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Mirror-Balance -- Part Two

"Detective?"

"Detective Ellison?"

"Detective!"

Stabbing pain in his forearm and Jim jerks awake.

"Detective?"

The officer who just jabbed him with her nightstick does not look happy. Jim winces, rubbing his bicep and running through explanations in his head. None of which seem exactly what he's looking for, so he just mouths 'Migraine' and gets the hell out of there, surreptitiously rubbing his hands to warm them because he's suddenly so damn cold.

Shivering. He's shivering because it's cold. It's so fucking cold, like something in the room leaching energy away from him. And considering what he just saw... Jim sticks his palms under his armpits to warm them, running to the truck so he can turn the heater on.

/She was fine when I left/

Jesus, Blair, oh Jesus...

The heater sends a hot blast of air straight to his face and for a minute he enjoys the sensation of burning, cleansing, driving away all sensation but the sheer, blessed purity of heat. Bath, he promises himself. He'll just drive straight home to the loft and a long hot shower with lots of soap. Antiseptic.

He'll build a fire. He'll scrub his skin raw. He'll burn sage for Christ's sake to erase the image of the hybrid figure struggling in the corner, the growling panther superimposed over the bleeding wolf, both howling soundlessly as Blair thrusts in time to the beating of wings.

And then... and then...

A gun was fired. But what came after -

Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus

Fuck, he has got to stop shaking.

/"You know, Jim, this concept of balance... yin, yang; intriguingly, even most monotheistic cultures adopt at least an expression of duality, if not higher divisions of their one, in order to achieve a sense of balance and harmony."/

Jim grips the steering wheel, remembering.

/"No, hear me out here, this is important. In the Hindu pantheon, the three major gods are the Creator, the Destroyer and the eternal Preserver who watches. See? Balance, everywhere we look. The Chinese balance their concept of Yin and Yang, male and female vital preservative forces. In fact, let's extrapolate and talk about the need to balance life and death in the form of crucifixion and resurrection, or Newton's third law of action and reaction."/

Balance, balance - hey!

He hangs a sharp right, missing an SUV by inches.

Idiots

He has to stay focused.

/"If you're making a case for my divinity here, Chief, I accept."

"No, no, you just think you're God, but we're all one in the universal mind anyway. So - hey, are you going to eat that? Thank you. No, the point I'm making here is that in accordance with the laws of universal harmony, we are a partnership. A team. Equally balanced. So - "

"Blair, I'm not going to ask Simon if you can draw a paycheck."

"Damn. Well, it was worth a shot."

"He suggested it himself."

"Jim. JIM! Oh man, this is great, this is fantastic! So what, do I get to join your secret Masonic brother hood of uniforms too? Is there a handshake?"/

No, but he hadn't been able to avoid the hug.

Jim closes his eyes for a second, hoping to clear his vision. But it's all too clear.

/Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take this trip with you/

Pray its not too late now.

Try not to drown.

VII

7.30 pm.

Blair enters the loft, absently noting that the door is open and the room is dark. Jim mustn't be home yet.

Which gives him time to shower. He needs to shower.

He strips in his room, carefully placing clothes in a corner and reminding himself he should do laundry, change his sheets, that romance or not after a certain time funky is just that, a funky smell and not erotic anymore.

Still... it can wait.

He's standing in the shower, left hand braced against the wall and away from the jets of water when he hears the bathroom door open.

Jim.

Blair leans against the wall, calming his heart rate, trying to breathe as he hears the sound of a zipper being pulled down, fabric moving against skin, sees through half-closed eyes the sight of Jim Ellison's body tantalizingly revealed in slow, careful stages.

Jim

Blair turns his head to the wall, conscious of his posture, his back to the man entering the shower with him, feeling the density of air and the thickening of his blood as Jim approaches.

He swallows.

Jim leans into Blair, breath moist on his shoulder, hardening cock lightly bumping the cleft in his ass.

Blair breathes, and sobs, shivering as Jim kisses his shoulder, sucking the flesh into his mouth; trembling hands moving up to brace them against the wall.

"Don't, Jim," he begs, but the man is already sliding his palms over Blair's.

Quick intake of breath as Jim encounters the heated throb of wounded flesh.

Blair's breath hitches.

"Jim, don't."

Jim clasps his other hand and leans the empty palm against the tiles. "I'm cold, Blair," his flesh chilled despite the heat of the water.

"Jim, we can't."

"Turn around." Swaying forward, rubbing his cock along Blair's ass and it takes all his self-control for Blair to say, "Jim. No. Don't do this."

Jim nuzzles his neck, softly whispering, "I've got you, I'll catch you. Turn around, Blair."

"I said no. What part of 'no' don't you understand, Jim?"

"Touch me, Blair. I'm cold." Using their conjoined right hands to keep Blair against the wall, Jim moves his other hand south to cup and caress Blair's awakening erection. "I'm so cold."

"Jim," Blair has to maintain control. "Stop that, Jim. I mean it."

"You afraid of me?" Jim asks, leaving his cock alone in favor lightly massaging circles over Blair's hip. "Then turn around and take over. I trust you."

Breathing is important; breathing keeps them both safe. So does this - and Blair brings his hand down to his mouth, but Jim catches the wrist between two fingers, holding it, keeping him fast, gently but quickly turning Blair around so he can nuzzle and pass kisses all over Blair's cheeks, his lips, his face.

"Jim,"

"You don't have to," kissing Blair's forehead so gently and so needy, "Let go, Blair, it's all right, I've got you, you don't have to," and the slide of Jim's wet cock against his stomach is more erotic than the words or even the understanding they imply, so Blair moves, promising himself just one, just one thrust and with the one of course, the battle is lost, because Jim Ellison groans.

Groans and captures his mouth, tongue invading, dying, breaching, peppering lips, cheeks, chin and eyes with tiny kisses before dipping down again for a long, deep agonizing taste, then back up again as though once was too much, back to feathering eyelashes and holding Blair, hands on shoulders, positioning them for strokes against strokes, warmth and water cascading against skin and that's it, that's when Blair loses it, thrusting hard, harder, hard again, and again, trying to free his hand from Jim's so he can break skin, so he can retain control, but there's Jim holding on to him, whispering "Let go, I've got you, let go, let go," and Blair wants to believe him, believes enough for a moment to actually cry, one long intense sound as he comes, comes against Jim's stomach, water washing away the slickness even as forms. But what makes him forget the infected throbbing of his hand is that his orgasm makes Jim's knees weak, and they buckle and because now he knows it's too late to protect Jim except in this way, he thrusts him against the wall, desperately hoping they won't slip, crooning and leaning into Jim's ear, whispering "I love you, I love you, Jesus, I love you so much" again and again till Jim whimpers and begs with an upward crook of his chin for a kiss and another, and they kiss, Blair rubbing against Jim, telling him "I'll catch you, you can fall," and even as Jim groans in agreement, his right hand holds Blair's infected left high against the wall, out of reach of the water, protecting him.

They fall, awkwardly, each trying to cushion the other with hands and body, ending in a tangled, slippery heap on the wet tiles, touching foreheads as the water washes them clean. And Jim brings Blair's hand to his lips, touching and pressing himself on each part of skin, carefully not putting too much pressure on the inflamed welt, but kissing lightly there anyway.

They've stopped shivering.

After a while the water turns cold.

Jim breathes, inhaling the scent of Blair, Blair wet and open to him, Blair sated and boneless, Blair on his lap, cock against cock, head on his shoulder, breathing deep.

He reaches up and switches the water off, waits for the trickle to stall completely before taking Blair's hand and kissing the palm, kissing like he can't believe this, how he could be so lucky, scenting at the same time the beat of fevered cells beneath the skin, the pulse of chemicals signaling infection, wondering how long he would have gone without noticing that his best friend was fading, slowly leaching away from him.

"Up," but he has to wait a moment and check he has the strength to rise, which he does now, so he pulls Blair to his feet, thinking towels, thinking anti-bacterial cream, thinking only that he can do what he's good at which isn't very much but it's all he has to give now and he's got to keep doing what he can.

"Jim," Blair says, and he looks down into nakedness, eyes shining and soul-deep open, feels a hand cupped around his chin, entropy of molecules that he could fall into, watches entranced as his friend parts his lips to speak.

"Jim," Blair says again, then looking vaguely surprised and slightly stupid, leans over to the sink where he is quickly and violently sick.

Someone rubs his back, carefully soothing circles and allowing his aching muscles some relief as he keeps heaving cathartically, bringing up stale air and sour liquid. Blair retches thankfully, vaguely amazed at how good it feels to finally be able to let go and upchuck his guts. He spares a flash of humor for his own bad timing before collapsing into waiting arms that hold and drag him away from the sickness, blanketing him in a robe and hauling him to his room.

He myopically registers Jim's robe, Jim's towel, Jim's hands patting him down dry so he can collapse on his still-funky bed, eyes blurry and head swimming while Jim covers him with a blanket and then, oh blissful then, fingers run through his hair, petting and stroking in calm, generous motions.

Blair closes his eyes and tries to relax, to calm his breathing, but he stinks and it sucks and if he closes his eyes even for a second, he can hear the beat of raven wings counterpoint to the sound of a whimpering wolf.

"Whoa, easy buddy," and Jim's hands are on his forehead, lightly stroking against the distended veins. "Dial down," he says, faint tremor in his voice. "Rest easy."

Blair groans, meaning shut up and Jim does, cupping his face between large and capable hands and leaning down so their foreheads touch.

"I stink," Blair whispers finally.

"I love you," Jim says, like it's an answer, which of course it is and Blair feels his heart hiccup. Jim must have felt it too, because he presses Blair's uninjured hand and tells him, "I want to clean and dress your hand, Chief, but I need to put on some clothes. I have to get up."

"I like you naked," Blair rasps, but lets him go because he's coming right back isn't he, and that's right, Jim does come back and takes his aching palm, soothing it with a kiss before applying the cream.

Blair winces and feels Jim's touch lighten even further, which he would have thought was humanly impossible.

"When the hell did this happen?" Jim asks, and Blair figures that the answer isn't 'this morning' because it's a completely different question being asked here, but he's too tired and it's too complicated to go into that now and his head hurts, so he just says,

"She deserved better than me, Jim. Fuck, I had problems remembering her name."

Jim doesn't reply, so Blair realizes he's done something stupid again, and chuckles weakly.

"Ssh." Jim leans forward, putting the tube away on the nightstand, sounding so damn calm that Blair gets annoyed for a second and says "Are you even listening to me, Jim?"

"I hear you, Chief," smoothing gauze onto the bite and if that is not displacement activity on par with his own, Blair doesn't know what is. "It's going to be all right."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Shit, that hurts," but letting Jim take his hand and wrap it up safe because it's been so long and he's tired.

"Better?" Jim asks, and Blair swallows, "Yeah. Just give me a second," trying to breathe and calm himself, but realizing there's no point obfuscating when there's something he really needs, so instead he tells Jim, "I think you should hold me, Jim. No, I really think you should hold me. Now." And he closes his eyes as Jim clambers onto the bed, lying side by side with him, faces, hips and groins aligned so they can lean into each other and draw strength.

Literally, not metaphorical, because after a while Blair stops shivering.

Jim squeezes his shoulder, inhaling in time with his breath and for a moment Blair feels its oddly erotic that they're sharing breath, passing the same molecules between them and he'd inhale Jim anytime and he wonders what Jim thinks about hyperactive olfactory glands.

"No one was supposed to get hurt," he tells Jim, wanting him to understand.

Another squeeze and Blair nods, rubbing his forehead against Jim's, feeling his friend relax and hold him closer.

"Tell me," Jim says.

Blair closes his eyes and tries.

Somewhere around the time Blair realized Jim loved him and that he'd screwed up forever by writing a dissertation that could never be validated without destroying them both, he started dreaming the birds.

He doesn't tell Jim about the moment when Megan's blood stained his hands and he quite literally saw red; red rivulets ripping and tearing what he supposes is the fabric of space-time, each new tear pulsing in time to the flight of approaching scavengers. He doesn't tell Jim because there aren't actually any words to express the moment when he knew it could have been his best friend's blood on his hands, this could have been Jim lying there, easy target and all, and there aren't colors and synonyms to elaborate the sick self-hatred and dread that accompanies such a revelation. What he does say, because Jim deserves this much honesty, is that he finally realized he loved Jim less than 48 hours after Jim figured out he was selfish enough to flush his friend down the toilet for a chance at a grand prize and even now he's not able to think of that week without wanting to bite down really, really hard on the hand that's covered in gauze and Jim-clasp.

"Is this okay?" Jim asks, as if he hasn't already had Blair come inside and all over him, but the truth is, this is more than okay, this is intimate, Jim's hand in his, two fingers loosely encircling his wrist.

He focuses on those fingers for strength, telling Jim very simply that when the dreams started, he knew he was, they were in really, really deep humus, but maybe there was an out, because the panther appeared to him, "... just once and growled at me, like 'you know what to do, so do it already,' and well, when totem spirits speak, the earth dances, right?" and he continues without waiting for Jim's assent or dissent, because that is part of the story he isn't at all proud of and would like to skip over. "And as if two hundred pounds of snarling panther wasn't enough, I began having these dreams every night or so, like a bad Martian set up, red sand, red sky full of these huge grotesque bird shapes and you know what really intrigues me, Jim, is that the first time I saw them, I thought, ravens. Ravens. Does that mean anything to you?"

Jim shakes his head, no, forehead rubbing interestingly against Blair's. "But I get the feeling you'll tell me, right?"

"Right. I mean, think about it, Jim, you see a big black bird, what's your first reaction? Crow, right? Crow. Raven is not a term your subconscious normally appropriates, unless you've already assigned some sort of significance to it, which I hadn't, so at first I thought, you know, these are harbingers of doom, bad karmic points, so better not lose anymore time here."

Jim muffles something against Blair's neck, which could have been a laugh or a sigh, so Blair asks him to repeat that.

"When did you start with the hand?"

Blair raises their linked hands thoughtfully. "I don't really know. It was displacement activity at first, actually, a way to release, you know, like certain cultures, for example the Hopi Indians have a system of ritual cuts to indicate mourning, where the length and possibly the amount of tissue likely to scar as a result is indicative of the depth of loss, but yes, I know I'm digressing Jim, so you can stop squeezing me now. Jim. JIM! Thank you, I needed my ribs back," he grins, knowing Jim can see him in the dark and being Jim, also caught the sheen of tears in his voice.

Jim continues to carefully hold Blair's hand while Blair tells him that the dreams stopped for a couple of days after the second press conference where he invalidated his life and reputation with a few well-chosen words, squeezing unintentionally when Blair goes on to speak of the academy, of being accosted by perfect strangers during the day and nightmares at night, of understanding with an awful sick feeling that there was nothing he could do, no form of damage control that could stem the tide of those who'd scented blood on the wind, only some of whom were hoping for a ten-minute spot on National Television.

"So you cut your hair," Jim says very softly, and Blair returns the pressure on his hand, speaking lightly of symbolism and ritual penance and having to find some way of keeping the scavengers off their tracks in both realms. And this is where he pauses, finding it foolish to say the words 'both realms', except Jim says it first, reminds him that that is his legitimate title, Shaman of the Great City and like Incacha, he walks between worlds and sees what others don't.

"Kind of like you," Blair says, stroking Jim's hair, "You know, I used to wonder about that. How come if you're the Sentinel and I'm the Shaman I didn't actually get the dreams and the spirit animal until, you know," and he pauses because this is the bit where Jim hurts, but it's stupid to stop now so he continues. "Anyway, let me tell you, Jim, that I'll take no dreams over spirit walks any day, because do you know how hard it is to interpret something that has little or no cultural significance to you? Naomi raised me to be a citizen of the world which is all lovely and beautiful, but a crow in India means the souls of your dead ancestors are visiting and in Ireland means watch out because it's the Morrigan, and of course there are different rituals appropriate to the season and let me tell you man, it was hard figuring it all out considering that I'm actually Jewish by default."

Jim sighs, tracing fingers up and down Blair's arm.

"Go on," and Blair inhales sharply.

"Can't really think when you do that man, but don't stop, it feels nice. Yeah. Yeah, like that," and for a second he just enjoys the feel of Jim coasting up and down his body, touching and trailing little lines of silver.

Jim pats him gruffly. "You're stalling, Sandburg."

"I am, am I not?"

...

"Blair," Jim says into the silence.

Blair rubs at his eyes, willing Jim to give him a second, a minute to pull himself together. "Shut up a second, okay?" he manages, letting part of what he's been holding in bleed out without the accompanying guilt-releasing trip of physical pain, because this is the part he will never be able to forgive himself for, the fact that the dreams came and because all he could think of was protecting Jim a, a civilian got caught in the line of fire.

"It's like, like there was this blanket around my mind, Jim," he manages, "This time when I couldn't feel, couldn't think beyond the surface, because the safest thing was to sort of decoy, um, like, go underground, if you get what I mean, dialing down so we couldn't be found."

"Survival strategy."

"Yeah. Yeah, exactly like that. Jim," Blair says with sudden desperation, "I had to, you understand? They could have found you."

...

"Jim?"

"Tell me about the hand."

Blair swallows.

"The hand."

"I'm not asking about the fucking women, Sandburg, just tell me about the hand."

"Fuck YOU, alright?!!" He rolls over, "Fuck this shit, I don't need this right now."

Jim pulls him back and leans on him, over him, pinning him to the mattress. Blair pushes back.

"Fuck you!"

"You did," and the voice is so deadly calm Blair actually quiets for all of one second.

"Yeah," he spits out, "Yeah, I fucked you, you have a problem with that? Your little macho Ellison attitude being taken down?"

Jim breathes at him, breathes into his face.

Blair waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And realizes that somehow with the exchange of air between them he's fucking calming down.

Ah, shit.

He closes his eyes and huffs into Jim's face, not for any particular reason, just, you know, a huff. A sigh. Because.

There is a man on top of him, breathing into his life.

"The hand is a safety valve," Jim says for him and Blair nods.

"Make that a loaded trigger. I didn't fucking knowokay Jim? Figured as long as I didn't touch you, no one was going to get hurt," except someone did and he should have known it from the moment Megan's blood stained his palms and he found that consequences echoed between worlds.

On cue, his hand throbs, and then Blair forgets to breathe because Jim reaches over to stop Blair's mouth with his own, not exactly a kiss, more a press of lips against lips, so he can swallow Blair's words, maybe inhale them, ignoring the reek of bile and approaching nausea, the occasional salty tear that drips off Blair's nose, concentrating only on pressing skin to skin so they can share, telling Blair to take something of what he's been giving Jim for so long.

Blair doesn't relax entirely, but his throat muscles loosen, because he's certainly not going to attempt to form any more words for a while. Jim understands and shifts the kiss slightly, resting his mouth against Blair's cheek.

"Jesus," Blair blurts out finally, "Jesus, if they ever marketed this kind of therapy," and he looks up at Jim, grimly smiling at the logical conclusion to this statement, "I'd kill every one of the fuckers who benefited, Ellison, you hear me?"

"I hear you," Jim touches his lips carefully; still careful with caresses like he can't believe Blair isn't going to pull back. "Tell me more."

Blair shrugs. "Nothing to tell."

Jim moves off him slightly, sitting up on one elbow. "So how're we going to deal with these... these birds?"

"Jim, man, what makes you think I've got all the answers?"

"Because you normally do, and who's the Shaman here anyway?"

"If I'd known it would be this much trouble, I swear..." Blair stops. "Jim, you know I don't mean that. I would never mean that. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, I swear to heaven and all the pantheon."

"Ssh," placing a finger on Blair's lips. "It's okay. Somewhere between me letting an ape trash the apartment and you channeling the strength of your spirit animal into mine, I figured we weren't going to be letting out your room anytime soon."

"Why, Jim Ellison, you big ball of mush."

"What?"

"You said 'we'." Blair grins and Jim groans, cuffing his head lightly.

They lean into each other, automatically holding, hands occasionally coming up to ruffle hair or smooth eyelashes, touching and affirming here and now.

Presently Blair's eyelids droop and he starts awake, shocking Jim.

"Whoa!"

"Sorry, sorry," but Blair's teeth are chattering. Jim sets his, and grips Blair's wrists, the uninjured palm, running hands up and down his friend, willing strength and warmth into him.

"I can't sleep, man, I'm sorry, I can't."

Jim nods, gripping tighter.

"I think you should just keep holding me."

IX

11 pm and Jim has lost count of how many times Blair has jerked awake in his arms.

"Sandburg, this is ridiculous," he growls finally, helpless and irritated, switching on the night lamp. "Can't you come up with an idea?"

Blair's eyes glitter back at him, tone as brittle as glass.

"Well see, Jim, my first carefully thought out plan to spare you backfired badly, and plan B, which was to fuck you senseless didn't work either, so you know what, Jim, I think I'm all out of plans." He spreads his hands. "Your turn."

"Christ."

"Shit," Blair agrees, rolling over onto his side and chafing Jim's cheeks between his hands. "I'm sorry, okay, I'm a shit, I'm an ass, I'm sleepy, I'm irritated as hell and pissing-in-my-pants afraid and I'm taking it out on you."

"Burn sage," Jim mumbles and Blair laughs.

"Oh if only."

"You mean it, don't you," Jim asks him. "No, seriously. You meant what you just said about plan B."

Blair groans. "Oh God, no, we're not getting into this."

"No, no, I think I actually have an idea, Blair. But you're going to have to trust me."

Blair leans his forehead against Jim's. "Don't I always?"

Jim closes his eyes, inhaling - breath of breath, life of life, thinking of how different air tastes when it's been through the Sandburg zone, slightly zestier, more alive and if he's not careful he'll be writing poems to transubstantiation via Blair.

"Get this off," he mutters, moving his hands between them, opening Blair's robe so he can feel the skin.

"Whoa!" Blair sounds surprised but not entirely displeased. "What are we doing here?"

"We - help me, Sandburg," wriggling out of his T-shirt and helping Blair help him shuck his boxers, "We are getting naked here."

"Uh Jim, while I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm or anything - oh, man!" and Blair sucks in his breath at the sight of Jim's cock millimeters from his nose, "Oh man, Jim, you smell so good, here, let me help you,"

"Breathe, Sandburg," Jim bats away his Guide and pulls him up to rest face to face. "This is the plan."

"It's a very good plan," Blair vows. "I'm relaxed already."

Jim snorts and burrows his face into Blair's neck. "Will you listen to me?"

"There are words?" But Blair stops tickling Jim's stomach and returns to what Jim has decided will be his favorite Blair-caress ever, hands cupping and stroking his face.

"The plan," gasping for control as he opens himself layer by layer to all the stimuli hitting him, scent, taste, sound, touch and other, "The plan is for us to sleep together. That had better not be a laugh."

"It wasn't," Blair assures him, "I hiccupped. So sleeping together is going to overcome spiritual animations that are attracted by violent energy. Actually," he pets Jim comfortingly, "its quite a good idea. Make love not war... except you're forgetting something, Jim. I tried that already."

Jim shakes his head wryly. "Not exactly," then trails off, trying to find the right words.

"I'm listening, go on, Jim," Blair prods gently.

Jim holds Blair's gauze-wrapped hand in his own large paw, tracing the outer knuckles until Blair gives a little sigh.

"Simon suggested I take a look around Maple East today."

Sharp intake of breath but Jim holds fast. "I had to go, Chief. I wanted to see."

Blair lets his hand rest between Jim's.

"What did you see?" he asks after a while.

Jim inhales gratefully, surreptitiously checking for the heavier scents that suggest agitation, but Blair seems calm, though not overly so.

"I ... I did the time-lapse thing, and I saw... I saw the panther."

Silence.

"Chief?" Jim ventures.

"Go on."

"You remember when we... the animals, when they merged."

"Not likely to forget that, no."

"I saw them again, but they were separate, and your wolf was bleeding, changing back and forth from the panther, like it was... I don't know, feeding or something."

Blair places a finger on Jim's mouth. "Thank you Jim. I know."

"You knew?"

"Why the hell do you think I tried not to touch you?" He lets his hand caress Jim's cheek, mimicking tremors. "Been feeling cold recently?"

"You warm me," Jim answers simply, and Blair groans, flesh hardening in response.

"Ah, shit, Jim, I'm sorry," apologizing to lax genitals and promising to pay better attention to the task at hand.

"It's fine, you're... you're fine," Jim whispers the last, shifting slightly, letting smooth against hard. "Let me warm you."

"Jim. Jim, no, wait man, Jim, please, let's process this." Blair grunts, trying to focus. "You're saying - what are you saying?"

"Let's sleep together, Blair. How about we just sleep together, and see what dreams come?"

Bliss is Jim Ellison personified, or should that be the other way around? Blair's not sure.

"You warm me," Jim answered him simply, the words effortless and powerful, just like the man himself, so all Blair can come up with for an answer is a mental 'yin and yang, Ellison, yin and yang,' which means in Blair-speak, I love you because you loved me too. Though how Jim can still do that is beyond him, but damn it, he should never look gifts in the mouth, they tend to leave on him.

Sleep together, and he likes the thought of that, naked and asleep together doesn't seem as vulnerable as naked and asleep alone. Besides which Jim is against him, so soft and warm and Blair can feel himself relaxing, open and ready for whatever dreams he thinks may come.

Besides which, the plan is theoretically sound.

"At this rate you'll put me out of the Shaman business," he teases and is surprised when Jim rolls them over, pressing him into the mattress with a brutal touch of lips that leaves him panting and eager for more.

"Jim," he reaches out but Jim bats him away, saying, "This is for me," and Blair leans back, shuddering as Jim inhales him, or so it seems, starting from the neck and working straight down.

"What're you doing, man?" and he feels a chuckle reverberate through the chest on his, and words that sound suspiciously like "Relaxing you," which is a very good idea, given as how he's twanging like a bowstring or something, primed and ready for a single touch.

The touch comes, and he arches, because it's not where he expects it, not Jim's mouth, not his goddamn mouthon his dick, taking only the first inch or so in for a taste but the surprise is enough to make Blair bellow, because is there anything this man won't do for him? Anything he won't give? And the answer is no, as Jim apparently not wanting to choke himself decides to work on little sucks and long, slow licks traveling from crown to head and even a daring wet trace around his balls.

"JIM! This, this..." this is a bad idea, he wants to say, because reciprocity has always been his thing, and its been so long since he's had someone in his bed whom he wants to taste and explore, and he wants to know what Jim likes, if he'll have to whisper 'dial up' or 'filter out' when he gives Jim Ellison a tongue bath, but apparently this exploration is not to be tonight, because Jim is snuffling the curls at the base of his groin and the warmth and the love and the inexpert affection are combining to tense him and he really, really doesn't want to overload Jim's senses. "Aw, Jim, Jim man," and his hands are beginning to fist in hair that's too short for any purchase, and the slip-slide of silky fuzz against his skin is even more erotic than the novel caresses being lavished on his dick. But, not to worry, he's never been one of the men who comes with blowjobs and he probably wouldn't have this time either except he can feel Jim kissing him, feel Jim's hand hold his and the simple closeness of that gesture combined with Jim whispering, "...taste you," is a lethal combination.

He remembers to yell in time, jerking the man's head back, but guess who's stronger and as Blair comes, jerking and spasming, he's already plotting his revenge, which will be terrible, the minute he gets his breath back.

Which would be now, and as Jim smirks, looking up at him, Blair wipes the expression from his face and luxuriates in the swift inhalation that comes when he says, "That was great, oh man, that was great, but I think you should fuck me now."

Contact.

Without warning, Ellison bestrides him, braced on his elbows, face like the wrath of a thunder-god, their mouths nearly touching as he growls, "Don't."

Don't?

"Don't?" he repeats inanely as Jim ruthlessly kisses him into the ground. "Don't?" he tries again and this time the man actually offers him an answer.

"Let me."

"Let me?" this is ridiculous; he's lost brainpower. Let me, oh wait, he gets it, no actually he doesn't, so he wrinkles his brow and asks reasonably, "Jim, what the hell do you mean?"

And Jim's jaw is working as he holds himself in check, finally grinding out the words, "For once in your miserable life, Sandburg, can you let me do something for you without feeling you have to reciprocate?"

Reciprocate?

Oh.

"Ah, Jim," and the feel of that square jaw in his hands is overwhelming, sensation he can overdose on, and this entire reciprocity thing is a kettle of fish that he's too tired to deal with now, but one thing Jim has to know is that this isn't about balance -

Or is it?

Kettles of fish.

Oh hell.

"You know, you're going to put me out of the Shaman business," he says, when the initial shock has worn off. Jim snuggles into the crook of his neck and Blair can feel his face contouring, lips shaping grin and words.

"Nah, I'll patrol the physical, you guard the spiritual boundaries and we'll both watch each other's backs. How's that sound, partner?"

Marvelous, he likes that. Simple, elegant solution and so apt, he really likes that, guardian of the spiritual boundaries; it has a certain ring to it. And this is called synergy, true reciprocity, yin and yang, Sentinel and Guide, and he says as much to yawning Jim, who reaches up to pat his head before snuggling further into the junction of his shoulder and neck.

"Shut up and sleep," he mutters, already halfway there, but Blair stays awake, watching and feeling the newness of this, of Jim vulnerable and so easily asleep in his arms, protector and protected in one.

He could get used to this, definitely used to this.

Jim is warm and heavy against him, so he rolls slightly, pushing with the unhurt palm and whoa, who knew Jim Ellison would be so responsive, because he turns over immediately, rolling onto his back and pulling Blair into the shelter of him, rubbing strong and comforting lines up and down Blair's back. Which is great and relaxing and what the hell, the fates combine, so with a roll of eyes and a promise to have something to say to the irony gods, because he knows the Ketchua tribe actually have a few he could probably contact, Blair lets his eyes close.

A last peek at the clock on his table reveals the time to be 12 mid-night, the witching hour, which he hopes it isn't an omen, but even if it is, hey wasn't there a movie about omens and dark satanic birds and right now if he can hold on to that idea it might actually be of some use to them...

Blair dreams.

/of mist and sand and the swirling between worlds, of the sky that never changes and the air that doesn't breathe, of a place beyond definition and the boundaries between worlds/

"Jesus, Chief, you come here every night?"

Blair opens his eyes and looks around at the red sprinkled sky and the sticky mud he's mired in. Swirling mists, cloudless sky and vision that waters if he focuses on anything including the steady upbeat of a giant pulse throbbing in the heart of this world.

"I think so," he says slowly, "but what do you see?"

Dream-Jim wrinkles his nose. "For one thing, this place stinks. Let's get out of here."

"I'd love to, man, but," he points to his feet, "as you can see I'm going to need some help."

"Ah, Blair," Jim sighs and reaches out a hand.

Blair takes it.

The connection is real, more real than in the physical realm, silver sparks shooting up their arms. Blair reels back, but Jim reaches out and grabs him, anchoring him solidly.

"Got you," he says in satisfaction, and between him hauling and Blair pushing, they manage to get him partway out of the muck.

"Jim," he pants, "I really need a rest here."

"No time, partner," Jim looks skywards. "Company."

The largest of the carrion birds dives down and Blair ducks to avoid it. Jim isn't so lucky and gets part of his face torn away, leaving him bleeding and dripping, the half-wholeness of his eyes staring stupidly at his bloody palm.

"Blair," he says, vaguely surprised at the gurgling in his throat, "Blair," as he raises a shaking hand to what is left of his face, repeating the name again and again like a talisman against evil, saying Blair, Blair, Blair

/stay with me tonight/

Jesus. Oh fucking Jesus - Jim in front of him bleeding and real and Blair needs to remind himself this is a dream, a dream damn it, like all the dreams except it was never supposed to be Jim bleeding, not Jim hurting, no one was supposed to hurt, oh FUCK, fuck, fuck, he's shaking with the effort of reining himself in, of refusing to bite and release blood in penance. Not here, not in the place between worlds, not here in front of Jim or what's left of this dream, because... and the shaking is so strong as he feels a wet, slick palm touch his face in a parody of comfort he can't take, he

Screams. And screams and screams and screams again until he feels arms around him, shaking him, and a familiar voice saying over and over again "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, come back."

Blair wakes.

Jim's hands are gripping his shoulders again, their foreheads touching as he repeats, "Breathe."

Blair breathes, inhaling a cocktail of scent, his own sweat and fear, Jim's warmth and nearness and his hands are shaking until Jim curses and begins rubbing them between his.

"Shit, I'm sorry Blair," self-loathing in every note of his voice and movement of his fingers, "I'm sorry, I just...fuck, I'm sorry. I just thought, God, I'm so sorry. It was a stupid idea."

Blair only half-listens, his mind whirling.

"Blair? Chief? Blair?"

He lifts a finger and touches Jim's lips. Alive and real - did he really see them torn away? But he's alive now and they're holding hands.

"Blair."

Touch, touch hands, encircle wrists, lift Jim's palm to his own so he can taste it, taste salt and realize there's no blood, no nothing except gouges in the palm that remind Blair of when he used to clench his fists so hard the nails broke off in the skin. Ah Jim, no, no, not Jim's hands...

... Which remind Blair as he lifts them for inspection, of anti-bacterial cream, and kisses on the palm, mugs of coffee and sachets of tea, the little touches of everyday existence that Jim uses to show his affection.

"Blair? You're scaring me here, buddy."

Blair shakes his head, feeling thoughts click into place. It feels so good he does it again, not sure how stupid he looks shaking his head from side to side, but the dizziness feels so good he could throw up. "No, no, no. No, no, don't be scared, don't be scared, I have faced my fear and will overcome it." Misquote 'Dune', yeah, that's one way to deal, but man, who'd have thunk of the entropy of their combined hands, so Blair moans angrily, shaking his head, "Oh man, how could I be so fucking stupid!"

"Blair?"

He stops nodding with an effort, reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind Jim's ears, the contact serving to ground him and reminding him he's not the only one here with a problem. "Dial down, Jim. Tell me what you saw."

Jim blinks. "I saw... you... and ...you were bleeding. And I couldn't stop it, and then you started screaming when I touched you, so I -"

Blair laughs. He actually throws his head back and laughs in hysterical triumph, feeling his lungs collapse with every breath, feeling the lack of air for what he has to express, punching his injured hand upwards and howling at them, fuck the lot, ignoring the stab of pain.

"Blair!" Jim's voice is a sliver of sanity and he looks at him, shivering as his wrists are loosely encircled in the Ellison hand-cuffs. "Stop that!"

"No!" he yells, then realizes what that sounds like, so laughs in Jim's face which only makes matters worse, but that doesn't matter, because Blair is on a high that he's not coming down from, no sir, not now that he knows.

Jim slaps him smartly. He doesn't see it coming.

When the world reorients, he's leaning into Jim, breathing scent and affirming life, registering the palms softly massaging his shoulders and the sound of Jim breathing, breathing in reciprocity.

Balance, oh man, oh man!

"Jim," he whispers, "No shit, Jim, I know!"

Sound of Jim rumbling against him, and he shakes his head irritated, "I'm not kidding or hysterical, Jim, hear me out, okay? Because you're never going to guess what I see in my dreams."

Jim sighs. "Tell me."

"No, first you tell me, tell me this - the panther, when you saw him, how did he look? Healthy?"

And this is hard for Jim to say, of course it is, which is what Blair's counting on, and Houston we have corroboration here, scientific and all.

"Yeah, he was great Chief, I told you, it was you," but no, Blair is shaking his head. "Uh-uh. No way. When I saw him, a year ago, he was bleeding and so I gave him the wolf, and oh my God, Jim, this is so way fucked up I cannot believe we are having this conversation." He breathes, trying to tread the line between excitement and rationality.

Jim draws back carefully. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying. I'm saying that whatever it is that's out there knows what we fear most, and well... let's not take things for granted anymore, huh?" Blair's eyes crinkle as he grins wryly. "Tell me why I was so afraid of touching you."

Jim looks away. Thunder-god face.

"You were draining your strength into me."

Ah, no, Jim. Not like that, not like that... Blair leans forward, his turn to nuzzle. "Well, today it was the other way around, wasn't it? The point is, Jim," and he touches his friend's forehead with his own, "the point is that it doesn't matter does it? Not to us, not to a partnership. I give, you take, you give, I take, push and pull; we go on as a team, yes?" Blair holds contact, feeling Jim's temples throbbing against his own.

Jim's cheeks relax. "We try," he whispers.

Blair nods seriously. "We try." Pauses, knowing he should say the words, saved when Jim says

"I'm not ready to go back in there."

Thank you, Ellison, for leaving me to be the strong one.

For a moment Blair agrees with him, but caffeine is released into the bloodstream in timed doses and even if they drank liters now it would be four hours before any of it had an effect and basically, Blair is tired of dreaming. So he breathes, inhaling breath into breath, replacing strength for strength, recharging, and when he feels himself relaxing, says very evenly, "Jim, I need you to come back in with me." Whispering for emphasis, "Please, man."

Two minutes later, holding hands so tightly it's almost pathetic, they lean into each other, breath to breath mingling in an effort to help them sleep.

/do you know who you are can you see can you feel or will you only be swayed by the Folk who don't fold no they will not leave they have never left you but why should that stop you dreamer you who are asleep and to whom this is a dream/

/but real/

Red reality and the wounds in his skin. Blair breathes, feeling the edges of fur morphing back into clothes, blood returning to its proper place in his veins.

This is his reality. He walks between worlds, damn it.

"I'm dreaming," Blair says, voice drowning in the silence. "Jim?"

A gust of wind, uninhibited breath, a stench that he recognizes from dreams and a voice twisted in parody of one he should know.

/open your eyes/

Blair turns towards her, seeing her truly nameless, faceless now, features being sucked into a void of flesh that leaves her a gaping maw, anonymous vessel for hunger that he created.

/like what you see?/

He shakes his head, no, knowing what is going to happen even as she reaches out to touch him, flesh rippling in a grotesque parody, shifting and changing into muscles and male skin not his own, her still-feminine hands begging for mercy as the change overtakes.

Blair forces himself to look straight at her.

"Teresa," he says thickly, forcing beneath the blanket and letting the emotions he should have felt and does feel now override disgust. "Teresa, Teresa, I'm ... I'm sorry, please, no."

She grins horribly, fleshy lips parting.

"Stop that."

/Blair/

Disgust is enough.

"No. No, I hurt her enough, I won't let you use her." His hands shake, but he can control this. "This is my place. Leave -" voice breaking as he realizes that maybe this is her place too, the place she's trapped in a hell of his making, so he says the word again, her name, 'Teresa', remembering in that instant that the name is the thing.

FUCK

Nausea and clarity, but the thing that has her shape raises hands to heaven in a soundless howl, shaking as he is shaking now, saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but please don't do this, but how can he blame it, her, or even stop them as s/he reaches into hir breast and claws at it, ripping through musculature and breaking bones with painful difficulty, scoring war-paint on a warrior's chest before bringing out a heart, alive and beating, that s/he throws at his feet before disappearing.

/isn't that what you wanted?/

/Blair. Open your eyes/

It takes an effort to raise his eyes from the ground, his hands still trembling with the effort to contain them, to contain himself and not let any part of himself bleed into this place, where blood and names have power, but he manages it finally. Looks up and sees the path ahead -

"Obviously translated into a cultural metaphor my mind will understand, but shit!" A yellow brick road?

Blair takes the first step forward.

The ground does not want him to go.

It's always the same dream. He's lost in the jungle, he's searching for Sandburg and in the distance he can feel the eyes watching him.

It pisses him off and he stops to yell, because first of all this is Blair's dream, not his own and isn't that damn panther supposed to be helping him through this?

As the words leave his mouth, so does the air from his chest and Jim stands rooted, feeling the chill overtake him and the loss of sense-memory and the silence of words. Because he's right, this isn't his dream, this is someone else's nightmare, someone who plucked the heart from the sky and let it bleed all over the place, filtering red light so useless for vision it might as well be dark. And there is no breath here, no wind, no smell or taste or sound in the air and he's standing here paralyzed, as useless as when the chopper crashed and broke his ribs so he couldn't even bury his men.

After a while his hands begin to shake.

Blair grunts, taking another step forward. And another, and another.

The mud squelches at him, pulling insidiously.

"Oh, I've got you, my little pretty and your little dog too," he mutters viciously. "STOP that you bastard," but it only gurgles appreciatively, so he kicks at it in frustration, which in retrospect is a stupid thing to do.

Stuck. Again.

Bloody hell. And that might actually be right, now that he thinks of it.

A sudden ghost-light attracts his attention and he looks up from contemplating his feet to see the approaching figure of a man in army fatigues - Jim? - but doesn't cry out to it, because over here the word is the thing.

"Chief," whatever it is calls, running to get him, stretching a hand out like Jim probably would, "Hold on Chief, coming to get you," but would Jim do that if he saw Blair stuck in the mud? More likely grin irritatingly and wait for Blair to pluck his own boots free, yes that's the Jim he knows isn't it?

Only one way to find out, so Blair shakes his head, go away, and the spirit or whatever it is has to obey, must be a small one and not too powerful because it just snarls at him before morphing into something swift and ugly with bad breath and compact black wings.

Damn it.

Blair grits his teeth and takes another step forward.

The ground gives, a little. He pauses for breath and balance, then lifts his feet again.

No time for dragging.

He's cold, it's cold and something is sucking at him, leaching energy. He sees - nothing in the darkness, but mist trails and puffs of white wind, and if he concentrates, the absence of stimulus is enough to send him reeling.

Sight and hearing, the two most important senses along with a feel for direction, except he feels rootless and disoriented, which certainly isn't going to work. And there aren't any trees, no sun, no nothing to give him a fucking clue, which means someone here isn't playing by the rules.

You know what? Fuck the rules. This isn't his place.

"Sandburg? Where the hell are you!"

Fuck this. This is his territory.

"Dry," he tells the mud, which belches at him but has to obey.

Well. Not bad.

Now for the hard part. Blair raises his voice.

"Jim, I know you're there!"

"Quit fooling around and come here!"

"I know you can hear me, man. Follow the sound of my voice, Jim, and hurry up because I'm freezing."

"Blair. All right man, you've got me worried, but you can do this, okay? Find me." He rubs his arms. "And fast, I'm freezing."

"Where the hell are you, Jim? At least answer me, man!"

"You know what, this isn't funny." He throws his head back and yells into the silence, determined not to let his words be swallowed. "SANDBURG!"

"JIM! Jim Ellison, you WILL hear me! Answer me, damn it!"

"FUCK!! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"AND the horse you rode in on..." wait, was that an echo?

He turns around, blindly seeking. "Blair?"

"Jim? Jim! Jim, oh man," as air resolves and he sees his partner not three feet away, "this is my life, Ellison, this is so my life here, tragicomedy and now you, look at you! Three feet away and I've been yelling my head off for you," He pauses suspiciously. "You are Jim Ellison aren't you? Quick, what's my favorite flower?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Jim! Jim! Oh man!" Blair launches into a run, stopping short of throwing himself on the man, settling for a fierce hug. "I was worried."

"You and me both. Where the hell are we?"

Blair shrugs. "Patrolling the boundaries between worlds, I think. Here, give me your hand, you're freezing."

They clasp, connecting, the reality of sparks sending a frisson of awareness through them.

Blair groans. "No. Not here."

"I wouldn't have asked either," Jim says somberly. "Look," tilting his head upwards as the air clears slightly, revealing the distant gleam of hovering shapes.

Blair shivers. "They feed on it... on us. Or can. Come on."

"Where are we going?"

Blair points to the path he can see clearly. "Following the yellow brick road. Can you see it?"

"The yellow brick road?" Jim shakes his head in disbelief. "Blair, please tell me you're joking."

"Sorry, no." He shrugs apologetically. "It's more a path than a road, actually, but it has thorny bushes and yellow bricks."

"Jesus."

"Oh man. You really can't see it?"

Jim grins half-heartedly. "You can, that's good enough for me," gripping Blair's hand a little tighter in as Blair seems to hesitate. "Lead on, Macduff. We'll be okay." Sotto voce, "The YELLOW brick ROAD?"

Holding hands tightly, they walk.

"Whoa! Easy there, pothole."

Jim stumbles and rights himself using Blair's arm. "Damn. Fine, I'm fine, Sandburg, but this is not my idea of a romantic stroll through the woods." Blair chuckles, responding to the words not the tone.

"Me neither," encircling Jim's wrist with thumb and index finger, "Come on man. We're doing great."

"Yeah. Yeah." Scowling up at the ever-present hoverers in the sky.

"Jim, what is it? What am I missing? What's wrong?"

Jim shivers. "Nothing. Everything. I can't trust anything anymore - I see maybe three meters ahead then suddenly you're pushing me out of the path so I won't trip on a boulder that's under my feet. I think I can hear you, and that's about all I can hear right now, because this silence is deafening, Blair, and I, I don't like it. The smell is wrong, there is no scent and damn it, this place is just wrong, all right? And those damn birds up there -"

They stop, Blair turning to Jim, grabbing his head between his hands and pulling him down to exchange breath.

"Ssh, we can do this, this is okay," touching fingertips to cheekbones, breathing reassurance and warmth that he himself doesn't feel, grounding himself with the solid reality of Jim. "We're good here, we're together."

"It's so dark," Jim mutters. "The sky's red and there's no sun."

"I know. That's always the worst. Hang in there, man, we're good, we're together."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"We're going to wake up, aren't we?"

Blair closes his eyes, leaning. "Eventually."

"Right. Right." Jim rests his head on Blair's, inhaling what he can. "I trust you," he says, not for Blair as much as himself, but Blair grins and kisses him lightly, on the cheek, tiptoeing to reach his forehead.

"And I love you too, okay?"

"Okay." He sighs heavily.

"Mm." They start walking again. "You know, logically, if the Sentinel guards the tribe physically, and the Shaman's job is to patrol the spiritual boundaries, you're going to feel about at home here as I did at the PD at first." He rubs Jim's arm comfortingly. "You'll get used to it."

Jim glares. "Are you enjoying this?"

Blair glances back. "Like a root canal."

Jim snorts.

They keep walking.

"Blair?"

"Yes?"

"Why aren't the birds attacking us?"

"I think they're afraid. We're moving targets, healthy animals, not scavenger-food." He has the grace to look a little sheepish. "I don't know. I'm just, sort of, figuring it out as we go on. But I think its good for us to keep walking... patrolling."

"Okay."

They walk.

Endless un-day. The absence of sun plucks at his eyes, confuses his brains and makes him wonder just how much longer they're going to have to keep walking in red-light.

"How much longer do you think this patrol is gonna take, anyway?"

Blair stiffens.

Time, distance, equi-distant, balance, balancing...

Infinite.

The space between worlds is infinite.

"Blair?"

"Yeah, yeah," his voice oddly strained. "Hold me man, I'm going to try something."

Jim waits, holding on.

Blair opens his eyes.

The scene shifts in perspective, as if he's been looking all the while through a piece of transparent glass that has suddenly been removed. He sees Jim holding him, feels the presence of the man waiting patiently, sense-blind and trusting, encircling his wrists protectively.

Something sighs, gusts a little. Might be the wind. If Blair could put a name to it, he'd call it a chuckle.

/is this your name? is this who you are? be certain now be careful now of who and what will mark you/

"Yes," says Blair, looking at Jim like he's a mirror, inverse-reverse, not him but of him. "Yes, this is my name."

/are you certain? Do you finally see?/

"I see."

/What do you see?/

Blair grins. "An ending. A beginning. A barrier between worlds can also be a passage. We hold this together."

/together/

"Yes. Strength for strength," and because here the truth is the thing he has to add, "Weaknesses too."

/finally/

The air breathes, lifting from stasis.

/finally finally finally.../

Blair opens his eyes.

They move.

They're standing on a grassy knoll overlooking a chasm, while above them, far above, birds wheel in silent counterpoint to the quiet rustling of wind and the living of grasses.

Jim inhales. He can finally see.

Sound is all around him, simple harmonies of atoms arranging and breaking in the rhythms of entropy. He tastes - life, the scent of dew, broken chlorophyll and feels the shift in air temperature that means sunrise.

Beside him he feels Blair breathe.

"It worked," he says softly, chuckling in awe. "I'll be damned. It actually works. Yin and yang, Ellison," smoothly drawing Jim down into a long, possessive kiss. "Perfectly balanced. I love you," he whispers, capturing Jim's lips softly, sucking on the bottom lip; teasing with his tongue. "I love you, man, I fucking adore you. Distance between worlds," he repeats, grinning. "I'm guessing infinite, infinitely large, infinitely small and you, man, you got it, I fucking adore you," emphasizing it with a soft bite to Jim's cheek.

Jim groans. "I thought we couldn't, here."

"Rules change," Blair answers, grinning against his mouth. Jim grins back and decides what the hell, it's not like he needs a spinal cord anyway, bending forward at the most uncomfortable angle to perform the famous Ellison lip-lock maneuver. Judging from Blair's enthusiastic response, he approves.

Blair pushes him gently, and wincing, Jim returns to his starting position.

"Look," his friend says softly, pointing at the sky. "See that, man? That's beautiful."

Jim looks and sees the red sky lightening, growing softer, yellow, as if released from stasis in eternal pre-dawn. If he shades his eyes and filters out wavelengths, there and there, he can actually see the sun rise, and it is glorious.

A strange sound distracts him and Jim looks down, away from the sun at Blair, equally glorious, flushed in the red light, his face transformed with a mixture of awe and glee as he claps.

Jim grins. "Thank you, but what did I do?"

Blair laughs and finishes his round of applause. "That was for the sun. This," yanking Jim down to his knees and getting reciprocal so they can kiss without contorting, "this is for you."

Later, they're on the grass, almost perpendicular to each other, Jim sitting up, Blair's head in his lap, both watching the distant specks circle in the sky.

Blair sighs. "Guess they're not ever going to leave. That would have been too much to hope for."

"But now they know we're watching." Jim grips his hand. "We'll hold the pass, don't worry."

"Military metaphors," but Blair's expression relaxes.

Jim pets his hair, changing the subject. "Are you ever going to grow it out again?"

Blair shrugs. "I don't know, maybe. But I'm sort of used to it now. Do you mind?"

"Nah," tugging at a strand of hair, "Maybe a little... I'll be pissed if you never wear your nipple ring for me, though."

Blair chuckles. "It's a deal."

They're quiet for a while, just watching and letting the dream-sun beat down on them. Jim closes his eyes, blissfully reaching out with sense and pore, basking in the warmth.

"Mm," a hand snakes up to cup his chin, "Did I ever tell you what a doofus you look like when you do that?"

"That's Detective Doofus to you."

"Detective Doofus." Blair grins, turning serious. "I've missed you, man. I've missed this. Us. I mean, not that we've ever done much of this before, but I swear I've missed this."

Jim pats Blair's hand on his chin. "I know."

Blair takes his hand and kisses it, nestling it under his cheek. "I'm so tired man."

"Then sleep."

"In a dream?" Blair snorts. "This is priceless. I'm falling asleep in a dream."

"In the boundary between worlds, Chief. You just patrolled an infinite distance, I think you deserve a rest." Deserve to forget. Just for a while.

"Mm, yea..." Blair snuggles into Jim's hand. "I could sleep. What'll you do?"

"Watch," Jim whispers. "I'll be here, watching you."

/dream wakefully. Dream carefully. Understand what names you can also claim you because in the dream are you the dream or is the dreamer of the dream the same as you/

/answer your questions. Take the plunge. Die and die and die again to self and realize that this is the price you must pay for who you are but who are you/

/What price do you pay and do you pay it alone/

/now that you know, dream awake/

The clock reads 4 a.m. when Blair wakes in the semi-darkness, one hand already reaching out to confirm Jim's presence beside him. Flesh touches flesh and they trade warmth, Jim moving his lips slightly to press a sleepy kiss against his palm.

He watches as Jim's eyes open slowly, registering his surroundings and the press of skin against his, waking enough to clasp Blair's hand in his own and whisper sleepily, "Tell me."

Blair does, in touch and the sensitivity of kisses, moving hands and lips to affirm his existence and receive in return the gift of Jim's. Feeling, as he does, the warmth of the sun and far overhead the beating of wings.

"Ssh," he strokes Jim's eyes closed again, "It's alright; I'm here."

Jim smiles, surrendering, letting Blair watch as he sleeps.

And somewhere poised between the worlds, in mirror-balance, the Shaman dreams.