tell me?"

He licks his lips. "You've been working out, haven't you?" A little smile plays around his mouth.

"Yeah, I have," I answer. Noting his avid expression, I add, "You like?"

"Yeah," he affirms. "I want to see the rest of you."

The heat that rushes my face takes me by surprise and I'm sure I'm probably blushing. But he's not looking at my face that closely. His eyes are actually on the waist of my sweat pants -- shorts, really. It's time. He wants to see the rest of me. And what can I say after all this -- no? Taking a deep breath, I lay back on the bed, my hands going to the elastic. Jim's hands are there too, and together, we slide the shorts down and off me and Jim helps me slide up to be more in the middle of the mattress.

I'm on the bed on my back, completely naked with my cock hard. I've felt more naked since losing my legs that I ever did in gym class as a kid, but right now, I don't mind. I'm comfortable. When I first got hurt, being seen, even with underwear, even by Jim, made me feel bare, exposed, vulnerable and ashamed. I knew my body would never look 'right' again, so I didn't want anyone to see it. Now, here I am, no way to hide. If I'd ever met someone else to date or to have sex with, I'm sure even then I wouldn't feel that comfortable with them seeing me. But Jim's eyes say there's nothing wrong with what he sees.

Jim moves to lay next to me, resting on his side. I'd hoped he'd just snuggle down on top of me, but maybe he's afraid of putting all his weight on me or something. Or maybe, considering he's watching the progress of his hand as it trails down my stomach. When he reaches my navel, he leans closer, replacing his fingers with his tongue. Before I know it, he's licking every inch of skin he can reach, all across my stomach and down further, giving little nips along the way that send shivery flutters all through my abdomen. Jim descends lower and my heart starts beating faster as I anticipate the first touch of his mouth on my dick.

His hand gets there first, and Jim uses his gentle fingertips to touch every part, to comb through the hair at the base and to trace the entire length of me. My dick is throbbing, the gentle touches just not giving it enough stimulation but keeping it taut and ready for more.

Jim glances up and meets my eyes, whispering one word. "Okay?"

I just nod and stroke the back of his head encouragingly. Jim's smile widens and he leans forward to taste me there at last. He licks it slowly, patiently, finally taking the head into his mouth.

It feels fabulous.

"Ah, Jim, that's good," I encourage, lifting up on one elbow to watch him. His mouth surrounds me, the heat of him warms me, his tongue bathes me and my arousal soars higher and higher. Before I know it, my hips are lifting up, meeting Jim's mouth. His hands grip my hips to hold me... no, to help my thrusts. Oh man... his mouth is fantastic...

It's too good, too much, too fast and before I know it, I'm spending myself down Jim's throat, his wonderful mouth milking me of every drop. There wasn't much this time, but it still felt so good. I didn't think I'd ever be able to do it again, much less come twice in one night. Maybe I really am going to be okay.

Jim settles beside me, his hand still stroking idly up and down my body. I turn to my side, shift back against him just as he scoots forward, bringing us into the position we've grown used to sleeping in. Only this is the first time we're sleeping together naked.

Jim wraps himself close to me, his one arm draped around my waist, pulling me back as close to him as he can get me. His nose nestles against my neck and I can feel his breath on my skin. Against the backs of my thighs, I can feel his legs, and his knees are bent, supporting my thighs. I'm a man with no legs below the knee, but tonight, with Jim, I feel complete.

I wake to the feel of Jim investigating my body again. This time I'm on my stomach, and he's kissing a line down my spine. His hand is on my ass, smoothing and squeezing the muscle there and I revel in his adoration, all inhibitions having fled last night. I'm looking forward to the other things we haven't tried yet but I wasn't sure we'd be starting them this early.

A glance toward the window shows it's early yet. The sky is gray in the way it is when the sun isn't fully up yet. I thought Jim would have slept longer.

"You're up early," I sigh as he kisses my left butt cheek.

He turns his head to the side and rubs his cheek against mine, so to speak. "In more ways than one. Sorry I woke you." He goes back to applying lazy kisses to my posterior.

"I'm not complaining. Hey, that tickles," I laugh. "What woke you so early?"

"My senses. I've forgotten how to dial things down so when the birds started chirping it woke me up. I've been awake for about an hour."

"Gosh, Jim... I'm sorry. We should have worked on your control a little last night."

"It's okay. I was thinking about us," he whispers, his hand moving up to circle my waist. He moves up next to me, turning me over enough to look at him. "I was thinking of all the things I want to do with you."

I flash him a smile. "Is it a long list?"

"Oh yeah," he grins conspiratorially. "Very long."

"When do you want to get started?" I'm wondering if the man is insatiable or something. "You act like it was you who hadn't had sex in a year," I tell him, not accusingly.

He hesitates, his face losing all expression for a moment. Then he shrugs. "What makes you think I have?"

"Jim?" No, he can't mean that.

"Blair, have you known me to have so much as a date since you got hurt?"

Oh my god. I hadn't thought about it that way. I realized he hadn't been going out with anyone while I was so messed up at home and I guess I didn't really think he'd been in a relationship with anyone since I left. But still, wouldn't he go out occasionally to find some no-strings relief? That just didn't seem... right.

He's looking at me as though he can read every thought in my head. "I guess it doesn't seem natural to you for a guy my age to go that long without a partner."

"Okay, a partner. But you've had sex alone, right?"

"Why the twenty questions, Don Juan? Not everybody has to whack off every night of the week, you know."

"Jim... " I lift my hand to caress his face, amazed and aching inside for the way he's deprived himself. If he wants to go again, right now, I'm for it. "I'm here. I'll always be here for you."

He leans down to kiss me and I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around him, and hugging him close. Thinking of what he'd been doing when he woke me, I ask, "So what did you have in mind? I get the feeling it might have something to do with my ass." If that's what he wanted now, okay.

"Your ass is beautiful," he says, but I know he's avoiding the subject.

I whisper in his ear, "Jim, tell me what you want," punctuating the question with a quick nip to his earlobe.

Without pulling away to look me in the eye, Jim whispers back, "I want you to put your fingers up my ass while you suck me off."

That wasn't what I expected to hear, but it sends a shock wave of desire reverberating through me all the same. I'd never really thought Jim would think he'd want to be penetrated. I thought he'd have 'issues' with something like that. He's military, he's cop, he's macho. But here he was on the morning after the night we made love for the first time and he's asking me for something so... I get dizzy just thinking about it.

When a minute goes by and I don't answer, Jim whispers again. "If you don't want to, that's okay... "

"It's not that," I tell him quickly. "I was just surprised."

He sighs deeply and he starts to move away. Exerting my strength, I hold him with me. "Jim, whatever you want, I'll do. And whatever I want, I hope you'll do. Don't ever be afraid to tell me your needs."

His hands have grown restless; they're wandering up and down my side. Finally, he speaks. "I feel like I'm one big receptor for everything that's around me, especially you. I woke with your scent in my nose, the sound of your breathing and heartbeat in my ears, your skin touching mine and the feel of your mouth echoing through me. I opened my eyes and I was filled with the sight of your beautiful body. I started tasting you, I couldn't help myself. I feel like, if I can just get enough, if I fill myself up with sensation from you... " He sighs. "That sounds crazy, I know."

"No, it doesn't, Jim." I caress his shoulder soothingly. "Let me take care of you. I want to."

Leaning up, I push him over on his back, and prop myself on my bent elbow. Before I start on his cock, I think I'll give him some stimulation somewhere else. I reach out to finger his nipples, and he immediately arches into the soft touch. I manage to lean over and nibble at them, then suck each to pointy hardness. He's moaning continually by the time I decide to move on.

Shifting my body can be awkward but Jim doesn't seem to mind. His eyes are squeezed shut and his hands are clenched in the sheets. I push with my arms and scoot down the mattress, then touch him on the thigh.

"Jim, bend your right leg at the knee, okay?"

He brings that leg up and it's easier for me then to roll into position between his legs. Jim lowers his right leg but keeps them parted wide.

"You want to feel my mouth?" I ask rhetorically, since my lips are about a half inch from it.

"Please..."

"Then feel this, Jim." I softly suckle the head of his dick and his body jack knifes up off the bed. I almost lose my grip on him and realize I need to alter my position a little. I think a minute, then slide up a little so I can rest on my left side while half lying on his left thigh. I'll be able to suck him and support his dick with my left hand and use my right for other things. And as long as I'm not too heavy or my elbow doesn't poke him uncomfortably, I think I can manage this.

I lean down to mouth the crown of his dick again, using a little more pressure this time, since the delicate touch seemed too hard to handle for him. He moans and his hand goes to my head, fingers splaying on my skull as though to direct my motion. I spend a few long moments going down on him, using my right hand to smooth the soft skin of his groin and the place where his leg joins his hip, then decide it's time to move on.

My fingers drift down to caress his balls and Jim's moans get louder. He's rocking his hips up continually, nearly dislodging me but I'm hanging on, enjoying the ride.

"Blair, please... " his hoarse voice begs. "I need more... please..."

I ease off on his cock for a moment, long enough to bring my right hand up to make it wet with my saliva. then, reaching down and under his body, I start sucking him again.

I've never done this before, but Jim's moans have turned into broken sobs of need. I move behind his balls and down the delicate perineum, seeking the part of him I've never touched before. There, a moist heat is radiating from him and I slide one finger over the place. Jim responds with a pleasured groan, so I slip the finger into the hot center of his body.

I'm amazed at the way this simple invasion of my flesh into him feels to me -- for a sentinel, it must be even more profound. Still sucking him, I use my second, then third fingers to delve in and out of him, noting the smooth softness of his inner passage and wondering what it would be like for my cock to be in there instead of my fingers.

Maybe Jim wonders that too. Maybe he wants me to try that someday soon. We'll have to figure out how we can do that -- it might be awkward. But I think we're both willing to work on it.

Jim is panting so hard he sounds asthmatic. I've got three fingers in him, twisting and scissoring them as I push them in and out. He's tossing his head on the pillow, his body is covered in sweat and he isn't complaining one bit.

"More, Blair," he begs me. "Harder."

The 'harder' hits me right between the eyes and I comply, giving him what he longs for, sucking him harder too. I'm pounding into him, giving him as much as he can take and he's loving it, his voice gasping, his body thrashing.

"Blair!" With my name on his lips, his orgasm rips through him. And with some surprise, I find myself shuddering with climax too.

I thought he'd collapse completely after that, but instead, his hands grip me under the arms and he helps pull me up beside him again. He's trembling with reaction and I make soothing noises, stroking him gently until the last of the echoes die away.

"Go back to sleep, Jim," I tell him. "When you wake up, I'm going to have some ideas about how we can work on your senses, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Darwin," he mumbles, then is instantly and deeply asleep.

Happy, I ignore the wet stickiness between my own legs and follow Jim into sleep.

EPILOGUE

Four months later....

It's hot. I'm hot and Blair looks completely miserable. We've been hiking in the rainforest for the last several hours. We've been here for a week, on a tour of the rainforest that Blair devised after doing research on the internet.

One day, he said he'd decided what he wanted to. He'd enjoyed teaching at UB for the one semester but he'd had no closure with the friends in Cascade that he'd refused to see following his injury. Blair said he wanted to go home but that there was one thing he wanted to do first.

He wanted to go on an expedition.

At first, I wasn't sure it was something he could do, but I knew how much it would mean to him to accomplish it. He wanted to go make a trip through the Amazon Rainforest, traveling some of the areas I'd been in when my helicopter went down in Peru. Incacha had known how to help me with my senses even though the tribe I lived with didn't have a Sentinel of their own when they found me. Blair wanted to figure out what was being passed down about Sentinels through the years, and any other information he could discover. I've been having problems with my senses ever since they returned and he hoped that going back to where they first resurfaced for me, he could learn more ways to help me control them.

We're staying with the Shipibo-Conibo Indians, a community that has had outside contact for the last twenty years. They live on the Ucayali River and still make clay pots, woven cloth and seed jewelry to sell in the larger towns but they've lost much of their traditional dress and customs.

The medicine man, or curandero, is named Luego Arevalo. He was glad to talk with Blair and the two of them spent hours discussing herbal medicine and other subjects, and Blair was fascinated by what the old man knew about Sentinels, information handed down by Luego's grandfather. Blair had made extensive notes on a ritual that Arevalo had told him about and now he was searching for an ancient temple believed to be several miles away from the village.

"Are you ready to move out, Chief?" I ask, seeing that he's stopped consulting the notes.

Blair reaches up for my hand and I help him get off the ground and make sure he's steady on his feet. He's wearing his new prosthetics, ones that he's had for only about three months now that allow him to actually hike through the jungle. He realized that to go on an expedition, he needed to be able to walk, not use his wheelchair. We found a good doctor who explained the different types of prosthetic legs that would do what Blair wanted and he ended up with a pair of titanium legs with special knees and feet that made his gait look almost normal. It took some practice, but Blair had been so anxious to make the trip that he'd worked hard, wearing them a little longer every day until he could manage for at least twelve hours with them. It was tricky just maintaining his balance to walk at first, but he persevered.

The first time I was able to walk beside him I thought my heart was going to burst with pride. And when he turned to me, wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me with his whole body pressed up against mine -- that was one of the most wonderful moments we've known since we became lovers.

"It's about a mile further in," he tells me, indicating the map Luego drew for us. Blair was convinced, based on the man's drawings and descriptions, that it was another Temple of the Sentinels.

Given the things that had happened in the Mexican Temple of the Sentinels I was reluctant to investigate the place. But as we'd started the trip to find it, I'd begun to feel strongly drawn to it. Before long, I'd been seeing my spirit animal following us, watching us through the dense jungle foliage and that had convinced me that we were meant to go to the temple.

We start out again, with me watching Blair closely, concerned he'll trip over a hidden root or tree trunk. I don't want him to get over tired, but he won't rest until we find the temple, and I'm just going along with his enthusiasm.

"There it is!" he calls out finally and I stop beside him to look where he's pointing through the trees.

He's right, there's a stone building in the clearing. At the top of a high staircase, there's a door with a huge carved eye on it. The hair on the backs of my arms feels like someone has put static electricity through it. I know without question that this is a place of Sentinels.

I help Blair ascend the wide stairs that lead to the temple door. He's gone quiet, respectful of the mystical aura of the place yet I can feel excitement emanating from him.

Just as we make it to the top of the staircase, it begins to rain. Blair shivers slightly and looks glad we'll have the shelter of the temple during the rainstorm.

Inside, the temple is dark and silent. I can feel tingles on my skin as we walk through its winding passages. In some ways it was similar to the Temple of the Sentinels we'd found near Sierra Verde, but it appears much more ancient. At the time, I'd thought that place was the only such temple, but Blair's research had him convinced there were numerous ones scattered throughout Central and South America, and now that I thought about it, it made sense. If Sentinels needed a temple to go to from time to time, they wouldn't have wanted to travel that far from their tribes nor would it have been easy to make long journeys.

We finally find a central, large room. "This must be the main altar room," Blair says, wandering around the darkened area. "What can you see, Jim?"

I let my vision range out, along with my other senses, wanting to take in as much as I can. For some reason, I feel my dials starting to fluctuate. Echoes of silence send shivers through me and what I see seems to go in and out of focus. Smells fade and come back stronger.

"Whoa..." I bring a hand up to my forehead. "This place is pretty weird, Blair."

"You okay, Jim?" he asks, a hand on my arm steadying me.

"Yeah." I take a deep breath and stand with my legs wider apart. Looking more closely, I see an altar and stone table on one side of the room. Between that and the opposite far wall is an expanse of open space. Located on the far side of the room are what looks like more stone tables. The walls are decorated with paintings similar to those I remember from the Mexican temple.

My eyes rest on the tables on the far side of the room. I have to look at them more closely and I head toward them, a feeling of foreboding running down my spine as I approach them.

"No," I gasp when I get a better look at them. Suddenly, I realize I don't want to be in this place. "Blair... "

He's right behind me, and puts a hand on my back to steady me. "You're shaking."

"Look... " I point toward what I thought had been nothing more than tables. Instead, they were deep rectangular pools filled with water. A flashback of being immersed in such a pool and forced to swallow the drink Alex had made to increase our senses makes my head spin. "We're out of here, Chief," I hear myself say. I'm several strides away when his voice calls me back.

"Jim, it's okay. What's wrong, man?"

"How can you ask that? You know what happened the last time I got near one of these things."

"Jim, it's okay. Relax. This is entirely different." He's next to me again and his soothing voice is easing my shakes. "We're not going to need those pools for the ritual."

I look at him in shock. "What? What ritual?"

"I told you. It's what Luego explained to me. We're going to perform it."

"You never said anything about actually performing a ritual in... this place."

"Jim, I believe the Sentinels were brought here to be helped with their senses by their guides. The ritual is simply a cleansing ceremony that will sort of re-set your dials so you can stop having them jump all over the place when you don't want them to."

"And you think this will work better than the exercises we've been doing?"

"Yes. We've worked on them for months. It's not the same as when you first got them back in Cascade before we met. You didn't understand them then. Now, you do, but because you lost them due to trauma and they were repressed for a year, your knowledge is what's keeping you from handling them the way you used to. Things about them have changed and I think this is the way we can get your senses re-integrated for you."

As always, what he says makes sense to me in a way I can't explain but always accept. "Are you sure you have all the information for the ritual?" I ask after thinking a moment.

"Burton made mention of it, so when Luego started talking about it, I recognized it. Yes, I have everything we need." He smiles up at me confidently. "Jim, this is just you and me. Nothing bad can happen. I've got some things that will stimulate your senses. We're going to light some candles and a fire on the altar, go through the sensory exercises, and everything will be all right."

Sighing, I know I'm going to agree with him before I open my mouth. I already feel more relaxed. This is Blair after all and I trust him in all things.

Together, we approach the altar side of the room and at Blair's suggestion, start a blaze in the fireplace along the right wall, first checking that the chimney isn't blocked by leaves or the like. Once the fire is going, the dampness in the room dissipates and it's not as dark and forbidding. I turn to the altar and find Blair has laid out a number of object and packages and he's lit an array of candles.

He's brought a few woven rugs and has laid them out in front of the altar. "Come here, Jim," he says, gesturing me over. "I'm ready."

I force a chuckle. "Yeah, but am I?"

"Trust me, man," he says in all seriousness. "Would I try anything that would get you hurt?"

"No. It's just... "

He comes to me then and wraps me in his arms, his head nestled on my shoulder. As always, his touch grounds me, relaxes me. "This is going to help, Jim. I promise."

I hold him for a long moment, then lift his face up to mine for a kiss. It's long and lavish and by the time it ends, I feel more at ease in this place, more as though we belong here.

"Ready now?" Blair asks, smiling up at me indulgently.

"Whenever you are." My hand on the small of his back, I follow him to stand in front of the altar. He's got a notebook open and is wearing his glasses so he can read from it.

"You have to kneel down," he says, indicating the layer of rugs he's placed in front of the altar. "I'm going to open the packages that will stimulate each of your senses in turn. Just relax and listen to the sound of my voice, okay?"

"No problem," I manage as I move to kneel where he told me to.

Blair lights some sage and proceeds to smudge the area, bathing his hands in it and wafting it around the room. I've gotten used to the scent by now and it doesn't make me sneeze. I actually find it soothing. Blair next begins chanting and drumming lightly on one of Luego's ceremonial drums. In moments, I'm lulled into a light meditative state.

Blair opens the first package. "This is for your sense of smell," he says softly, lifting a lid from a pottery jar. "It's the amber essence from the jatoba tree. It's been used for years by shaman here to perform mystic rites."

The scent that fills the air does strange things to my equilibrium immediately. Blair then dips his fingers into it and smoothes it across the soft flesh of his inner wrist. In seconds, it blends with his natural chemistry and fills the air with a scent that causes my heart to beat faster.

"Do you like it, Jim?" he breathes, looking at me closely.

I nod, realizing I'm kneeling there with my mouth slightly open in confusion. I didn't think this was supposed to make me feel turned on. Maybe this ritual won't be so bad after all.

"Inhale the scent, Jim," Blair intones, reading from his notes. "Let it take you to the place where you can control your senses."

The next package Blair opens is a set of bells and I assume they are for my sense of hearing.

Blair starts jingling them as he slowly walks in a circle around me. The tinkling is soothing but the scent he put on is making me feel stimulated.

"Relax with the sound, Jim. Let it take you to the place where you can control your senses."

Even when he stops, I can still hear the bells echoing in the temple altar room. Their sound mingles with the scent that's still drifting around me.

Blair opens the next package and approaches me. He's holding a stone cup. "This is nothing more than pure aloe vera juice. Just take a sip."

With him this close to me the fragrance he's wearing is all I can think about. I breathe it in deeply, and all my nerve endings begin to throb. Should I tell Blair what's happening?

"This is for your sense of taste. Let it take you to the place where you control your senses."

He holds the cup to my lips and carefully tips it. I taste it and although I expected the taste to be bland, it seems sweet and pungent and stimulating all at the same time, as though its healing properties will help me regain my controls.

Blair moves to step away but I grab for his hand and bring it to my face, turning it over so I can scent the oil he put on his wrist. "Jim...?" I nuzzle his wrist and the heady fragrance throws my sex drive into full alert.

"What is this stuff?" I mutter, my tongue flicking out to lick the skin of his wrist, intending to rove higher up his arm.

He gently pulls it away from me, his hand going to my cheek. "It's what I told you," he says, but I can hear a slight tremor in his voice. I look up to meet his eyes. "Well, there is something else but I didn't think it was true. They say... it smells differently on every wearer. And when someone else scents it, it acts as an aphrodisiac."

Great, I think, you're using a scent that's guaranteed to turn me on in a ceremony designed to help me control my senses. Seems like they're going to get out of control instead.

"And you decided this would be the right thing to use for this?" I ask gruffly, feeling my dick lengthening in my jeans. I'm getting so distracted I'm not sure I'm going to be able to let Blair finish the ritual.

"Jim, just hang in there a moment. It's going to be all right... The ritual calls for it."

"Does it call for this?" I get to my feet and wrap him in my arms, pulling him into a kiss. I plunge my tongue into his mouth demandingly.

"J-Jim... " He gasps, trying to pull away. "Just hang on a minute. We're not finished yet."

Dizzy, I let go of him and watch him move back to the altar. He opens the next package and shows me a sparkling geode. It picks up the lights of the candles and the fire, sending dancing stars around the altar room, delighting my sense of sight.

"This is for your sense of sight. Watch it and let it take you to the place where you control your senses."

Looking back at Blair, he seems to be catching all the sparkles; they're lighting in his hair, reflecting in his eyes. He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Blair... I need you... " My body has begun aching deep inside. I don't know if I can just kneel here waiting for him any longer.

"I know, Jim. I'm here with you. We're going to go to the place where you control your senses together. Just take it easy... "

He approaches me, looking down at me with a soft smile on his lips. "This is for your sense of touch," he whispers, holding out his cupped hands.

I dip my fingers into the indentation, my eyes never leaving his face. I can feel something soft, wet, slippery and the same heady fragrance comes to me in ever increasing waves. "It's the same oil, isn't it?" I ask, feeling dizzy.

"Let all these things take you to where you can control your senses." Blair brings up his hands, the oil trailing over his fingers as he frames my face. The scent is all I can sense now, that and the image of Blair.

Everything wavers and I'm not sure what I'm doing. Only snippets of reality break through as flashes of light and flame sparkle before my eyes. The only constant is Blair's scent, Blair's eyes, Blair's flesh.

We're on the pile of woven rugs he placed by the altar. Somehow, we're both naked and Blair's prosthetics are gone. I'm stretched on top of him, my body stroking his, murmuring incoherent pleas. His hands are roving over my back and down to my ass, every touch stoking the fire that's burning through my veins.

I can feel his hard cock against my belly, leaking fluid that shows he's right with me in this. The temple has become our own private place of passion. I don't know if he meant that from the start; I doubt the ritual was intended to end this way. But he's not protesting and I'm unable to stop myself until we get back to our lodge.

Blair's fingers slip down my spine and delve into the place between my cheeks where I love him to touch me. It only takes a slight suggestion and I'm sweating and delirious with the need for him to be inside me.

"Blair, please, I want you now..." I start to kneel up over him, bringing my knees to either side of his hips.

"Jim... we need something... " Blair says, making me hesitate.

I look over at the altar, catching sight of the vial of jatoba oil. Yes... I get up and grab it, pouring some into my palm. This was the scent that started all this, to use it to ease our lovemaking seems totally appropriate.

I crouch over my lover, my shaman, my guide and anoint myself with the oil, slipping my finger up into the passage I want him to fill. Watching me, he gasps out my name and I lock gazes with him. We're joined in our own ritual now, one that we've shared often in the last months.

After my fingers have made my own body ready, I use them to slicken his rampant erection, watching as he tosses his head on the rugs in abandon. Then, when he looks into my eyes, I slowly lower myself onto his shaft.

Moaning in relief, I let him fill me. He completes me in all ways and I am so happy to have learned the way to love him. He knows me, all that I am, all that I ever had, ever lost, ever cost him, ever tried to return to him. He has never asked any sacrifice of me, this god come to earth to be my lover and guide. I would give him anything I possess, even unto my life, yet it would never be enough.

He's arching his hips now, filling me the way I need him to, teaching me again how deeply he loves me. I push down onto him, crying out my ecstasy as we make ourselves one being. In moments, we complete the act of love and I collapse onto him, the wetness of my seed sealing us together.

I waken to the sounds of his breathing. All of my senses are alert and focused. I am able to hear the sounds outside the temple, despite the thickness of its walls, yet I am also attuned to any sound from within. I hear the flickering fire, the tinkling bells, the soft susurrations of his sleeping breath, the steady cadence of his heart. I smell the scent of our loving, the oils and potions of our ritual, the sweat of his body. I reach up to taste his lips.

I carefully ease myself away from his body, finding a soft cloth to clean us both. There is water nearby...

Staggering a little, I make my way to the pools at the rear of the altar room. I bend down to wet the cloth in the water.

When I touch it, ripples appear in its dark depths. I see shapes and shadows that form into pictures.

I see my forest god in all his beauty, young and free and striding out of the lake where I first saw him so long ago. He is naked to the world, but needs no clothing to hide him. His purity and perfection is all that he needs. My eyes travel from the curls on his head to his expressive face, his full soft lips, down his masculine chest, flat belly, and on to the gentle curve of the secrets between his legs that he does not need to hide from me. His legs are strong and muscular, hairy and sleek at the same time, inviting my touch. I want to run with him through the forest, possessing this place that we love together.

He stops moving and turns to me, his face contorted in pain. I don't understand what's hurting him, but I cannot watch without attempting to help. I rush into the lake to meet him and he holds out his arms in supplication. I reach him, sliding one arm under his shoulders, and the other under his hips to lift him into my arms.

What I realize next nearly staggers. I had thought him perfect, but something has wounded him. My forest god can no longer run or walk. My heart is breaking. Not only to see him so maimed but because in my heart I know that whatever caused his injuries is something I have done.

"Blair..." I moan, unable to handle the reality that my fantasy is marred by. I dangle my hand in the pool's water, wishing there was some miracle whereby the last year could be taken away from us.

"Incacha, why aren't you with me here?" I whisper. "You helped me when I was trapped in a pool like this. You helped me save my guide when he was doomed. Incacha, please!"

The water shifts again and I see Incacha's face, so patient, so loving. My heart breaks to see my old friend and I know it was wrong to ask him to do more for me than he already has.

"Inquiri, what do you need?"

"I need my guide to be whole."

"Drink of the water, and believe." Incacha spreads his hands wide and from each of his palms, beams of light flow out, setting the water in the pool to dancing, changing its darkness to silvery clear purity.

I plunge my hands into the water, cupping as much of the liquid as I can, bringing them up to my mouth to drink. The water is the purist thing I have ever encountered and a strange energy flows through me as I swallow it down.

Images of myself running through the forest make my head spin. I can't tell reality from memory. I'm running, seeking something I need. The panther is there, running at my side, seeking his soul mate, the wolf. We hear the wolf crying in pain...

I get up from the pool, carrying my dripping cloth to where I left Blair on the rugs.

I can see the wolf now and the panther growls in pain along with his brother. The wolf is limping through the underbrush, leaving a bloody trail behind him. He has no legs and his eyes cry out to us in terrible agony.

I bend down to my lover, bathing away the traces of our lovemaking, my heart heavy with memories of difficult times. Unable to stop myself, I lift him into my arms, holding him close to my heart. He murmurs but his rest remains unbroken.

Carefully, I stand with him and carry him back to the pool of water.

I approach it, seeing Incacha's guiding face wavering before me. Looking down, the water is still crystal clear and sparkling. I get to my knees and lower my guide into it.

Blair doesn't waken.

He is floating on the water's surface, held up by its mystical properties. I use my hands to bathe him, tears leaking from my eyes. I can't see what I'm doing, too many tears, too many images of panthers and wolves and bridges that weaken and trucks that fall and rivers that surround and wind that whips and pain that cripples. Too many nightmares and screams of pain... Incacha's face, smiling and understanding... our love that abides despite all our misfortunes... images of Blair shooting baskets, teaching students, making love to me...

A roaring, rushing sound like a waterfall fills the air. I can't see, can't feel, can't understand. The faces and memories are spinning before me. Some of them I don't recognize... we're emerging from the temple, walking side by side... we're sitting in the loft, my on the floor reading through his notebooks, him sitting cross-legged, beautiful with his hair tumbling over his shoulders... the two of us in my bed... blue sheets and twilight... my mattress under me... Blair covering me with his body... my legs up and bent, thrown over his shoulders... his cock driving into me, his hips pistoning, his knees giving him leverage...

More tears fall, wetting Blair as I bathe him. I wash over his pecs and perfect nipples, down the line of soft hair that leads to his genitals. I cup and fondle his relaxed penis and balls, taking care not to harm but only to soothe.

I reach lower, my eyes filling more with tears I thought had long since dried, washing gently to clean his hips and his thighs, down to his knees...

I shake my head violently. that has to be a fantasy... The tears fall harder, the sound of the waterfall grows more terrible; it's not a waterfall, it's a rainstorm with thunder and lightning and it's going to cause the bridge to fall.

Blair is screaming... he doesn't understand where he is. "Get me out of here, Jim! I don't want to die!"

But that's not what he said before. He told me to let me go. He told me he was ready to die. He told me he loved me...

"You're not going to die, Blair!" I shout back over the din of the thunder and the sound of his cries.

"Jim, it hurts! My legs hurt... they'll never stop hurting! Even without them, they hurt all the time! Please, make it stop, Jim. You're the only one who can make it stop!"

His pleas echo from the walls of the temple and all I can do is respond. I close my eyes and do what I've been doing, touching his legs, the parts that are there and the parts that are not, a Sentinel instinct that shows me where they are and how they feel and how to help them that eases his pain in a way I cannot explain but that I gratefully accept.

I look down and see where I'm massaging him, down past the knees to his calves...

"Oh god... it hurts... it hurts, Jim!" He's twisting under my hands, flinching away from an agony I've caused him.

"Easy, let me help." I keep on massaging, down his calves to his ankles, to the soles of his feet.

He sighs in bliss, but the sound rises, mixes with the sound of screams in my heart.

The thunder comes to a crescendo, my eyes burn and blur, Blair's screams are of pain and echoes of passion, and I cry out with him, grief and love and sorrow and hope all blasted into an explosion that blots out all senses and leaves me in a silent, still world of emptiness, until one by one, my senses blink on again. Touch, smell, hearing, taste, sight...

It's quiet. I'm still kneeling beside the pool, my hands in the water, Blair's heart beating steadily. I open my eyes and as I do, meet his own that have opened at the same moment as mine.

We look at each other.

"What's going on..." He sounds exhausted.

I help him to sit up in the pool.

"Let me get you out of there." Used to lifting him since the accident, I ease him up, planning to have him sit on the edge while I go get his clothes.

He's heavy in my arms. He feels unbalanced, uncoordinated.

"Whoa... I feel weird, Jim. Don't drop me, okay?"

He hasn't asked me that in many months, but I remember him saying that when I'd help him out of the shower right after his return from the hospital.

"I'll never drop you," I promise, my voice hoarse as though I've been screaming for hours.

I settle him on the side of the pool and he leans over to rub at his thighs. In the flickering light from the fire on the other side of the room, his wet body shines golden to my gaze.

"Oh my god!" His shout startles me. He must be falling -- I instinctively grab for his shoulders to keep him from tipping over into the pool.

"Jim!" His fingers dig into my arms. He's shaking; his eyes are wild.

"What, Blair?" The nightmarish vision unnerved me; he must have shared it some way and was scared.

"Look!" He grabs my face and turns it so I can see what he saw.

No. It can't be. I must be still dreaming.

"Jim?" His voice is trembling, anxious. "Do you see what I see?"

I swallow the lump of granite in my throat. "I think so."

He lifts a hand, then lets it fall. "I can't," he tells me. "You... you touch first."

My own heart pounding in trepidation, I do as he asks. I lift my hand and reach slowly for the smooth pale flesh that I see that wasn't there an hour ago.

It's real. It's his knee. And beneath that, his calf and his ankle and his foot. I bring up my other hand, feeling and rubbing and making my heart believe what my eyes can't lie about.

"It's real," he gasps, feeling my touch and seeing what I'm touching. He grabs at my wrists. "Tell me this is real, Jim!"

"I don't... I can't... but we both see... " I take his hand and bring it to the surface of new skin. "here, you feel."

"Uhhhhhh," he gasps a little as though afraid it will hurt, then sighs out his relief. "It's real. It doesn't hurt. Jim, how did you do this?"

"How did I do this? What do you think I am?"

"Well, what's been happening? What did you see?"

I tell him about my visions, about Incacha, about the pool.

He laughs a little hysterically. "I want to try... " he says but he can't finish the sentence; it's too fantastic.

I help him up and for the first time he stands on his new legs. They tremble under him, barely able to take his weight, but we can't deny their existence any more. They're real.

We look at each other, falling into a desperate, joyful hug. How many times has the unbelievable been proved true in our lives together? how many times have we found miracles in tragedy? How many times have our spirit guides and the ways of the Sentinels been shown to be more powerful than anything we ever dreamed on heaven or on earth?

We hold each other close, kissing in delirious delight, laughing and crying and dazed. "You want to try walking?" I ask him after we've settled down a bit.

"Yes," he says, staring down at them again as though they might have vanished when we weren't looking. "God, yes." He looks up at me. "But stay close, Jim. I don't think they're that sturdy yet."

"I will."

"God, did I really just say that?" he chuckles, "I must be out of my mind. This has to be a delusion."

"Then we're both deluded. This Sentinel stuff has finally driven us both around the bend, Sandburg."

In the act of moving his right leg in preparation to take a step when he freezes and looks up at me.

"What did you say?"

"I said, the Sentinel stuff has finally driven us both around the bend, Sandburg. Has something happened to your hearing now?"

"You did it again. You did it again! Jim, you called me Sandburg!" He grabs my shoulders in excitement.

"Oh. Blair, I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize, Jim. I love it. I love it! You couldn't seem to use Sandburg ever since the accident and here you are, looking down at these... whatever these things that grew out of my thighs are... and you're calling me Sandburg right off the bat. Now I know they're real."

I laugh weakly, still too stunned to comprehend much of what's happening. "As long as you're okay with it," I tell him. "You don't mind if I still call you Blair sometimes though, do you?"

"No. Never." He stands on tiptoe to kiss me, then wavers a bit, still unsteady.

"What was that we were saying about trying to walk over to your clothes?"

"Yeah, let's try."

Slowly, together, with my arm under his shoulders and his wrapped tight around my waist, he takes his first cautious steps. It's harder than learning to use his prosthetics for the first time, but neither of us can complain.

We reach our clothes and dress, gathering the items from the ritual.

"Jim," Blair asks suddenly, "how are your senses? Did the ritual work?"

"Everything feels perfect. We can check it all out when we get home. You do want to go back home, don't you, Chief?"

He takes two wobbly steps to get to me. "Yeah, I want to go back, Jim. To Cascade."

"Let's go then," I say after kissing his mouth lightly and smoothing his tangled wet curls back from his face.

"Oh man," he laments as we carefully make our way to the entrance of the temple,"this is gonna be so hard to explain when we get home!"

End Phantom Pain -- Miracles by April Valentine: aprilvalen@aol.com

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