Author's website: http://snycock.livejournal.com

Thank you to earth2skye, carodee, sara_merry99, and mab_browne for their very helpful comments on early drafts of some of the chapters. Also an enormous and heartfelt thanks to my beta, earth2skye, for making this a way better story due to her thoughtful suggestions and corrections. All mistakes, consequently, are mine alone.
And a tremendous thanks to all the people on my LJ friends list who gave me such wonderful appreciation and support while I was writing this.
This is a death story, of sorts, but it's got a happy ending. In the words of one reader, it's "probably the sweetest, most romantic, and most heartwarming death story I've ever read". If you need more detailed warnings than that, scroll to the bottom; I've put them at the end.
Started November 2007 for National Novel Writing Month. I didn't finish it in a month, but I did eventually finish it!
Quoted passages are from Shakespeare, "When I'm Sixty-Four" by the Beatles, "The Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac, and Ecclesiastes.
This story is a sequel to:

The bus ground to a screeching halt in front of the cemetery, Andrea hanging on to an inside pole for dear life, because the driver didn't seem to understand the concept of how early one needed to apply the brakes to stop something this large and heavy. The pneumatic shocks discharged with a long hiss, the bus settled to the ground and the door banged open.

Andrea got out, looking balefully up at the cemetery grounds. She wasn't at all sure that this was a good idea, but before she could change her mind - again, she chided herself sarcastically - the doors slammed shut and the bus lurched away with a roar and a plume of smelly black smoke. Andrea sighed. For better or for worse, she was here, and the next bus didn't come for thirty minutes, so she might as well do the thing she'd come to do. It beat standing around in the shelter, trying to do her homework. Shouldering her backpack in resignation, she started walking up the hill towards the entrance.

It was raining - of course, why wouldn't it be raining in Cascade, she thought - and she pulled the wool cap out of her jacket pocket and pulled it down over her head. Her mother had knitted it for her, in bright stripes of orange and red and yellow, but she was usually too embarrassed to wear it at school. None of the other girls wore anything like it, and she didn't like drawing attention to herself, preferring to stay at the edges of things and observe.

The gates were slightly ajar, and she slid in between them, wondering why they even bothered with gates at all. She supposed that they closed and locked them at night, but since the rest of the cemetery was surrounded by a low brick wall that was easy to climb, she didn't see that the gates really kept anyone out. On the other hand, she supposed, you probably didn't have to work too hard to keep people out of a cemetery.

Once through the gates, she started walking along the paved path that wound through the grounds. The path snaked past rows of gravestones; each row was identified neatly with a round metal marker embedded in the grass at each end. Each marker bore a letter and a range of numbers.

She stopped and pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket; unfolded it. J-25 was written on it in pencil. Row J, plot 25. That was what she was looking for.

The woman in the cemetery office had given her the information almost nonchalantly when she'd asked for it. And over the phone, to boot. She hadn't even asked her who she was or why she wanted to know. It pissed her off a little bit, truth be told. It just seemed to her that the people who ran this place would want to be a little more careful, wouldn't want just anybody visiting the graves.

It is a public place, dear. Her mother's voice rang in her head. Well, that might be true, she thought sullenly, but she didn't have to like it.

Funny how she could imagine just what her mother would say if they were having this conversation. Which, of course, they hadn't, because she hadn't wanted to tell her Mom where she was going. She would have done that thing, that thing that Andrea hated, where Mom looked at her with a solemn expression, and then her eyes got big, and then she started blinking fast. It was her "oh-my-you're-growing-up-so-fast" look. And then she would have wanted to sit down and have a "serious talk", and question her in itty bitty detail all about her feelings and why she wanted to do this and how she came to the decision and all that. And Andrea really didn't even want to think about it herself, much less talk to her mother about it.

That was why she had called and gotten the information from the cemetery office, rather than just ask her Mom. Her mother would have known, right away, and would have told her, but there would have been no escaping "the talk" then.

She stopped, momentarily confused, as the path she was following had met up with another path. There was a sign posted at the crossroads with different letters on it, and Andrea searched down it until she found the letter J. The arrow on the sign pointed to the right.

She took a deep breath, enjoying the clean, sharp smell of the cedars. It was very quiet; the cemetery appeared deserted. There was no one else around, except for some old guy sitting on a bench off to her right. The rain - well, really more like drizzle, now - made a soft hissing sound as it fell through the needles of the trees.

She put the paper back in her pocket and continued to the right, hunching her shoulders against the damp. A new row of gravestones had started on her right; she stopped and scuffed her foot around in the grass until she had uncovered the marker. Row J, plots 10-30. This was the row.

She straightened up and walked down the row, counting the plots under her breath as she went. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...twenty...twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. This was it.

She turned and faced the gravestone, unsure of what to say, unsure of what she had even wanted to happen or thought would happen by coming here. She fidgeted, moving restlessly from foot to foot, one hand grasping the strap of her backpack. The rain continued its soft susurrus in the trees behind her. Somewhere a seagull cried.

Words she longed to say crowded in her throat, clamoring for release, and her throat tightened, aching with the strain of holding them in. She wanted to say them, but she couldn't. She wasn't sure what would happen if she did. Just say it, she told herself, say something, say anything. You came all this way.

"I got an A on a math test," she blurted out, and immediately slapped her hand over her mouth. Hot tears gathered behind her eyes, and her cheeks burned with shame. What on earth was she doing? How could she say something so ridiculous? People would think she was crazy, coming here like this, talking to a gravestone about math tests.

The tears spilled out, rolling down her cheeks. With a stifled sob, she turned and started running down the path, away from the gravestone, heedless of where she was going. Her eyes were blinded by tears; her foot caught on something and she went sprawling, her backpack tumbling off into the underbrush.

"Oh, wow, hey, are you okay?" A warm, resonant voice sounded in her ear. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, assisted by a hand on her arm. Whoever it was crouched next to her, one hand gently on her back. "Are you okay?" the voice repeated.

She sniffed and dragged her sleeve across her eyes, clearing them. She gazed at the figure next to her, only now recognizing it as the old guy she'd seen earlier, sitting on the bench. She must have walked right past him on the way to the gravestone, but she'd been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed. "Yeah," she started to say, shamefaced, and then hissed as she became aware of a burning pain in the heels of her palms and her left knee.

He took her hands gently in his own and turned them palm up. Now she saw that they had been scraped raw by the impact with the paved path. "Whew," he said, "you sure scratched these up good. I bet this really stings."

She nodded, content to let him think the tears in her eyes were related to the pain in her hands. Clearing her throat, she said, "I think I tore my knee up, too," and was pleased that her voice was calm and even, betraying no sign of her earlier distress.

"Come on," he said, "let's get you up off this wet ground. Then we can take a better look." Putting a hand under her armpit, he helped her struggle to her feet. Once she was standing, he moved over to her left side and put her arm over his shoulders to balance her so she didn't have to put weight on her knee. She realized that she was only a few inches shorter than him. With his support, she limped over to the bench and sat down; he sat down next to her and bent to examine her knee.

Now that he was focusing on her knee, she could take a good look at him. Grizzled salt-and-pepper hair, that had probably once been dark brown, was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and he had sideburns...who wore sideburns in this day and age? He was wearing jeans - which, she guessed, actually made him somewhat of a cool old guy - hiking boots, and a dark blue knit sweater, with a black leather coat over everything.

He glanced up at her, and she was taken aback by his eyes. They were a shade of blue that she'd never seen before; dark, almost cobalt, and framed by thick, dark lashes. She wasn't great at telling people's ages, but she figured he was somewhere around seventy or so. He looked younger, though. When he caught her checking him out, he smiled. He had a gorgeous mouth, wide and full, and the smile lit up his whole face and took about ten years off of his life.

"It doesn't look too bad," he told her, reassuringly. "It looks like you just scraped the hell out of it."

She laughed, because adults usually apologized when they swore around her, like she was a kid or something. But he didn't. "It'll sting for a while, and probably be a little stiff tomorrow. And I think you're gonna have to buy a new pair of stockings," he added.

That sobered her up, and she looked at her knee. He was right. The fall had torn a big hole in the left stocking, and her knee underneath was scraped and bloody. Oh, great, she thought morosely. Mom would freak; she would be really mad at her. These tights were brand new. This was the first time she'd worn them. Plus, now her mom would want to know what she had been doing to make a hole like that.

That reminded her about why she'd come, and her heart sank. No doubt this guy had seen her making a fool of herself, trying to talk to people who were dead and gone. Not that she cared what he thought of her, anyway...but she hated to look like an idiot in front of anyone.

He was looking at her very thoughtfully. "Nice day for a visit to the cemetery, huh?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

He grinned. "No, seriously. This is a perfect day. The rain keeps the other visitors away, and the place is pretty deserted. We've got it pretty much to ourselves. It's a good time to talk to people."

She eyed him again, unsure whether he had been watching her earlier and was just yanking her chain. She knew it was rude, and forward, but curiosity prompted her to ask, "So, who are you here visiting?"

He pointed with his chin at a gravestone across the path from them. "My partner."

She looked over at the stone. James Joseph Ellison, the gravestone read. Born June 14th, 1957. Died October 22nd, 2030.

She looked back at him. "What, like, your business partner?"

He smiled. "No, my cop partner. We were both cops."

She raised an eyebrow again in disbelief. "YOU...were a cop?"

His smile widened. "Yes," he said, mimicking her emphasis and tone of voice, "I...was a cop."

"That's hard to believe," she told him honestly.

"You're not the first person to tell me that."

Her smile faded and she became still. "My dad was a cop, too."

"Oh, yeah? What was his name?"

"Doug McConnell."

"Is that who you came here to visit today?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"Yeah," she said, feeling like her own voice was barely above a whisper.

He regarded her gravely, his blue eyes serious, then put his hand out. "You know, I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Blair. Blair Sandburg."

She took his hand and shook it firmly. "I'm Andrea McConnell."

"I used to teach in the police academy, but I'm not sure I remember your dad."

She put her hands back in her lap, where they twisted together nervously. "He went through the academy in Seattle...we used to live in Seattle. Before I was born. He and my mom moved here so they could be closer to her family. She's Alaskan - Inuit." She stopped, looking at Blair furtively, judging his reaction. But he didn't say anything, just kept looking at her, a kind smile on his face. "He died two years ago," she continued, "when I was fourteen." Her throat started to feel tight, so she stopped and swallowed painfully, looking down at her hands on her lap again. The movement made her catch a glimpse of her watch, and she realized that it was getting really late. "Oh, man! I gotta get home!"

Blair looked at her, frowning. "How about I give you a ride home?" he asked.

Suddenly all the stories her mom had told her about people who lured unsuspecting young girls into their cars popped into her head. She regarded him warily. "No, no thanks, it's okay, I can catch the bus, it's not very far."

"Your knee's pretty torn up. Can you call your mom to come and get you?"

"No, she's a nurse at Cascade General, and she works second shift."

"And you stay home alone?" Blair looked slightly uneasy.

She glared at him. "Yeah. It's okay. I'm sixteen years old, I'm not a kid. I can take care of myself."

He opened his mouth as if to argue with her, but then closed it abruptly, and gave her a meaningful look. "I take it back," he said, smiling contritely. "I'm sure you can take care of yourself. But are you sure you'll be okay on the bus, with your knee like that? I'm happy to give you a ride."

She nodded. "I'm okay, but thank you for offering," she said, wanting to be polite. She checked her watch again. The bus would be arriving soon. She stood up, her knee still sore but less painful than before. Reaching automatically for the strap that was usually over her shoulder, she experienced a moment of panic when her hand met the fabric of her coat. "My backpack," she said, suddenly alarmed. "Where's my backpack?"

"I think it went back here when you fell," Blair said, and got up only to disappear into the cedar grove behind the bench. He emerged a moment later carrying her bag. "Here you go."

She shouldered it and smiled at him. "Thank you. And thanks for all your help."

He smiled back. "No problem. Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime."

"Cool," she said, then turned and walked down towards the bus stop. When she got to the gates, she looked back once more. He was still standing in the same place, watching her. She waved at him, and he waved back. Then she heard the bus approaching, and she hurried through the gates and down the hill to the stop.

It was a brisk fall day, the rain finally having given way to a bright blue, cloudless sky. A soft breeze stirred the tops of the cedars and blew fallen leaves in spiraling dances around the gravestones.

Blair stretched his legs out in front of him and took a sip from the oversized cafe latte he held in his hand. "So, I got an email from Megan the other day. Looks like her daughter is pregnant, due in April. This'll be her second grandkid. She's very happy about it, although she says she still hasn't gotten used to being called `granny'. She says every time it happens she looks around to see who they're talking about, because it couldn't possibly be her." He chuckled and took another sip of coffee. "And Simon's pissed off, because the other residents in his building got together and passed a rule that no one can smoke inside the complex, so he has to go outside to smoke his cigars. I told him that he shouldn't be smoking them anyway, but you can imagine how he responded to that." He dropped his voice into a lower register and said, gruffly, "Sandburg, when I want your opinion, I'll ask you for it. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you'd mind your own business." He chuckled again.

He looked down the hill, towards the entrance to the cemetery, where a bus was just pulling away in a black cloud of smoke. He wrinkled his nose. "Man, you'd think by now they'd have found a more environmentally-conscious fuel for those things to run on, like hydrogen or something." He watched as a small figure made its way through the gates and started walking up the path. "Oh, hey, it looks like that girl from the other day is back again."

He watched her as she progressed up the path. She was a few inches shorter than him, and slender, with long legs. Today she was wearing jeans and an orange canvas coat, with a bright, multicolored sweater underneath and the battered backpack slung over one shoulder. She had dark brown, curly hair that surrounded her head like a cloud. And she was strikingly pretty, Blair thought. She had said her mother was Inuit, but given her coffee-colored skin and the shape of her face, he figured her father had to have been Black, or maybe Native American.

When she got to the crossroads, she looked over and saw him sitting on the bench. She raised a hand in greeting and he smiled at her and waved back. She hesitated for a moment, then came over and sat next to him, letting her backpack drop to the ground. Dark brown eyes regarded him gravely. "Do you live here or something?" she asked.

He laughed. "No, I've been home since you saw me last. See? Different shirt." He tugged at the dark red Henley he was wearing.

"How often do you come here?"

Blair pursed his lips and shrugged one shoulder. "Oh, two or three times a week, I guess."

She raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "To visit your dead partner?"

Blair nodded, a rueful smile on his face.

"And you talk to him."

"Uh-huh."

"Out loud?"

"Only if there aren't too many people around," Blair acknowledged. "Don't want people to think I'm crazy or anything."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, no, you wouldn't want anyone to think that."

He chuckled. It had been a long time since he had dealt with the particular brand of sarcasm unique to teenagers. "It's very comforting, really. And you can say all sorts of things and talk as long as you want without being interrupted." He looked at her and she returned the look askance, clearly not convinced. "It's a little hard to get started, but once you do, it becomes the most natural thing in the world. Here, you can practice with me and Jim." He cleared his throat, and put one hand out, gesturing at the gravestone in front of them. "Jim, I'd like you to meet Andrea McConnell. Andrea, this is my partner, Jim Ellison." He looked at her expectantly.

She looked slightly alarmed. She glanced at the gravestone, and then back at him, eyes wide. "What should I say?" she hissed at him under her breath.

"Whatever you want."

She turned to face the gravestone. "Uh...hi, Jim...it's, uh...it's nice to meet you."

Blair grinned. "See? That wasn't too hard, was it?"

She smiled widely and laughed; a high-pitched, musical sound. "I guess not," she admitted.

"So, did you come back to visit your dad again?" he asked.

Her smile vanished and she slumped back onto the bench, stuffing her hands into the pocket of her coat and staring fixedly at her shoes. "I guess so. I'm not really sure." She glanced up at him sidelong, and then focused her gaze back on her feet. "I'm not sure whether I want to say anything to him or not...or even what I would say if I did want to say something."

"Well, you could start with something simple. Try just telling him about your day," Blair said, his voice sympathetic. It was immediately obvious, thought, that she wasn't thrilled by that suggestion.

"Yeah, maybe," she said, her voice flat. Then she straightened up and fixed him with a look. "Were you really a cop?" she asked, disbelief plain in her face.

"Yeah, I really was a cop." He grinned at her. "Why's that so hard to believe?"

"You just don't look like the cop type," she replied, a faint smile playing around her mouth again. "How did you get into it? Did you always know you wanted to be a cop?"

"No," he said, with a rueful grimace, "in fact, it was probably the last thing on my list. I was going to be an anthropologist - a person who studies other cultures, usually ancient ones."

She glared at him. "I know what an anthropologist is," she said, succinctly. "But how did you get from anthropologist to cop?"

"Oh, it's a long story," he demurred, but she looked at him expectantly, waiting. He sighed and took a sip of coffee. She was obviously pretty bright and she wasn't going to be put off with a simple answer. "I'd always been fascinated by accounts of tribal protectors - the people who guarded the villages, who monitored the weather, the movement of game, enemy tribes in the area, things like that." He paused. Even after all this time, even with Jim having been gone so long, it was hard to break old habits of secrecy. "Police are our modern protectors, of course, and so I was interested in studying how a police department works, especially how there are all these unwritten rules for behavior and all these different rites of passage within the department. It's fascinating to me because it's a closed society - very much like its own little tribe."

Andrea nodded. "Yeah, my dad used to talk about that. `It's a cop thing', he'd always say. He'd be talking about something going on at work, and my mom would ask a question, or wonder why they didn't approach it a different way, and he'd say, `Betty, it's a cop thing, you just don't understand'."

"Exactly," Blair said, grinning. "Man, I can't tell you how often I heard that at first." He took another sip of coffee. "Anyway, I decided I wanted to study that society, and I got hooked up with Jim. Just as an observer, at first, but then," he paused again, briefly, "then I decided I wanted to be more involved." He smiled ruefully to himself. "I found I was actually good at being involved, and I liked it, liked it better than just observing." He was a little amazed at how easy it still was, to shade the truth a little, to obfuscate. Not about enjoying police work; he had enjoyed it. He'd never have taken the badge they'd offered him if he hadn't thought he'd like it. And he'd been good at it, too. No, what still came like second nature after all these years was the urge to hide the reasons, the knowledge about Jim and what he could do.

She was looking at him, brows drawn, like she didn't quite buy his story. She was pretty clever, he thought, but he didn't feel like going into a whole lot more detail, so to put her off the scent he decided he'd tell her a story. "The first day I went into the police station, my first day as an observer, the station got taken over by armed terrorists."

Her eyes grew round and huge. "No way! What did you do? Were you scared?"

He chuckled a little. "Yeah, I was scared - terrified, in fact. I hid, and tried to get the hell out of there, until I got caught. Then the leader of the group took me hostage and tried to escape in a helicopter. Jim had to come after us. We were flying over Cascade with him hanging from the helicopter skid." He smiled, remembering. "Once it was all over, though, I had to admit that it had been pretty exciting..."

Jim stopped, and Blair caught up to him. "I'm serious, man! Is this, like, a typical day for you?"

Jim grinned at him. "No, Sandburg, this is not a typical day. Typical days are pretty boring and involve lots of paperwork, and reading case material, and interviewing suspects and witnesses, and walking around crime scenes, and going on long stakeouts. But every now and then we get an atypical, unusual day."

Blair felt energized, exhilarated, completely wound up. He felt like if anyone touched him, they'd get a shock, that he'd be humming like a live wire. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this, felt so alive, so high.

He grinned back at Jim. "Man, you were amazing! The way you just grabbed on to that skid. You never hesitated, like you never had a doubt that it was the right thing to do."

Jim shrugged nonchalantly. "I knew Kincaid had you, I could hear you arguing with him once we got up to the sixth floor. And I sure as hell wasn't going to let him get away, not after what he'd done."

"You could hear me?"

Jim gave him a skeptical look. "Yeah, of course I could. I figured that was why you were talking so much."

"No," he said, "honestly, I was terrified out of my wits and just saying whatever I thought would make him let me go. I had pretty much forgotten about your senses...actually, I didn't even know where you were, didn't know if you'd been taken hostage along with everyone else. I forgot about everything except just trying to stay alive."

Jim patted his cheek gently. "Well, that's always the primary objective of the mission, Chief. Come home alive." He headed towards the door. "Come on, let's get downstairs. You'll probably need to make a statement. Another very typical part of police work."

They headed down the stairs together. Once they got to the seventh floor, Jim insisted that Blair be checked out by the paramedics, who had set up a triage center in the Homicide offices across the hall from Major Crimes. While he was waiting for someone to come and take his vital signs, he saw that big guy, the cop who had supported his lie and told Kincaid he was working with them, lying on a makeshift gurney. He grabbed his chair and pulled it over to sit next to him.

"Hey, man, how're you doing?" he asked.

The big guy opened his eyes, focused on Blair woozily. "Hey, kid. Doin' alright."

"Your leg gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. Feels great right now, actually." He grinned at Blair. "The miracle of painkillers, huh?"

Blair smiled in return. "No doubt, man. Listen, thanks for backing me up in there, with Kincaid. I don't know what he'd have done to me if he'd realized I wasn't a cop."

"No problem, kid. It was a sharp move. You had to think fast on your feet to come up with that. I figured you could use some help with it, though." He eyed Blair doubtfully. "Is it true you took out one of his men with a vending machine?"

Blair laughed. "Yeah, although not on purpose."

"Purpose doesn't matter, kid. What matters is that you're still here, and the Sunrise Patriots are off the streets. You'll make a good cop, y'know? You've got good instincts." He patted Blair on the shoulder clumsily. "You going to be working with us, then?"

"Well, kinda...I'm gonna be following Ellison around, observing police procedures and things like that, for my dissertation." He wasn't sure how much detail he should go into; he'd assumed that, once he got clearance, the captain - Banks, his name was - would make some kind of formal announcement and introduce him to everybody. But he didn't want this guy assuming that he was some kind of trainee or rookie cop.

The big guy put his hand out. "Well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Joel Taggart. Welcome to Major Crimes."

Blair took his hand and shook it, smiling. "Nice to meet you, too, Joel. I'm Blair. Blair Sandburg."

Taggart closed his eyes after that, and Blair figured he'd better let him rest. A nurse came in, calling Blair's name; she took him into another room and gave him a brief examination, before pronouncing him medically cleared.

He wandered out into the hallway, wondering where Jim was. He could tell that his adrenaline buzz was starting to wear off; pretty soon he was going to crash. He found the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee. Jim stuck his head around the door at that point and took him over to an Officer Carson, who took his statement. Blair could see, now, what Jim had meant about typical police work. It was a little mind-numbing, having to go over his actions in the minutest detail, again and again.

Finally, Carson flipped his notebook closed. "Okay, thanks, we really appreciate it. We've got your phone number, so we'll be in touch if we need any more information."

"Okay, man," he replied. Although, honestly, he didn't think he could possibly dredge one more ounce of relevant information out of his brain, even if they asked. "So, I'm done here?"

"Yeah," Carson replied.

Blair got up to leave, then turned back to Carson. "You know where Ellison is?"

Carson shook his head. "Nope."

Blair sighed. He'd left his car at Jim's and driven in with him today so he didn't have to worry about paying for downtown parking. But that meant that, unless he wanted to take a bus or a taxi, he couldn't leave until Jim was free.

He wandered back into the Major Crimes bullpen, but it was a hive of activity, with forensic technicians all over gathering evidence. He found the break room again and sat down; thought about getting another cup of coffee but decided against it. He leaned forward and pillowed his head on his arms. He was pretty sure he was still too wired to sleep, but he was starting to get a headache, and he hoped that closing his eyes and relaxing a little would help it go away.

The next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder gently. "Chief. Chief, wake up."

He raised his head and looked around blearily. Jim was standing next to him, his hand warm on Blair's shoulder. "Oh, hey, sorry, man. I was just going to put my head down for a sec. I didn't think I would fall asleep."

Jim squeezed his shoulder gently. "Don't worry about it, Sandburg. It's been a long day. What do you say we get out of here?" He started to head out of the room, then stopped and turned back to Blair. "Say, are you hungry? You wanna go grab a bite?"

"I could eat," Blair replied, grinning.

"Wow," Andrea said. "I thought my first day of high school was bad."

He chuckled.

She glanced at him sideways. "You really took a terrorist out with a vending machine?"

"I really did," he said, smiling, "although like I told Joel, I didn't exactly plan it that way. Anyway, even though I didn't actually become a cop until four years later, when I was thinking about it, trying to decide what I wanted to do, I thought about that day a lot. I thought about Joel telling me that I'd make a good cop, that I had good instincts. It was one of the things that helped me make up my mind to do it."

"But why did you change from being an anthropologist to being a cop?"

He smiled at her ruefully. "That's a long story, and probably best for another day, huh?"

She sighed. "Okay," she said reluctantly. They sat in silence for a few moments, then Andrea got up from the bench, leaving her backpack on the ground. "I guess I should at least go down there."

Blair watched her walk down the row and stop at one of the gravestones. She stood in front of it, head bowed, but she didn't say anything. After several minutes, she turned and walked back, stopping in front of him. "Have a good visit?" he asked.

"Not really," she said, quietly, then looked at her watch. "I gotta go. Mom likes me to call when I get home from school, and she gets worried if I call too late." She scooped up her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. She started walking away down the path, but stopped after a few steps and turned back to face Blair. "So...you'll probably be back here in a couple of days, huh? Like, Wednesday?"

He smiled gently at her. "Wednesday sounds good."

She brightened and stood up a little straighter. "OK, well, I'll see you then..." She turned and he watched her run down the hill and catch the bus just as it slid to the stop.

"Cookie?" He lifted the bag between thumb and index finger, tilting the opening towards her enticingly. She hesitated, glancing up at him warily for a second, then, apparently having made up her mind about him, smiled and reached into the bag. "Thanks," she said, pulling a cookie out and biting into it. She was a pretty sharp kid, Blair thought. And he was willing to bet her mom was a pretty formidable person, too.

"I'd offer you some coffee," he said, raising his own, "but you know it'll stunt your growth." She raised her eyebrows and snorted, her mouth full of cookie.

She reached down to her backpack, opened it, and started rummaging around. "S'okay," she said, having swallowed the cookie, "I've got some milk left over from lunch in here." She emerged triumphantly a moment later with a plastic bottle of milk.

"That what you're getting with the school lunches these days?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Beats fast food," she said, taking a drink.

He raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Not a sentiment I imagine many of your peers would second." She rolled her eyes, which prompted him to ask, "So, how's high school these days?"

"It sucks," she said, succinctly.

Blair hid a smile. "There isn't anything you like about it?"

She looked at him solemnly and shook her head no.

"But you keep going?" he asked.

She looked at him as though he had momentarily lost his mind. "Well, of course. Have to, for one thing. But for another, you can't go to college if you don't graduate from high school."

"So, you want to go to college?" He had figured that she was bright.

"Yeah. Then I can learn about the things that I want to learn about, and not have to learn about stupid things like cosines and acceleration constants and Henry James. And conjugating Spanish verbs."

Blair chuckled. "Stick with the Spanish, trust me. You'll be really glad you did when you start looking for a job." She didn't respond. "So what kind of things do you want to learn about?"

She frowned, looking down at the pavement between her shoes. "Practical things, things that really help people, that do something to make the world a better place. I thought, for a while, that I wanted to be a nurse like my mom, or maybe a doctor. You know, help people by making them better, that kind of thing. But I took biology my freshman year, and we had to dissect a fetal pig, and I just thought it was kinda gross." Her head came up and she looked out at the horizon, squinting slightly. "I'd like to understand why people do things. Like why do people commit crimes? Or do bad things when they say they know better?" She looked back down at her feet. "Or maybe learn about different kinds of cultures, different religious beliefs, things like that." She looked at him. "Things that are much more important and meaningful than trigonometry."

He smiled. "Well, you still have to take some required classes in college, but there's usually enough choices that you can find something you like and fulfill the requirements at the same time."

"Where'd you go to college?" she asked.

"Right here. Rainier University."

She sighed. "My high school has a program where, in your senior year, you can start taking classes at Rainier. I want to apply for it, but my mom doesn't want me to. She thinks it's too advanced for me."

"You know, I started at Rainier when I was 16," he said.

Her eyes widened. "Really? That's so cool! And I bet it wasn't that hard, was it?"

"Well, not academically, although it was a lot more work than I was used to doing in high school. But it was hard socially." She gave him a skeptical look and he nodded, taking a sip of coffee. "No, really, it was. I know you'll find this hard to believe, but there's a big difference between 16 and 18. I was going to school with kids who were a lot older than me, psychologically; more emotionally mature, and it was hard. It was hard to make friends, hard to get along with the other students." He smiled faintly. "Although I wasn't the easiest person to get along with either, then. I could be pretty insufferable, thought I knew everything and was more than willing to tell others that." He looked over at her. "Your mom is probably more worried about the social stuff than the academic stuff."

"My mom is just more worried, period. She worries too much about me...especially since Dad died." She finished off her milk and put the bottle back in her pack. "So," she said, with the abrupt change of topic that he had come to recognize as her way of avoiding a painful subject, "you told me you'd tell me why you changed from being an anthropologist to being a cop."

"Oh, I did, did I?" He grinned. He'd been right, she could be pretty tenacious.

"Yeah." She was looking at him somewhat challengingly. "You said it was a long story."

"Long, and not very interesting," he said, making a face. As before, he couldn't really think about how to explain it without mentioning Jim's senses. "Suffice it to say that, after having been an observer for four years, I decided I wanted to have a more active role." He grinned at her. "Kinda like you, I decided I wanted to do something important and meaningful. Sure, studying other cultures was interesting, and important in its own way, but the stuff I was doing with Jim - catching criminals, making Cascade a safer place to live - that was real, that was important."

"Did you ever have to shoot someone?"

He looked at her, startled, the question taking him by surprise. "No. I almost did, once..."

"Ellison! Sandburg! My office!"

Blair shot a glance over to Jim, grinning as Jim rolled his eyes and rose from his desk. He'd been Jim's official partner for nearly eight years, but some things never changed. And one of those was Simon Banks' tendency to call in his best team with all the verbal grace of a bull in a china shop.

He followed Jim into Simon's office, closed the glass-fronted door carefully. "What's up, Simon?" he asked.

Simon looked at them both solemnly, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. "It looks like we might have some trouble brewing with the Sunrise Patriots again."

Jim exploded. "What?!? Simon, you have got to be kidding me!"

"Oh, man," Blair said, "did Kincaid escape from the Feds again? What is that guy, some kind of Houdini?" He knew he sounded a little whiny, but he didn't care. He'd had enough of Garrett Kincaid for two lifetimes.

Simon shot him a trenchant look. "No. Different Kincaid. This time it's Jackson, Garrett's son. He was serving time on a weapons charge and got sprung about a year and a half ago. Word has it he high-tailed it up to the mountains and hooked up with a few of dad's old buddies who were still hanging around the compound."

"Word has it?" Jim asked, raising an eyebrow.

Simon grimaced. "Yeah, well, this is one of the reasons we're hearing about this. Seems that the Feds managed to get an undercover agent into the Sunrise Patriots. Serious deep mole stuff - they set the guy up to meet up with Jackson Kincaid in prison, gain his trust in there, and then maneuver himself to be asked to join the new republic once Kincaid got out. That's, in part, why the Feds know that Kincaid's restarting the Patriots. The guy was sending in regular reports...until about three weeks ago. They haven't heard from him since then."

"They think he got made?" Blair asked.

Simon nodded grimly. "That's the working theory."

"And just what do they want us to do about it?" Jim asked.

"Well, nothing much we can do there," Simon replied, shrugging. "Kincaid's compound is up in the mountains, close to the Canadian border - well outside our jurisdiction." He walked over to the coffee pot behind his desk, poured three cups, and handed one to Blair and one to Jim. "However, in the last report the Feds got from their man, he indicated that the Patriots were planning to hit a target in Cascade."

"Oh, sure, of course, why not," Blair muttered sarcastically. "I mean, they've already taken over the police department and Cascade Arena, and blown up a downtown building with a TOW missile. Why not Cascade?"

Simon glared at him and he fell silent, taking a sip of coffee. "As I was saying," Simon continued, still glaring at Blair, "they're reportedly planning to hit a target here. But what concerned the Feds more was the report of how." He looked at both men solemnly. "The agent indicated that Kincaid had managed to buy a small amount of weapons-grade plutonium. Not enough for a nuclear device, but...." He trailed off.

"A dirty bomb," Jim said flatly. "Sounds like Junior is less interested in hostage-taking and more interested in destruction than Dear Old Dad was."

Blair gave a long, low whistle. "Man, that really sucks," he said.

"So, again, Simon," Jim said, "what do the Feds want from us? We don't have the expertise or the equipment to handle nuclear stuff."

"The Feds say their guy reported that the stuff is being held in a warehouse down by the docks. They want us to go down and take a look - just a look. If we find anything, we're supposed to notify them immediately, and they'll come take care of it."

"Riiiight," Jim said, in a sarcastic drawl. "And if we happen to find and cuff any little Patriots running around, so much the better, huh?"

"I don't know, Simon," Blair said slowly, taking a sip of coffee and staring out the window. "I don't like this. Something...something isn't right about this." He turned back to look at his captain. "Why should we do the Feds' legwork for them?"

"Look, guys, it's clearly a request, not an order," Simon said, placatingly. "They're just asking us to help them out. We can say no if we want to."

"No way," Jim growled. "This punk thinks he can pull shit in my city, just like his old man. I don't think so. We'll check it out."

Blair opened his mouth to protest, again, and caught Jim's look. He knew that look. His Sentinel was in full-on protect-the-village mode. He turned the protest into a sigh, shrugged at Simon, and pointed at Jim. "He's the senior partner. I don't argue."

"Wise of you, Chief," Jim said, flashing him a quick grin. He turned back to Simon and his expression was sober. "Now, where's this warehouse?"

Simon chuckled, shaking his head, and pulled a file from his desk. He handed it to Jim. "Pier 12. Looks like it hasn't been used in quite some time."

"You know, I'm just...I'm still not sure about this, Jim. Something just doesn't smell right to me."

They were sitting in the truck, parked outside the warehouse. Blair had to admit, the place certainly looked unused. Layers of grime had turned the once-beige walls gray, nearly obscuring the building number, and tufts of grass grew rampant from cracks in the paved driveway leading to the entrance. From where they were sitting, Blair could see several broken windows.

Jim gave him a slight smile. "Thought I was supposed to be the one with the enhanced senses?"

Blair shook his head, still looking at the warehouse. "I don't know. Call it cop sense, shamanic intuition, whatever. Something seems hinky."

Jim pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster, popped the clip out and checked it, then pushed it back in and reholstered the gun. "Look, we're just going in to check things out. We see anything - anything - that suggests that this is a depot for the Patriots, we're outta here." He raised his eyes to Blair's. "Despite what I said to Simon, I'm happy to let the Feds get the collar. As long as Jackson Kincaid is off the street, I'll be satisfied. I'm not gonna make this personal. But come on, Chief...if there's even the slightest chance that he's planning a nuclear attack in Cascade, we've got to do whatever we can to stop him."

Blair couldn't argue with that, he thought, although he wasn't convinced Jim wasn't going to make it personal. Lord knew he had an axe to grind with Kincaid and the Patriots; it would only make sense that Jim did, too. But the hinky feeling remained. He chewed on his bottom lip, then turned to Jim. "You got a vest?"

Jim eyed him warily. "One. In the back."

"Wear it?"

Jim shook his head. "It's not going to be that kind of party, Chief. No firefights, just some quiet reconnaissance." He glanced over at Blair. "Besides, if one of us is going to wear a vest, I'd rather it was you."

Blair sighed and stifled the swell of annoyance he felt at that statement. On some level, it warmed him when Jim did his overprotective thing, but it could also be irritating. He had been a cop - and Jim's partner - now for nearly eight years; he wasn't going to tempt fate by being too self-assured, but he wished Jim would trust that he knew what he was doing and could take care of himself.

As if Jim had read his mind, he glanced over at him and gave him a crooked grin. "Sorry. Old habits die hard. I do think you're a good cop, Blair. I guess it would just make me feel better, knowing you were protected."

Blair met his gaze squarely. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing."

They stared at each other for several moments, neither willing to back down, then Jim gave an exasperated sigh. "Okay, you win. I'll wear it." Blair blinked at him, slightly nonplussed. He hadn't expected Jim to capitulate so easily.

Jim reached behind the bucket seat, pulled out the vest, and got out of the truck, fastening the straps around him. Blair checked his weapon and joined him on the far side of the truck.

Jim scanned the building and turned to Blair. "I think this'll work best if we split up. I'll take the front entrance, you go around the back. We'll meet in the middle and see what we've got." He handed a wireless headset with a throat mike to Blair. "Keep in touch."

Blair nodded and put the headset on, testing the throat mike and getting confirmation from Jim that it worked. He flashed Jim a quick thumbs-up when he heard his voice in his ear and headed around to the back of the building. The back door looked rusty with age and disuse, but when he pulled it open it slid quietly on its hinges. "This door looks like it's been used pretty recently," he said softly.

Jim's voice came back, sounding slightly tinny on the headset. "Yeah, I can see signs that several people have been in and out of this building...looks like within the last few days. Watch your step, Chief."

"You, too," he said, and slipped quietly into the warehouse.

The interior was dim and quiet, and smelled fairly musty. Not for the first time he felt a momentary yearning to experience the world with hyperactive senses. He was sure that, right now, on the other side of the building, Jim was sifting through a wealth of information. He waited a few moments, letting his sight adjust to the low level of light, then spoke softly. "Getting anything?"

There was a pause before Jim replied, his voice sounding tense. "There are definitely people here. I can smell food, coffee...it could just be squatters, but - wait..." His voice trailed off and Blair waited, listening anxiously. "Gunpowder. I smell gunpowder, Chief."

"All right," he said quietly, "I'll call Simon once we get visual confirmation."

"Sounds good," Jim agreed.

Blair crept forward carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. The warehouse was full of pallets stacked with large boxes, which he used for cover, working his way slowly towards the front of the building, staying alert for any sign of human habitation. He found nothing, though, and when he reached the front of the warehouse there was no sign of Jim. "Hey," he whispered, "partner, you there?"

Instead of the hoped-for answer, he heard a faint sound off to the right. As he headed over there he saw a ramp leading up to a large, rectangular office with glass windows looking out over the warehouse floor. He could hear voices, indistinct, from inside the office, but he couldn't identify them or make out what was being said. At the bottom of the ramp was Jim's headset. The microphone was crushed; the sound he'd heard had been his own voice coming through the earpiece.

He grabbed the cell phone from his hip and pressed a button. "We need backup," he hissed when Simon answered. "I think we've been found out. I think Kincaid's got Jim. I'm going in after him." He cut the connection, ignoring Simon's protest, and climbed stealthily up the ramp, crouching low in front of the door at the top.

From here he could hear Jim's voice, steady and calm. "Kincaid, don't be a fool. You think I'd come in here without a backup plan? In five minutes this place is going to be completely surrounded. You can't escape. Right now, all they've got on you is a little illegal trafficking. If you kill me, though, you're going away for the rest of your life."

Blair swallowed, trying to ignore the ball of ice that had suddenly settled in his stomach and stay focused on the conversation inside the office. "Trafficking, my ass," he heard someone - it could only be Kincaid - sneer, "you think I'm stupid enough to do my business in this town? The only reason I'm here is because a little bird told me you'd be here, and I couldn't pass up the chance for some payback."

There was a pause. "So you aren't storing materials here?" Jim's voice was flat, disbelieving.

Kincaid snorted. "Why on earth would I store things in a building owned by the Feds?"

Silence greeted this comment.

"Ah, I see you weren't aware of that little piece of information. Well, I'm a bit more technologically savvy than my dad. This is not my father's Sunrise Patriots you're dealing with here." He paused and Blair could hear him walking across the room, away from the door. "Well, well, well...looks like we've both been screwed by the government. But what a relief to know you're only human after all - that means you'll die just like an ordinary man."

Blair put his shoulder into the door and shoved, lurching into the room and bringing his weapon up, shouting, "Freeze! Cascade PD!" He took in the tableau before him with a quick and practiced glance. Jim was sitting in an old wooden chair, his back to Blair, hands cuffed through the slats. The vest was gone. Kincaid was across the room, gun held at arm's length, trained on Jim. Before he could move, Kincaid had fired twice, in quick succession. The chair, Jim still in it, crashed to the floor on its side and Blair heard a muffled groan of pain, suddenly cut short.

Rage ignited in him like a brush fire. In a flash he was across the room and had slammed Kincaid up against the wall, with his arm across his throat and the muzzle of his gun against his temple. He was dimly aware that he was snarling at Kincaid, teeth bared in a feral grin. "You son-of-a-bitch," he hissed.

"Go ahead," Kincaid gasped, eyes gleaming, "do it, kill me. Make me a martyr, cop. Hand every disaffected ex-military man on this coast a reason to join the Patriots."

The rage was still pounding through him. He could barely comprehend what Kincaid was saying, and cared even less. His finger was tightening on the trigger when he heard Jim's voice from behind him.

"Blair...don't..." The voice was weak, thready, but unmistakably Jim's.

Relief cleared his head and enabled him to back off of the trigger. Kincaid looked almost disappointed, but before he could say anything, Blair struck him across the head with the butt of his gun, knocking him out cold. "You," he rasped, breath still short and heart still pounding, "are better off not saying anything right now." He cuffed the now-limp body and let it slide to the floor, then turned to his partner.

He uncuffed Jim, freeing him from the chair, and rolled him gingerly onto his back. One of Kincaid's shots had hit Jim's right knee; it was a mangled mess of blood and bone that made the gorge rise in Blair's throat. The other shot had hit Jim in the chest. There was no telling, at this point, what the bullet had hit, so Blair grabbed Jim's hand and clamped it firmly over the wound. "Keep that there," he whispered, and Jim nodded, closing eyes dulled with pain. Blair gripped his shoulder firmly. "Hang in there, partner," he said, suddenly aware of the sound of sirens converging on the warehouse, "help is on the way."

The sudden grip of a hand on his arm interrupted his story, and he looked over at Andrea. She had grabbed his sleeve and was staring at him, her brown eyes wide. "Is this...is this how Jim died?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He paused, and saw her eyes suddenly brim with tears. "No, no, no," he said reassuringly, putting his hand over hers where it rested on his arm and pressing it gently. "That's...that's a much, uh...longer story..." A look of relief crossed her face; she let go of his arm quickly, glancing down as if embarrassed at her reaction.

A few seconds ticked by. "So," she said, looking up at him hopefully, "you got to the hospital in time?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said absently, bringing himself back to the story he had been telling her. Her question about Jim's death had sparked a series of associations and old memories, distracting him momentarily. "They took him into surgery right from the ER..."

He sat, hunched over, in one of the plastic waiting room chairs, elbows resting on knees, holding a Styrofoam cup of now-cold coffee clasped between his hands. He wondered whether it was by accident or design that hospital waiting room chairs were so uncomfortable. Surely the person who had created them had known that people were going to be spending hours in them, anxiously awaiting news of their loved ones. Wouldn't it have been possible to make them even slightly plush? Maybe the designer had a grudge, he thought gloomily. Maybe he or she lost someone in a hospital and decided to wreak revenge on all hospitals by sentencing friends and family to a lifetime of misery. That train of thought, though, led him to things that he'd rather not think too hard about right now, like how Jim was doing after four hours of surgery. He sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

A tall coffee cup from the boutique kiosk on the third floor slid into his field of vision, and he glanced up to see Simon standing in front of him. "Here," he said, smiling faintly, "I figured you could use a warm-up."

He put his own cup down and accepted the other from Simon gratefully. "Thanks," he said, taking a sip. It tasted good, but did nothing to thaw the block of ice that had filled his insides since the warehouse.

Simon sat down next to him, stretching his long form awkwardly in the hard plastic chair. "Any news yet?" he asked quietly.

Blair shook his head. "No, nothing yet." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck again. He was starting to get a hell of a headache.

"No hassles with the doctors?"

"No, thank God," he said, with relief. "Marisa Parvedes was the on-call for the ER when we came in; she's worked on Jim before. She was great, did everything I asked for, and ran interference for me with the other ER docs."

"But you've got the letters, just in case."

"Always do. Carry them with me all the time, now." Over the years he'd had several run-ins with doctors who hadn't wanted to honor the fact that he held Jim's healthcare power of attorney. Or, even when they recognized his right to make decisions for Jim, they hadn't wanted to comply with the things he wanted done to accommodate Jim's senses. And, of course, he couldn't explain himself, because he couldn't tell anyone why Jim needed such special treatment.

But he'd found an unexpected ally in Victoria Carmichael. She had treated both Jim and Blair several times, and, when she'd become Chief of Staff at Cascade General, she had written Blair a letter outlining, in very explicit language, that not only should his power of attorney be recognized, but any and all requests of his with respect to Jim Ellison's medical care should be complied with immediately and unquestioningly. He'd never had to use it, but it made him feel a whole lot better to have it. At first he'd only carried it with him while on duty, along with copies of the notarized documents that indicated that Jim had his healthcare power of attorney and he had Jim's, but after Jim had nearly been shot when stopping at the dry cleaners one weekend, he'd started carrying them with him all the time, just in case.

Simon's hand, warm and confident on his back, brought him back to the present. "He'll pull through this, Blair."

"I know," he replied, "but, Christ, four hours already...what if there's been a complication, or some kind of permanent damage? We're neither of us as young as we used to be...." He trailed off, suddenly unable to trust his voice as his throat tightened.

Simon patted him on the back. "There are options, Blair, but there's no point in thinking about it now, it's too soon and we don't know what the outcome will be yet. You just need to focus on the immediate concerns."

He snorted. "Oh, yeah, options, right. That's going to go over really well. Can you really see Jim Ellison taking a desk job?" He scrubbed his face with his hands wearily. "I thought he was dead, Simon, I really did," he said, his voice hoarse. "I almost lost it. I almost shot Kincaid."

Simon gripped his shoulder tightly, reassuringly. "I understand, Blair. You think I didn't feel the same way when his dad had Daryl?" He gave Blair's shoulder another squeeze. "The important thing is, you didn't shoot him. You did the right thing."

"It was just because I heard Jim's voice," Blair admitted, thinking back to the warehouse, listening at the door, trying to decide when to break in, wondering if there was any way he could have stopped Kincaid from shooting Jim...suddenly, the conversation between Jim and Kincaid came back to him with brutal clarity.

"It doesn't matter why, Sandburg," Simon was saying, "what matters is that you...."

Blair silenced him abruptly with a raised hand. "Simon, he said something, Kincaid said something..."

At just that moment, two men in dark suits and long overcoats walked over to Simon, interrupting them. "Captain Banks?" one said, opening a small leather wallet and displaying a badge and an ID card. He was blond, with sharp features; his partner was dark-haired and stood slightly behind him. His body language screamed deference to Blair.

Simon stood. "I'm Captain Banks," he replied.

But before the other man could respond, Blair leapt to his feet. "You fucking assholes," he snarled, "you set us up. There was no weapons-grade plutonium, no storage depot. We were - Jim was - the bait for Kincaid, wasn't he?"

Simon turned back towards him and put a restraining hand on Blair's chest. "Easy, Blair," he said softly. "I know you're upset, but you can't go around..."

He shoved Simon's hand away and stepped up close to the first guy, the one who had flashed the ID. "I'm right, aren't I?" he said angrily, getting in the guy's face. "And now you've come to explain it all and ask forgiveness." He turned back to Simon. "Kincaid said it. He told Jim, Simon. That abandoned warehouse is owned by the Feds. There was no material stored there. They sent us on a wild goose chase, and Kincaid was tipped off by someone," he turned, fists clenched, and glared pointedly at the two men, " - and I can guess who - that Jim would be there."

Simon's hand descended onto his shoulder, holding him back, but when he spoke, his voice was cold and hard. "Gentlemen. Is this true?"

The dark-haired Fed had the grace to look abashed, but the blond just shot Simon an even look over his head. "Will Detective Ellison be all right?" he asked coolly.

Blair made a guttural noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and started towards the blond Fed, but Simon's hand tightened on his shoulder, keeping him in place. "You don't get to ask that," he snarled, shaking with rage. "You don't deserve to know."

"You had something you wanted to discuss with me, gentlemen?" Simon asked, and if his tone had been cold before, now it was positively icy.

The blond Fed's gaze shifted apprehensively to Blair, and then back to Simon. "Maybe we could go somewhere more...private?" he asked.

"As Detective Sandburg was involved in the incident in question, I think I would prefer him to be present," Simon replied.

The blond exchanged glances with his partner, then shrugged. "I'm Agent Callahan, this is Agent Touhy. We apologize for any inconvenience to Detective Ellison or your department."

Blair made a strangled sound. "Inconvenience? You apologize for any inconvenience? My partner's been in surgery for four hours thanks to your inconvenience!"

Callahan's stony expression didn't change. "Like I said, we're sorry that Detective Ellison was injured. But Jackson Kincaid has been classified as an extreme danger to the United States Government, and, according to the Patriot Act of 2006, we are empowered to do whatever is necessary to eliminate the threat he represents. That includes conscripting the local police force, when prudent."

Simon stepped in close to Callahan. "Threat or not, I don't appreciate my men being used as bait without their - and my - knowledge," he said in a low, ominous voice.

Callahan gave another one of his off-hand shrugs. "We needed Kincaid to believe it. Any hint on his part that he was headed into a trap and he'd have been gone, revenge be damned. And, we weren't sure you'd agree." He gave Simon a slight smile. "Not that you needed to."

Simon's face turned dark with rage. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a female voice. "Blair?"

Blair turned to see a young woman in scrubs and surgery gear standing at the edge of the waiting area. "Marisa!" he exclaimed, hurrying over to her. "How's Jim doing? Is everything okay?"

"Yes," she replied. "He's out of surgery..."

"Hang on a sec," he interrupted her, and cast a beseeching glance back at Simon.

Simon nodded and motioned to Callahan and Touhy. "Gentlemen, we'll continue our conversation over here," he said shortly, directing the agents towards the far end of the waiting area.

Blair turned back to the doctor. "Sorry, Marisa, I just didn't want those goons to overhear us. How did it go?"

She gave him a gentle smile. "He's doing well and everything looks good. He was very lucky; the gunshot to his chest was at a shallow angle and no major organs were hit. But there was quite a bit of muscle damage and some deep bruising, so he'll be in pain for a while."

"Okay," Blair muttered, almost to himself, "I can work with that."

Her expression became sober. "He wasn't so lucky with the knee. Our orthopedic surgeon worked on reconstructing it, but there was a lot of damage. He'll be around to talk with you in the morning, but I think he's going to recommend intensive physical therapy, and possibly another surgery." She paused, looking at him seriously. "There's a chance that his mobility will be significantly limited, and - although it's too soon to tell for sure - it's unlikely that he'll be capable of the same level of physical activity in his job that he's been used to."

Blair felt a cold hand grip his heart. Then Simon's words came back to him, you need to focus on the immediate concerns, and he took a deep breath. Simon was right. Plenty of time to worry about that later. "Thank you, Marisa. Can I see him?"

She smiled at him. "Sure. They're moving him into Recovery right now. I'll take you up there."

She led him over to a bank of elevators and ushered him inside when one opened, then pressed the button for the third floor. When they reached Recovery she led him to a room near the end of the hallway. "Private room, just like you asked for, as far from the main nursing station as feasible. He's off the ventilator, but they want to keep him on oxygen for a few hours, just because the surgery took so long. And he's going to be mostly out of it for a while; they dosed him up pretty good. I was able to make sure they didn't use morphine, though, and went instead with one of the newer drugs we've used successfully in the past."

He pulled her close in a quick hug. "Thanks again, Marisa. I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for us."

She returned the hug, patting him gently on the back, then drew away and turned him towards the door, smiling. "It's no problem at all. Now get in there. You're always the best medicine for him."

Blair took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and walked into the room. He felt his heart lurch; Jim looked incongruously small, lying amid the plethora of tubes and wires and softly beeping machines that surrounded him. He made his way to the side of the bed and wrapped his fingers gently around Jim's, swallowing through the lump in his throat.

He was rewarded when Jim's eyes slowly opened halfway. The normally-clear blue was clouded by painkillers, but he gave Blair a thin smile from under the oxygen mask, and Blair felt a weak return pressure on his fingers.

He couldn't stop the grin of relief that spread across his face, nor the tears that slid down his cheeks. "Hey, tough guy," he said, his voice cracking slightly, "glad to see you're back among the living."

Jim slid his fingers out of Blair's grasp and lifted his hand unsteadily to Blair's cheek, brushing feebly at the tears there. With a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh, he captured Jim's hand in his and pressed it to his cheek. "Jesus, Jim," he breathed, "that scared the shit out of me. How did Kincaid get the drop on you?"

He instantly regretted asking that, as Jim's brows drew together and he tried to say something, his other hand reaching shakily for the oxygen mask. "No, no, I'm sorry, never mind," he said, intercepting Jim's hand and pulling it back down to rest on his chest. "I shouldn't have asked. You can tell me later. Don't worry about it, just get some rest, okay?" Jim closed his eyes, nodding almost imperceptibly. Blair turned his head and tenderly kissed the palm of Jim's hand, then gently placed the hand back at Jim's side on the bed. Jim's breathing slowed and deepened as he slid back into sleep.

He leaned on the bed rails, watching Jim sleep, carding his fingers gently through the hair at his partner's temple, wondering when he'd gotten so gray there. His brain knew that Jim was in his fifties, but as far as his heart was concerned, Jim hadn't aged a day; he looked just as gorgeous as the day he'd met him. But, like he'd told Simon, he knew that they were both getting older, and he'd been worrying, recently, about how much longer Jim was going to be able to endure the physical punishment that seemed to be an essential aspect of his job. He sighed. He hadn't found any answers, but it seemed that the question might have become moot. The problem was, he wasn't sure how well Jim would react to being told he couldn't be out in the field anymore.

He leaned over and kissed Jim gently on the forehead. "We'll figure it out, partner; you and me, just like always," he promised quietly.

The sound of a throat clearing startled him into looking up. Simon stood in the doorway, and Blair's heart sank a little. They'd always tried to be very circumspect at work, although he'd long suspected they weren't fooling the people who knew them well. "I'm not really in the mood for a lecture on fraternization right now, Simon," he said wearily.

"Blair, if I thought you two needed a lecture on fraternization, I'd have given it to you a long time ago," Simon replied quietly, coming into the room and standing at the end of the bed. "How's Jim?"

He gave Simon a grateful smile. "He's doing pretty good. Marisa said he was lucky with the chest wound; he must have moved or something so Kincaid didn't get a clear shot." He stopped and took a deep breath. "Not such great news with the knee, though." He looked up at Simon apprehensively. "The surgeon is going to come by in the morning, but it's sounding like they couldn't repair all the damage." Simon nodded, but didn't say anything. "So, what was up with the Feds?"

Simon pulled a cigar out of the breast pocket of his coat and ran it through his fingers. "It was like you thought," he said irritably. "They wanted to `straighten things out' with us, tried to get me to agree that I wouldn't lodge any complaints or make any waves." He looked at Blair over the tops of his glasses. "I had the distinct sense that this little operation was not entirely sanctioned by the powers that be."

Blair raised his eyebrows in surprise. "So, did you agree not to stir anything up?"

"Hell, no," Simon snorted. "I'm going to the Commissioner tomorrow. I'm not going to let them get away with this. Patriot Act or not, no one is going to put my men in that kind of danger without their consent." He stuck the cigar in his mouth. "I don't care if I have to pull in every favor I've got, asses will be kicked."

Blair stifled a grin. "Well, as one of your men, I am down with that."

"Good. You'd better be," Simon replied gruffly. He moved to stand next to Blair and gripped his shoulder comfortingly. "Call me in the morning, after you've talked to the surgeon...or before then, if you need anything. And don't forget, the most important thing is for you and Jim to concentrate on him recuperating. Don't get too worried about the future yet."

"Okay, Simon, thanks," he said, putting his hand over Simon's and giving it a squeeze.

Simon left, and shortly afterwards an older woman, dressed in scrubs, came into the room. "Mr. Sandburg?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's me," Blair replied.

"I'm Rhonda, the night nurse. Dr. Parvedes said we should set up a cot for you in here, that you'd be staying here overnight with Mr. Ellison."

He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity or deities watched over them for Marisa Parvedes. "Yeah, that's right, thanks."

Rhonda and another nurse brought in the cot, and Blair helped them set it up next to Jim's bed. Then they left, encouraging him to get some rest. He didn't think that he'd be able to, but, much to his surprise, once he was stretched out on the cot, his fingers loosely twined with Jim's, sleep claimed him quickly.

Andrea gave him a sharp glance. "That was pretty nice, that they let you stay in Jim's room. My mom said that they try to be really strict about it, only let family stay, and that not very often."

Blair cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, well, the doctors and nurses knew that I was Jim's, um, partner...they knew us both really well. We'd both been in there quite a lot - we had a little bit of a reputation at Cascade General." He'd been doing some judicious editing of his story as he told it to her, figuring that she didn't need to know the details of his and Jim's personal relationship, but apparently he hadn't been editing hard enough.

"Oh. I see," she said, in a voice that clearly communicated that she understood that things were being kept from her, and she didn't like it. A cool silence hung between them for a few moments, but before long Andrea's curiosity apparently won out over her hurt feelings. "So, what happened with Jim's knee? Was he able to go back to work?"

"No," Blair said, quietly. "He went through a lot of physical therapy, and had to have another surgery; they ended up having to put a pin in and it was always a little stiff after that."

"So what did he do? What did you do?"

"I went back to work," he said, smiling ruefully. "Jim...Jim didn't like having nothing to do..."

Blair closed the door to the loft and threw his keys in the basket. "Hey, man," he called out absently, sorting through the mail. He tossed Jim's stack on the table and started opening his own.

"Hey, Chief," floated down from the ceiling.

Blair looked up, startled. Jim was in the kitchen, perched somewhat precariously on the aluminum ladder, spray bottle and rag in hand, cleaning the skylights. "Hey!" he called out sharply, "should you be up there? And didn't you clean those last week?" He walked into the kitchen and stood next to the ladder, looking up anxiously.

"Well, they're dirty again," Jim replied shortly.

"We survived without cleaning the skylights every week for over ten years, I don't think leaving them a few more weeks will kill us." Jim didn't respond and kept on at his task. "I'd feel a whole lot better if you were down here on the ground," Blair said pointedly. Jim rolled his eyes and gave a heavy sigh, but gathered his cleaning supplies and descended the ladder.

"Happy?" he asked, once he was standing next to Blair in the kitchen.

"Deliriously," Blair replied, giving him a quick kiss.

Jim folded up the ladder and stowed it in the broom closet. "I'm not an invalid, you know, Chief," he said brusquely when he came back into the kitchen.

"I never said you were," he replied. Purposely trying to change the subject, he asked, "What's for dinner?"

"Chili."

He set the table, watching Jim covertly from underneath his lashes as Jim moved around the kitchen, tasting the chili, adding some spices, getting bowls from the cabinet. The cane was sitting by the door, in the umbrella stand; Jim tended not to use it in the loft. He hid the limp well, Blair thought. It was hard to see if you weren't looking for it, but it was noticeable to him, as familiar as he was with Jim's body. There was a slight hitch to his stride now, a glitch in the otherwise smooth, almost feline grace with which he moved.

Something had happened today. It had been a little more than six weeks since Jim's second surgery; in that time he'd been starting to get a little stir crazy, but no more than usual. No more so than in the past, when he'd been home recovering from an injury; he usually cleaned the loft, top to bottom, and got around to doing all the little chores that needed doing, the do-it-yourself projects he didn't usually have time for during the week. But he didn't usually do things over. Once the loft was clean and the chores were done, he'd find something else to do, like read, or rent a movie or two, or something. The fact that he was re-cleaning the skylights told Blair that there was something bothering him, something big enough that he'd needed some kind of physical activity to take his mind off of it.

Jim brought the bowls over to the table and they sat down to eat. "So, what'd you do today?" Blair asked casually.

Jim didn't respond right away, picking at his chili, his face set and serious. "Went to the gym," he said finally.

"Your physical therapist said that was okay?"

That earned him a sharp blue glare. "Yeah. In fact, she encouraged it. Said I need to keep active, keep the knee limber. As long as I don't put too much strain on it directly, avoid the weight machines, she thought it would be fine." He moved his spoon around aimlessly in the chili, then looked up at Blair coolly. "You want me to get a note from her or something, Mom?"

Blair raised his hands in surrender. "I'm just asking, okay? I can't be worried about you?"

Jim sighed and pushed the bowl of chili away. Blair noticed that he hadn't even tasted it. Another sign something was wrong. Jim always lost his appetite when he was upset about something.

"Simon came by today," Jim said. He unscrewed the top from the bottle of water next to his bowl and took a drink.

Blair felt a momentary flash of irritation that Simon hadn't given him a heads-up. But then, he reflected, that wasn't really Simon's style. He had chided Blair more than once for worrying too much about Jim. And, Blair had to admit, he knew that he had been a little overboard on the protectiveness thing since the shooting. It had just scared him so much to see Jim lying there in the hospital...

With an effort he wrenched his mind back to the current conversation. "So," he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, "what did he want?"

Jim threw him a dubious look and took another sip of water. "He wanted to talk to me about my options."

Blair steeled himself. He'd known this conversation was coming, had known it for a while now. "And?"

"He thinks I should put in for Captain of Major Crimes."

Blair's eyes widened. That was not what he had expected to hear. "Whoa! Where's he going?"

Jim gave him a thin smile. "This is very, very hush-hush, you understand, Chief?" Blair nodded. "Looks like Chief Warren is planning to retire within the year. The Commissioner wants to tap Simon for the position."

"Wow," he said, pushing his bowl away untouched. On the one hand, it was a great deal for Simon, but...it was hard to imagine Major Crimes without him. "So...your knee, that wouldn't be a problem?"

Jim shook his head. "No. Simon doesn't go out in the field as much as he used to, and even when he does he usually directs things from behind the lines."

"So, you thinking about it?"

Jim shook his head again. "No, I'm not."

"Why not? You headed up a unit in the Army."

Jim shot him a look. "Yeah, and look how well that turned out," he replied sourly.

"Jim!" Blair retorted, slapping his hand on the table for emphasis, "that was not your fault!"

Jim put up a hand to ward him off. "Okay, I know, I know. Seriously, I'm not in the least bit interested in running Major Crimes. Too much administrative crap, meetings and budget worries and things like that. Not to mention the politics and tap dancing; I'm no dancer, and I'm certainly no politician." He glanced at Blair sidelong. "And you, you'd have to move to Homicide or Vice or something. Can't be living with your superior officer, even if we're trying to fool people into thinking it's platonic."

"I know," Blair replied, "but I'll do it, if it's important to you, if being Captain is something you want to do."

"It's really not, Chief."

"So, what then?"

Jim sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I don't know," he said wearily. "I hadn't really thought about it." He sat quietly, gazing out the windows at Cascade.

After a few minutes Blair got up and started clearing the table. It was obvious neither of them had an appetite right now. He put away the leftovers and did the dishes; when he finished he saw Jim had moved to stand in front of the balcony door, still looking out at the city. He grabbed two beers from the fridge and went over to join him.

Jim took the beer Blair handed him, and they stood in silence for a few minutes. Then, with studied casualness, Blair said, "I talked to Joel today."

Jim's face lit with a warm grin. "How's he doing?"

"He's good."

"How are things at the police academy?" Joel Taggart had retired from Major Crimes five years ago to accept a position as the head of the Cascade Police Academy.

Blair took a swig of beer. "They're good. There's a new class of cadets starting in a month."

Jim shook his head, smiling. "They get younger every year, I swear." He looked over at Blair. "We should get together with him more often; go out to dinner once a month or something like that."

Blair hid his smile in another drink of beer. "He called me `cause he'd heard about you getting shot."

"Oh, yeah?" Jim's smile was suddenly gone, replaced with a look of growing wariness.

"He needs a firearms instructor..."

"No," Jim said abruptly, turning and heading for the couch.

"Jim, just talk to him about it," he said, turning to follow him, exasperated. He and Joel had been hatching this plan together for over a week. He sat on the coffee table across from Jim. "Blake, the old instructor, quit with just a week's notice. He's moving down to Seattle; Joel hasn't got anyone lined up and he really needs someone."

"You know how much I hate speaking in front of a group."

"And I'd see your point, if this was a lecture position. But it's not. It's practical stuff, physical stuff - stance and aim and proper care of your weapon and things like that."

"Chief, I am no kind of teacher. I'm not like you, I don't have the patience for it."

"That's not true!" he countered forcefully. "Don't you remember when you taught me to shoot, after Lash kidnapped me?" He swallowed convulsively, never able to say that name without a slight shiver running down his back. Jim gave him a concerned look, but he pushed the feeling aside and continued. "You were a great teacher; you showed me the right way to hold a gun and how to carry it safely; things like that. And you were really patient with me, even though you knew I didn't want to learn how to shoot. I aced firearms training at the academy because of you."

Jim glared at him but didn't say anything.

"Just try it, okay?" he asked. "The new class starts in a month; you'll have them for four hours twice a week for six weeks. After that, if you hate it, you can quit. But it'll give Joel some time to find someone more permanent...that is, if you decide you don't want to do it." Jim glared at him some more, but he looked like he was on the verge of giving in. Blair decided it was time to play his trump card. "C'mon, man, you'll be helping Joel out a lot. He's in a pretty tight spot - new class starting and no firearms instructor."

Jim looked away and took a drink of beer. "Fine," he grumbled. "Six weeks. No longer."

"Whatever you say."

"Just to help Joel out, you understand," Jim said sternly, pointing a finger at him.

"I hear you, man."

"He loved it, didn't he?" Andrea asked.

"Took to it like a duck to water." Blair smiled at the memory. "It was six months before he'd admit it, though. And even then it was only because Joel and I took him out and got him drunk." He looked over at the gravestone, still smiling. "I wasn't lying, though; he was a great instructor. Careful, meticulous, patient, understanding - as long as you were trying. He was hell on cadets that he thought weren't paying enough attention or working hard enough. He got quite the reputation...that first class nicknamed him `Iron Jim' and it stuck for the next fifteen years." He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. "He had a real knack for figuring out why someone was having problems on the firing range, and correcting it. I never could figure out if it was...." He broke off, startled to realize that he had nearly said something about Jim's senses. He wasn't usually that careless, even nowadays.

"If it was...what?" Andrea asked.

"Uh...if it was...if it was because of his Army training," he said quickly, to cover his misstep. "Anyway," he continued, remembering the question that had started all this, "why did you want to know if I'd ever shot someone?"

She looked at him sideways, her face suddenly serious. "My dad was a cop," she said.

"I remember you telling me that," he replied.

"He'd never shot anyone. He was always telling my mom that most cops go their whole careers without ever having to shoot anyone." She was looking down at her hands now where they rested in her lap, her brown curly hair a curtain hiding her face.

"That's true," he said. He remembered Jim telling him that several times, when he'd been trying to decide whether he'd wanted to go to the academy or not.

"I always wondered if maybe, if he'd have shot someone before, maybe he'd have been faster. Maybe he'd have shot first and then he wouldn't have died."

Blair's throat tightened in sympathy. He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry," he said, "I know it sucks." She leaned against him, but didn't say anything.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, then she looked at her watch and sat up abruptly. "I gotta go," she said, her voice slightly rough. She stood and grabbed her backpack, fidgeting and avoiding his eyes. "Thanks. For the story. And...everything."

He nodded. "See you Friday?"

A slight grin warmed her features, and she glanced up and met his gaze. "Yeah, okay, Friday." She turned and headed off down the hill; when she got to the bottom, she looked up and waved at him, and he waved back.

Blair pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. Scooping up his coffee and a bag of cookies, he hurried out of the car and up the hill towards Jim's grave. He was running a little late today; he hoped Andrea hadn't left yet, although he couldn't blame her if she had, she probably had homework and other things to do.

Halfway up the hill he saw her, sitting stiffly on the bench. "Hey," he called out as he approached her, smiling, "sorry I'm late. I teach a class a few times a year at the academy, and...." He broke off, startled when she jumped to her feet, hands on hips, her flashing eyes and stiff posture radiating fury.

"You lied," she said, in a low, angry voice.

Blair took a step back. "Wh...what?" he said, nonplussed.

"You didn't become a cop because you wanted to. You became a cop because you had to. Because you got kicked out of Rainier for being a fraud."

Shock spread through him. It had been a long time - years, and more - since anyone had called him that. The memories came flooding back, the emotions associated with them as sharp and as powerful as if it had been yesterday. He swallowed nervously. "How...how did you find out?" he asked.

"I found it on the Internet. I'm not stupid, you know."

"I never thought you were," he replied. He gazed at her, wanting to do something, say something, to blunt her anger. "It was a long time ago, Andrea," he said wearily.

Her attitude didn't change a whit. "Oh, and that makes it okay?" she said hotly.

Blair sighed. "No, it doesn't." He moved past her and sat on the bench dispiritedly, shoulders slumped, suddenly feeling his age. He cast about in his mind for something to tell her, some obfuscation that would appease her and keep their burgeoning friendship intact...

And then it hit him, completely out of the blue. He could just tell her the truth. For what was probably the first time in forty-five years, he could just tell someone the truth about it all.

He straightened up, blinking, feeling a weight fall off his shoulders that he hadn't known was there. He and Jim had talked about it, whether he was going to do anything after...after Jim died. Jim had been supportive of him going public with everything, writing a book, maybe two or three, going on talk shows, whatever. But he hadn't. Losing Jim had been so painful, so hard for him to accept, that he'd known he couldn't handle being in the public eye, answering questions about him, about their work together. And once he had come to terms with Jim's death, he had found himself oddly reluctant to allow that kind of disruption into his life again. It's different when you're young, he had thought, fame and money seem like the best things in the world, the brass ring, the things that everybody wants. But by then he had known - to be honest, he had known even back then, as young as he'd been - that it wasn't. Friendship, loyalty, love...those were the things that made a life worthwhile.

Andrea cleared her throat impatiently, and Blair realized he had been staring off into the distance, lost in his thoughts. He dropped the bag of cookies on the bench next to him and patted the seat invitingly. "Come on. Sit down, and I'll explain."

She perched warily on the edge of the seat, arms crossed tightly, as if she was planning to make a break for it, afraid that he might try to hold her there, force her to listen to his explanation. Taking a deep breath, he took a sip of the rapidly cooling coffee he still held in his hand. Even after all this time, even with Jim's permission, it was hard to start, hard to break the old habits of secrecy.

"I told you that I was interested in studying how the police department worked, as an example of a closed tribe." He waited until he saw her nod, and then continued. "Well, that wasn't exactly true, although that was the story I told a lot of people." Andrea snorted, and he gazed at her steadily. "I was studying Jim."

She didn't say anything, but raised an eyebrow and settled a little farther back on the bench.

"Jim was born with certain...gifts. Enhanced senses. They marked him as a Sentinel - someone who was destined to be a watchman, to look out for others, to protect the tribe." He smiled ruefully. "But when he was a kid, he had a couple of bad experiences related to his senses, so he suppressed them." He glanced up at Andrea, the thin smile still on his face. "I'm sure you can relate. No one likes to be thought of as a freak."

She snorted again, but there was more sympathy in it this time. Her arms loosened slightly from their tight hold and she slid completely back onto the bench.

"Jim's senses came back, though," Blair continued, "a couple of times. One time was when he'd gone to Peru as part of an Army mission. His helicopter crashed; the Army believed everyone on the mission was dead, but he'd survived, and he lived with a local tribe, the Chopec, for 18 months before the Army found him and got him out."

"Weren't the Chopec scared of him?" Andrea asked.

"No," he replied, straightening up and leaning back against the bench, "actually, quite the opposite. They understood what a Sentinel was, and they helped Jim a lot with his senses. In fact, his time with the Chopec was probably the first time he'd really fully used his senses since he was a kid."

"So, you were studying the Chopec and you found out about Jim?"

"No, no, I was actually trying to study Sentinels. I'd been obsessed with finding one ever since I'd come across an obscure monograph about them." He took another sip of coffee. "I'd gathered a ton of case material on people who had one or two heightened senses, smell or taste or both, usually, but I hadn't been able to find a true Sentinel - someone who had all five senses enhanced."

"So how'd you find Jim?"

Blair smiled. "I had made friends with a couple of nurses at Cascade General who worked in the neurology department, and I had asked them to call me if anyone came in complaining of weird sensory phenomena, because I had thought that might be a good way to try and find a Sentinel. Well, after he left the Army, Jim returned to Cascade and joined the Police Department here. He'd suppressed his senses again, but they came back online after a protracted stakeout in the woods. He'd been out there for four days, and that kind of thing, that kind of solitude, that really tended to stir the senses up, you know? Only he didn't remember a lot about the previous times his senses had been functioning. He'd repressed a lot of his childhood, and the Peru thing was pretty traumatic as well, so he didn't really understand what was happening. He thought he was sick, or going crazy or something." He glanced over at her and noticed that she was staring at him in rapt attention, eyes wide. "He went to the hospital to get checked out, and one of my friends heard about his case and called me."

"He must have been relieved when he heard your explanation," Andrea said solemnly.

Blair laughed, nearly choking on the mouthful of coffee he'd taken. "Well, eventually, he was, I guess...but not at first. At first it was a little hard for him to swallow." He grinned at Andrea, eyes dancing. "Actually, the first time I explained it to him, he called me a `neo-hippie witch-doctor punk' and accused me of using drugs." She grinned back at him and he chuckled. "It took a little convincing, but he finally agreed to let me help him learn to control his senses, and, in exchange, I could use him as the subject for my dissertation."

Andrea frowned at him, her brows drawn together. "But...but in the press conference you said it wasn't true...that you'd made it all up...that Jim didn't have enhanced senses..."

"Ah, yeah...." He'd been enjoying these early memories so much, he'd forgotten about the question that had sparked them in the first place. "Well, an early draft of my dissertation found its way to a publisher, before I'd had a chance to take Jim's name out of it. The guy was really excited about it; he wanted to publish it as a book, but I refused. So he released information about it to the media, to try and pressure me into signing a contract with him." He sighed and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Once the media found out about it, things just got crazy. They followed Jim everywhere, pestering him with questions, getting in his face with lights, cameras; he couldn't do his job..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "It was driving Jim nuts. He'd always been a very private person, and this...this was like torture for him. He was so pissed off at me..."

"But it wasn't your fault," Andrea interrupted. "You tried to stop it."

"Yeah, well, Jim wasn't always good at thinking rationally when he was angry," Blair said with a rueful smile. "We were trying to protect this union boss from getting killed; he was a first-class jerk, and we kept missing the guy they'd hired to kill him, because of all the hoopla around my diss...God, it was just a mess." The crap with Bartley and Zeller hadn't been the worst of it, though, he thought to himself. The worst part had been the distance between him and Jim. Jim had been barely talking to him, hardly even looking at him, and cold and distant when he did, then snapping at him furiously when he tried to talk to him about it. It had only been a few days, but it had cut him to the quick, and he'd known there was only one way to make it right again.

He realized Andrea was watching him curiously, realized he'd fallen silent again, lost in his thoughts. "I knew I had to do something to fix things, but the train was already in full steam. The only thing I could think of that would work at that point was to derail it. So...I called a press conference, said I was a fraud, said I'd made it all up." He cleared his throat, surprised at how tight it felt, and looked over at Andrea with a sheepish smile. "So, you see, you were right. I did lie. Just not about what everyone thought."

She met his gaze for a long moment before she spoke. "I take back what I said. That wasn't a lie, that was a sacrifice."

Momentarily tongue-tied by her acumen, he could only look back at her.

She looked over at Jim's headstone, a thoughtful expression on her face, then turned back to him, her eyes searching his. "You were more than just friends," she stated firmly.

He blinked at her, then smiled softly and found his voice. "You're pretty sharp. Or I'm a little rusty at obfuscating."

She looked back at him levelly. "You don't give up your whole life for someone unless you love them." She paused, and then grinned at him slyly. "Nor do you usually spend hours in a cemetery, risking being thought of as a crazy person."

He chuckled at that, but then his expression became serious. "It's not much of a sacrifice when you get back so much more than you gave up."

"You miss him a lot, don't you?" she asked softly.

Blair sighed. "Yeah," he said, gazing at Jim's headstone, his throat still tight, "I do. Every day."

Most of the time he was fine, but every now and then, he'd have a day like today; a day where he'd give anything to hear Jim's voice again, feel his touch, see him smile, just one more time. He took a deep breath. He hadn't felt this way, this strongly, for a while. Must be all the remembering, he thought.

Andrea cleared her throat and he glanced over at her. "Will you...would you...tell me about...about how Jim died someday?" Her eyes were wide, the barest hint of a plea in their depths.

Blair smiled gently at her. "Sure, someday. But not today, okay?"

"Okay," she replied. They sat in silence for a while, then Andrea looked at her watch. "I gotta go," she said, "I gotta do my homework." She stood and slung her backpack over her shoulder, then looked down at Blair, her shoulders hunched. "I'm sorry I was angry at you. I should have asked you about it instead of jumping to conclusions."

He stood, sticking his hand out. "It's cool, I understand. So, we're good, then?"

She reached for his hand; then, before he could react, wrapped her arms around his waist in a fierce hug. "We're good," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. He chuckled, returning her hug gently, then she let him go and backed away, smiling shyly.

She turned to leave, then suddenly turned back to face him, a contrite expression on her face. "I forgot. My mom wants to have you over for dinner. I think she wants to check you out and make sure you're not some kind of pervert."

Blair laughed and she raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth curving in a smile. "Ah, okay...no, that's very smart. Your mom sounds like a very intelligent woman," he said.

Andrea rolled her eyes. "Overprotective, but pretty smart, I guess. Sunday night at six o'clock okay?"

"Sounds good."

Andrea dug a pen and a piece of paper out of her backpack and wrote something down, then handed the paper to Blair. "Here's our address. "

He tucked the paper in the pocket of his jeans. "Tell your mom I'm looking forward to meeting her."

"Okay. See you Sunday." She turned and headed off down the hill.

Blair watched her go as she hurried down the hill and entered the waiting bus. When the bus drove off, he sat back down on the bench, his gaze drawn to Jim's headstone, a slight grin on his face. "Okay, man," he said, "if you were here, I know what you'd be saying. I underestimated her." He shrugged his shoulders and spread his arms wide. "What can I say? She's only sixteen..." He broke off, shaking his head ruefully, his grin widening. "Yeah, I know, I know...I was sixteen like that once, too. I guess I forgot what it's like." He settled back against the bench, his smile softening as he looked at the headstone. "Well, it took us long enough to figure it out..."

Jim motioned him to silence and pointed up the stairs. The message was clear. Calderon was going for the roof.

We should have figured he wasn't going to come quietly, Blair thought ruefully. Calderon was wanted on a string of kidnapping and molestation charges that, even with a lenient judge, would land him in prison for the remainder of his natural life. Which probably wouldn't be very long once his fellow inmates found out what he was in for. Child molesters tended to be pretty unpopular, even among that crowd.

They made their way silently up the stairs, trading off being point and cover, with Jim listening carefully at each landing. Every time, though, he shook his head and pointed upwards.

Blair sighed, settling his shoulders under the weight of the Kevlar vest. Trying to find someone on a roof sucked, big time. There were too many nooks and crannies, too much ground to cover; it was way too easy to lose someone there, for them to double back and slip down the stairs again.

Jim stopped at the door to the roof and crouched down, thumbing his throat mike on and speaking barely above a whisper. "Simon, he's gone to the roof. Get the squad up here behind us. I think we're going to need help." Then, with a glance at Blair, he added, "We're going silent now." Blair followed his lead, obediently flipping his mike off.

Jim drew a rough map in the dust on the floor and, using hand gestures, communicated his plan to Blair. Once out of the door they would split up and try to drive Calderon towards the northwest corner of the roof, which had the least amount of cover, and was where Simon and the squad would expect them to be. Blair nodded his agreement and Jim squeezed his shoulder briefly before he pushed open the door.

Once outside, he went left and Jim went right. Staying low, he made sure to check behind every compressor, every vent cover or other obstacle as he moved forward. He didn't see any sign of Calderon, and could only hope that Jim had had better luck. When he reached the designated corner, he looked around and saw Jim on the other side of the roof. No sign of Calderon. He turned and started back towards the door, cursing to himself in his head. He had to have missed something. He'd only been a cop for about a year; he could hear the muttering starting already. "Damn rookie...what a screw-up...who does he think he is, getting to go into Major Crimes right out of the academy..." He knew he hadn't made any friends with that move. He knew that Jim got hassled about it, too, but when he'd said something to him Jim had just thumped him on the shoulder and told him not to worry about it.

He was so intent on his search and his own thoughts that he didn't hear the noise at first. When he finally picked up on it, he couldn't immediately place what it was - it had sounded like someone was scraping metal across brick. Suddenly he saw the metal ladder curving over the edge of the roof, and the sound resolved in his head. He'd missed it the first time; the metal was so dark with rust that the ladder had practically blended in with the low brick wall. He realized what had caused the sound - Calderon had climbed over the edge, perched on a ledge and hidden himself under the eaves until Blair passed, and then had climbed back onto the roof.

He started to turn, but an arm came around from behind and grabbed him in a head lock. He heard a gun cock and felt something hard against his right temple. "Drop the gun," Calderon hissed in his ear, and he complied, hands raised in surrender.

Heart pounding, he looked across the roof and saw Jim, gun raised, walking slowly across the roof towards them. "Stop right there, Ellison," Calderon snarled. "Unless you want your partner here to have an air-conditioned skull." Jim stopped, but didn't lower his weapon.

"Give it up, Calderon," Jim called out. "We've got this building surrounded. There's no way out. Don't add being a cop killer to your list of problems." Calderon dragged Blair backwards to the very edge of the building and glanced down at the SWAT vans and police cars gathered at the entrance. Blair heard his breathing quicken.

"What the hell do I care, anyway?" Calderon said, and Blair could tell he was close to hysteria. "I'm a dead man, either way you cut it - in prison or here, and it might as well be where I can take a few of you with me."

"Don't be hasty, man," Blair said, deliberately trying to make his voice soothing and calm. "We can help you. We can put in a word with the judge, make sure you're housed out of general population, get you placed on a specialized treatment unit. But we can't do any of that if you don't cooperate with us."

"Shut up!" Calderon screamed at him, jamming the muzzle of the gun into his temple. "Just shut up! I don't trust either of you!"

Blair looked up. Jim was still more than halfway across the roof. He knew that Jim could make the shot with his enhanced sight, and was probably counting on the fact that Calderon didn't think he could. He kept his eyes on Jim. He was too far away for Blair to read the expression on his face, but he watched him for some kind of signal, ready to dive or duck, whatever Jim needed him to do.

He heard a shot ring out, almost immediately followed by a second. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Calderon's hand recoil backwards, the gun flying loose, spinning end over end into the air. He felt a moment of relief before Calderon's arm tightened around his neck and he started to pull Blair backwards.

Everything went into slow motion. His heart sinking, Blair realized that Calderon was dead, falling backwards over the edge of the roof, and that, thanks to the vice-like grip around his neck, he was going to go over with him. He looked across the roof at his partner. Way too far away, he thought. There was no way Jim could reach him in time.

Funny, he'd always heard that your life was supposed to flash before your eyes in the face of impending death. The only thing in his mind, though, was regret. Regret that he'd never told Jim how he really felt about him. He'd struggled with wanting to tell him for years. He knew his partner didn't share his feelings. But there was a terrible loneliness about Jim sometimes, an isolation, made worse by the brief but spectacular disasters in his love life and the senses that were both a gift and a curse. He'd ached to assuage that, and had hoped that it would make Jim feel better to know that there was at least one person in the world who loved him for who he was, loved him whole-heartedly, unreservedly. But he'd always chickened out in the end, too afraid that the conversation would start with "You're what?" and end with him out on the street, looking for a new job, a new friend, and a new life. And now, now it was too late. "I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing Jim would hear him, knowing he would be able to read his expression, knowing he would understand. "I love you. I...I wanted to...I meant to tell you..."

The next thing he knew, something had slammed into him at about waist level. Calderon's arm was torn away from his neck, and he hit the roof hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He rolled onto his back, fighting for breath, only to see Simon crouched across from him, hands on knees, breathing heavily. "Blair, you okay?" Simon asked.

His lungs suddenly started to work again, and he drew in a huge gasp of breath, nodding. "Where the hell did you come from?" he panted. Simon tilted his head at the metal ladder affixed to the roof edge, the ladder Calderon had gone down to hide from them initially. "Jesus. Thanks, Simon. I thought I was a goner."

"Don't mention it." Simon straightened up, held his hand out, and pulled Blair to his feet. And then Jim was looming next to him, his presence comforting but somehow oppressive as well. Blair swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He risked a glance up at Jim's face, but it was shuttered, closed, his eyes hooded, his expression unreadable.

"You okay?" Jim asked him, his voice cool and distant.

Blair swallowed painfully again. The problem with premature confessions was that sometimes they came back to bite you in the ass. "Yeah," he said, proud that his voice didn't waver at all. He glanced up at Jim again, who was standing stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, not looking at Blair.

"Nice shot, Detective," said Simon.

Jim shrugged. "It wasn't hard. He was holding his arm so far out to the side I almost didn't need Sentinel sight to hit it."

Usually at this point in the conversation, Blair thought, he would have jumped in with mock outrage and made some smart-ass comment, and then all three of them would have laughed, the easy camaraderie of brothers-in-arms re-established. But he couldn't do it. His stomach was clenched like a fist, and all he could think about was what was going to happen when they got back to the loft. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and he swayed.

He felt Simon's hand on his shoulder. "I think you're done for the day, Sandburg," he said kindly. "Jim, get this guy checked out by the paramedics; if they say he's okay, take him home. You guys can write up the report tomorrow."

"Will do, sir," Jim replied, still in that cool and even voice. "C'mon, Sandburg," he said, and, without a backwards glance at Blair, he headed off towards the roof access door.

"Thanks again, Simon," Blair said softly, then turned and followed Jim on legs that were feeling increasingly like rubber.

Getting checked out by the paramedics - who pronounced him medically okay, if bruised and aching - passed in a blur. He wasn't sure if it was because he was crashing after the adrenaline high, or because of some karmic balance sheet that dictated that, because time had moved so slowly earlier, now it needed to speed up to make things even. He wondered if it would get back to normal by the time they got home. He hoped so, because he knew that there was going to have to be some kind of conversation at that point, and he was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to handle it in this state.

Jim hadn't said a word to him since they'd left the rooftop, and hadn't touched him at all. Now, in the truck, heading for home, he was still distant, hardly looking at Blair, his eyes focused on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his expression flat and even. Blair felt his stomach clench again. He wasn't sure he was going to be able to obfuscate his way out of this one. It looked like he had really screwed things up this time.

That thought brought back memories, all too clear, of other times he'd shared this much about himself. Of people whom he'd thought of as friends, people who had shunned him once they'd found out he was bi. And one in particular, a good friend, a roommate, and an altercation that had almost turned physical, with a person Blair would never have imagined using force. It had shaken him badly, and had made him much, much more wary about telling people...which was one of the reasons he had never said anything to Jim. Jim, who was trained in hand-to-hand combat, and who had a gun...more than one, actually...

Stop it! he told himself sharply. Jim's not going to hurt you! Be angry, yes; shout at you, maybe; more likely just clam up, after telling you to pack your bags and leave...

He slammed you up against a wall the first time you met, a little voice in his head said.

The second time, technically, Blair corrected himself inanely. He scrubbed a hand down his face slowly, took a few deep breaths, trying to master the panic crawling up his spine. Looking out the window, he saw that they had turned onto Prospect.

Jim parked in the usual place, got out, and headed into the building, again not waiting for Blair, who followed dispiritedly. Time had slowed back to normal, and his knees were feeling less rubbery, but the knot in his stomach had grown to the size of a basketball and had the weight of solid lead. Look, he thought, trying to marshal his arguments, we've lived together for nearly five years, and I've felt this way most of that time, and in all that time, I've never made a pass at you, and I'm not going to start now. There's nothing to worry about, no reason to get all bent out of shape.

He followed Jim into the lobby and into the elevator, which for once was actually waiting for them. Jim remained silent and cold on the way up, and Blair felt his dread increase as they approached the third floor. He closed his eyes and leaned weakly against the wall of the elevator, rehearsing his statements over and over in his mind, trying to keep himself from shaking.

The door slid open and Jim was out like a shot and down the hallway, opening the loft door. Blair followed slowly, feeling like a man marching to his own execution. Once inside the loft, he closed and locked the door, hand trembling slightly.

He turned back to face Jim and found himself pushed roughly up against the door, pinned by Jim's body, lean and hard against his. Jim wrapped his hand in the hair at the back of his head and was covering his mouth and neck with hard, rousing kisses. His other hand was fumbling with the buttons on Blair's flannel shirt; frustrated, he gave a strangled growl, grabbed the front of the shirt in one hand, and yanked, scattering buttons across the floor.

Blair felt a moment of shock, then a bolt of joy so sweet and pure he thought his heart might stop. Desire, repressed for so long, swept through him in a flood, turning his knees to rubber again and making him hard so fast he felt dizzy. He'd have fallen if it hadn't been for Jim's body pressing against his. He returned Jim's kisses fervently, slipping his tongue into Jim's mouth, savoring his clean, strong taste. His own hands were busy unbuttoning Jim's shirt, pulling his t-shirt out of the waistband of his slacks, and sliding beneath to stroke across his hot, smooth skin. He stifled a groan at how good it felt, how hard Jim's chest was, how supple and sleek the skin over it. Like satin over marble.

Jim pulled away slightly, his hands fisted tightly in the hair on either side of Blair's face. His ice-blue eyes bored into Blair's, blazing with need and longing, but Blair could see the fear underneath. "Can't lose you, Blair," he said, his voice ragged and hoarse. He untangled one of his hands, his fingers gently tracing Blair's mouth, the line of his jaw. "I...I just can't..."

Before he could say anything in return Jim was kissing him again, powerful and insistent, his thumbs gently stroking the sensitive spot right below his ears. He moaned involuntarily into Jim's mouth and slid his hands down to cup Jim's ass through his slacks, and then Jim was pulling him backwards across the loft, yanking his Henley over his head.

They hit the loveseat and fell backwards onto it. Somehow Jim had gotten his own t-shirt off, and now he was tugging at the fastener on Blair's jeans, jerking the zipper down, pushing them over his hips. "Need to touch you," he rasped, and Blair shivered, leaving off biting the tendons on Jim's neck to lever himself up and wriggle out of his jeans and underwear, managing to kick his shoes off first. Jim was doing the same, unbuckling his belt, undoing his khakis, and pushing them and his boxers down around his ankles.

Once their pants were out of the way, Jim grabbed his hips and settled him between his legs. His hands slid down, holding on to Blair's ass, and he thrust his hips upward so that their dicks rubbed against each other, hard and satiny and hot. Blair gasped, the sensation utterly mind-blowing. He started rocking his hips, rubbing himself against Jim, frantic to increase the friction between them. He felt Jim wrap his long fingers around the both of them, together, and start stroking firmly. That was all it took; he cried out once, and then he was coming, shuddering; he heard Jim's answering groan as he followed suit.

He sprawled across Jim's chest, suddenly exhausted by the day's events, unable to hold himself up, his muscles lax and trembling. He felt Jim's hand stroking his hair, heard him whisper, "Can't lose you, Chief."

He tightened his arms around Jim, wanting to reassure him. "Won't. Promise. Love you," he mumbled, or thought he did, but it was hard to know as he was already sinking into sleep.

He awoke once during the night, confused because the light was in the wrong place. Then a dim memory of climbing the stairs to the bedroom surfaced, Jim coaxing him, half-carrying him. He realized that Jim was lying next to him now, awake, propped up on an elbow, watching him. "Jim, wha'ssup? Y'okay?" he slurred, still half asleep.

A warm hand gently stroked his shoulder. "No problems, Chief. Just go back to sleep."

He blinked at Jim blearily. He couldn't see well in the dim light, but he thought Jim looked upset; thought he looked tired, eyes swollen and red. Maybe he'd had a reaction to something on the roof? "Sure?" he said.

"I'm sure. Everything's okay. Go back to sleep." His voice was calm and even. He doesn't sound like he's upset, Blair thought, and, pushing his concern to the back of his mind, drifted back into sleep.

When he woke again, it was early morning, and the other side of the bed was empty. Jim must be in the bathroom, he thought. Yawning, he stretched contentedly and smiled to himself. Not that they didn't still need to talk about some things, but - physically, at least - if they weren't on the same page, they were pretty damn close. Fortunately, they didn't have to be in early this morning; they could take some time, process what had happened last night. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, groaning softly as sore and bruised muscles protested the movement. Over the bedroom railing he caught sight of Jim, sitting at the kitchen table. His hands were wrapped around a mug of coffee, and his face held an expression of such abject misery and sorrow that Blair immediately forgot about his own discomfort. Oh, God, he thought, icy fingers clutching at his gut, something's happened. Is it Naomi? Simon? William?

He bolted off the bed and grabbed Jim's robe, wrapping it around him, not even bothering to find his underwear first. The words were spilling out of his mouth before he was halfway down the stairs. "What's wrong, man? What's happened?"

Jim looked up, and the expression on his face shifted, became more neutral and guarded. "Oh, hey, Chief," he said, "I didn't realize you were awake. Nothing's wrong, everything's okay."

He stared at Jim, mouth open. He didn't realize I was awake? he thought. He complains because he can hear the television three apartments over and he didn't realize I was awake?

Jim got up from the table and headed towards the door, stopping to shrug his coat on and pick up his gym bag. "I...uh...I figured I'd hit the gym early, didn't think you'd feel up to joining me, after yesterday." He wouldn't meet Blair's eyes. "I'll catch up with you at the station, okay?" He turned to leave.

The dregs of sleep and lack of caffeine conspired to make it difficult for Blair to guard his tongue; he said the first thing that came into his mind. "Jim...is this about last night?" He saw Jim's shoulders slump.

"Blair," Jim's voice was low and tense, "can we talk about this later?" He didn't turn around.

"Sure," he replied, keeping his voice light, belying the sudden ache in his chest, "but I think it's only fair for me to have a heads-up; is this gonna be another `I need you to move out by tomorrow' talk?"

"No!" Jim spun, took a few steps towards him, then stopped. His hand was clutching the gym bag so tightly that his knuckles showed white, but his expression was flat and his eyes were hooded. "I just think..." He exhaled wearily, rubbed his forehead. "Couldn't we just pretend that last night didn't happen?"

Blair had no words for that, at least none that he was willing to force past the sudden lump that blocked his throat. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"It's just...you know...this won't...this can't work out. I'm...I'm too old for you." Jim still wouldn't meet his eyes, but it didn't really matter, not when every word out of his mouth was a blow to Blair's heart. "Look, it's just...later, okay? We'll talk about it later." Without waiting for a response, Jim turned and headed out the door of the loft.

The door shut and Blair stood in the middle of the loft, alone, feeling like he might never breathe again.

He managed to make his way over to the table before his knees gave way, and he collapsed into one of the chairs. His mind was reeling, fighting to understand what had just happened. What the hell had all that been about? That was when he noticed that Jim had left his coffee mug on the table. The sight gave him pause; he sank back in the chair and rubbed his hand over his chin thoughtfully. Jim Ellison, who usually not only washed but dried and put away the cup he used for coffee in the morning, that Jim Ellison had just left a half-empty cup of coffee on the kitchen table.

He's scared. The thought came to his mind unbidden, and he turned it around in his mind, considering it. He'd seen Jim face down drug lords, Mafia bosses, international assassins and terrorists with total and complete equanimity. It was hard to believe that he could be nervous about a confrontation with his best friend, partner and roommate of five years. Yet that was what Blair's instincts were telling him.

He stood, picked up Jim's cup, and carried it into the kitchen, putting it in the sink. Taking a clean mug from the cabinet, he poured himself some coffee and took a drink. The coffee tasted good, and it cleared the fuzziness from his mind. He leaned against the island, drinking coffee and mulling things over. "Okay," he muttered quietly to himself, "it's on. You think I'm giving up without a fight, James Ellison, you've got another think coming". He finished the rest of the coffee and headed for the shower.

He beat Jim to the station, if only by about 30 minutes or so, and was hard at work on their report on Calderon when Jim arrived, bearing a 20-ounce latte in what Blair took for an unspoken peace offering. He accepted the coffee, and didn't say anything about last night or this morning, keeping the conversation between them light and focused on business. At first Jim's voice was flat and his expression stiff and wooden, but as the morning went on Blair could feel him relaxing, bit by bit.

Jim signed the final page of the report as it came out of the printer and passed it to him; he signed it with a flourish, fastened the pages together neatly, and put the report in Simon's inbox.

"Good job, Chief," Jim said, his voice and manner almost back to normal, "how about some lunch?"

He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. "Actually, man, I think I'm gonna ask Simon if I can take the afternoon off." He saw the concern in Jim's eyes and it warmed him slightly. "No, nothing's wrong, I'm just sore from yesterday. Thought I'd go home and soak in a hot bath." Before Jim could say anything, he was knocking on Simon's door and getting permission, then came back over to their desks and grabbed his coat. "Hey, I'll see you tonight, huh? My turn to cook dinner."

He left without waiting for a reply. The afternoon should give him enough time to put his plans in motion.

He had just put the finishing touches in place when he heard Jim's key in the lock. Jim entered the loft slowly, looking tired and wary. "Hey, perfect timing, man," Blair said cheerfully, "dinner's just ready. C'mon and sit down."

Jim shot him an uncertain look. "Just gonna go wash my hands," he said quietly, hanging up his coat and holster. He disappeared into the bathroom; by the time he emerged a few minutes later Blair had the plates on the table and was pouring wine.

Jim came to the table and stopped, one hand on the back of his chair. He looked down at the table, then glanced up at Blair with a look of surprise, mixed with a faint air of apprehension. "Steak? And baked potatoes?" he asked. "What's the occasion?"

Blair shrugged, trying to look casual. "It looked good," he replied, putting the wine bottle on a coaster. "You know," he said with a slight grin, "just because I don't want to eat red meat three times a day doesn't mean I don't enjoy having a good steak now and then." He went into the kitchen to finish tossing the salad, surreptitiously watching Jim from underneath his lashes.

Of course, he'd made steak because it was Jim's favorite meal, but Jim didn't need to know that just yet. Although his preference was usually to deal with issues head-on, he figured Jim had been driving himself crazy all afternoon, anticipating that the confrontation would take place as soon as he got home. He wanted Jim relaxed and comfortable, so he could get to the bottom of what was going on in Jim's head.

He wasn't entirely sure his plan was working, though, as he watched Jim's gaze wander around the loft; from the fire blazing in the wood stove to the softly-glowing candles scattered carefully around to the stereo from which light jazz music was emanating. Maybe he'd overdone it? Tipped his hand and made Jim suspicious? But then Jim pulled out his chair and sat down, and Blair breathed a sigh of relief.

He carried the salad bowl over to the table and set it down, then took a seat himself. "So, did we get a new case this afternoon?" he asked.

Jim gave him a searching gaze for a long moment, then looked away. He picked up his knife and fork and dug into the steak. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Looks like some kind of industrial extortion. We'll need to go over there tomorrow and interview witnesses."

"Sounds good," Blair replied agreeably and applied himself to his own dinner. He kept up a desultory stream of conversation as they ate, pretending not to notice Jim's limited contribution in that area. After dinner he put away the leftovers, then dried while Jim washed.

After placing the last plate in the cupboard, he turned to face Jim, who was standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Blair grabbed their wineglasses and topped them off, then handed Jim his and motioned towards the living room. With a resigned air, Jim went over and sat down on the loveseat.

Blair lowered himself to the couch and picked up a large, leather-bound book from the side table. He quickly opened it to the page that he had marked earlier. Pulling his glasses down from their resting place on the top of his head, he cleared his throat loudly, then started to read aloud in a clear, resonant voice. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath..."

"Sandburg, what the hell is this?" Jim interrupted, sounding annoyed and confused.

He looked up, fixing Jim with his best wide-eyed-innocent expression. "Declaiming," he replied, in a tone of voice that implied that this should be perfectly obvious.

"De-whatting?" Jim asked, eyes narrowing.

"Declaiming. To read something aloud, usually for dramatic purpose. A crucial step in the courtship rituals of most literate cultures - it represented one of the traditional ways by which the suitor demonstrated his seriousness to the parties involved." He met Jim's stare with a frank, steady gaze. "Judging by what you said this morning, you seem to think that maybe I'm a little naive; that I lack maturity, gravitas, because of my age..."

Jim groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Chief, I didn't mean...when I said that...that was..."

"A bullshit excuse that you thought up on the spur of the moment because you didn't want to tell me what the problem really was?" Blair asked, purposely gentling his voice to take the sting out of his words.

Jim exhaled heavily. He leaned back and his head fell against the back of the loveseat. "Yeah," he said quietly.

Blair closed the book and put it carefully back on the side table. "So, what is the problem, then?"

Jim sat for a long moment, head back against the loveseat, looking up at the loft ceiling, jaw working. Finally he rose and walked over to the doors that let out onto the balcony, where he stood, looking out at the lights of Cascade, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his posture stiff and uncompromising. "I remember the night I knew my marriage was over," he said, his voice quiet and bleak. "We'd been married a little more than a year. She came home late - which was fine, no big deal. I didn't expect her to have dinner on the table every night and my slippers ready by the fire. We both worked, we both had demanding jobs, whoever got home first started making dinner. It wasn't that."

He was silent for a long moment, then continued. "She'd been at a crime scene, helping the technicians gather evidence...it was a bad one; a homicide, a wife and three little kids. The husband was military, just come back recently from Desert Storm...anyway, that's not important. But it hit Caro hard. By the time she got home, she was pretty upset, and what she really needed was someone to talk to about it, someone who understood...but I didn't get that." He paused, and Blair could see a sharp, mocking grin twisting the corner of his mouth. "In my experience, you didn't talk about this kind of stuff. Talking never helped, never made things any better. You just sucked it up and went on doing what you had to do...." He exhaled heavily.

"So, we ended up getting in a fight. I don't even remember what it was about. It wasn't the first time we'd fought, and it wouldn't be the last, but it was the first time that I realized that what we were really fighting about was my inability to give Carolyn what she needed." He paused, fingers slowly rubbing his forehead. "Things went pretty much downhill after that. We went to counseling a couple of times, but it didn't help." He sighed again. "So, eventually we got divorced, and I figured I'd be better off just being alone. I'd tried having a relationship and failed; I didn't have any reason to think I'd be any better at it with someone else."

"I'm sorry," Blair said quietly.

Jim gave a diffident, one-sided shrug. "I didn't really have any feelings about it. It was just the way things were. Until you moved in." He glanced over at Blair, the grim, humorless smile twisting his mouth again. "It's not like I was surprised by your confession, Chief. Sentinel, here, you know? I've known for a while now how you felt about me...and I...I felt the same way...but...." He paused, swallowed, his gaze turning away from Blair. "Given my track record, if we did get together I knew it would only be a matter of time before I drove you away, just like Carolyn...." He paused again for a long moment, then continued, his voice tight. "I thought maybe...I thought if I could just ignore it, just keep things as friends between us...then maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe I wouldn't fuck things up, maybe I wouldn't lose you." He shook his head again. "But I couldn't do it. I couldn't ignore how I felt about you."

Blair closed his eyes briefly. So many things made sense now. So many times when he'd wondered, when he'd been confused by Jim's reactions..."You thought I was dead, in Wilkenson Towers, when the bomb went off."

Jim nodded slowly.

"I mean, it wasn't like I was expecting a hug or anything, but you were so nonchalant about it...I figured I was just being a wuss and overreacting." He eyed Jim sharply. "And Sierra Verde?"

Jim nodded again.

"You were a dick for months after that. That whole thing at Rainier, with Ventriss...you were just, like, so detached, so distant."

"You died, Chief." Jim's voice was barely audible. "I didn't know how to handle that."

Blair paused. "Yesterday, on the roof," he said quietly, "I thought you were mad at me."

Jim shook his head slowly. "I thought I'd lost you again, for good this time. And then you said you..." He stopped, jaw muscle tight, and took a deep breath. "When Simon grabbed you, I...I was...I felt...." His voice broke and he shook his head again. "I knew once I laid a hand on you, I wouldn't be able to stop. All I could think about was getting back to the loft..."

Silence hung between them, and Blair fought to say something past the lump in his throat, but Jim spoke first, gaze still averted.

"I'm sorry about what I said this morning....that I wanted to pretend that last night had never happened. I...I didn't mean it like that. Last night was...was...." He stopped, eyes on the floor, his throat working. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he finished hoarsely.

Blair blew out a long, slow breath and ran his hands through his hair. Then he jumped up off the couch and came around to stand in front of Jim. "God, you're such a masochist," he said, a slight smile on his face. "First of all, I'm not Carolyn, okay?"

The corners of Jim's mouth lifted slightly, although the expression never reached his eyes. "I think I figured that one out, Sandburg."

"Good. Secondly, let's review: since I met you, I've been tied up, handcuffed, gagged, kidnapped, beat up, threatened, taken hostage, drugged, shot at, actually shot, nearly blown up, booked on drug charges, hospitalized, and had a gun pointed at me more times than I care to remember." He moved closer to Jim and poked him in the chest with his finger. "You, personally, have slammed me up against a wall, yelled at me, pointed a gun at me, kicked me out of the loft, walked out on me, refused to talk to me, left me behind in the woods..."

"You got a point, Sandburg?"

Blair grinned. An annoyed Jim was a lot easier to deal with than a morose Jim. "Yeah, I do, although I think you're missing it. Where am I, Jim?"

Jim looked at him, frowning. "What?"

"Where am I?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Where. Am. I?" Each word was punctuated with a poke to Jim's chest.

Brows still knit in confusion, Jim responded slowly, "You're...here. You're right in front of me. In the loft. In Cascade."

"Exactly," Blair replied happily. "Here, in Cascade, in the loft, with you, which is right where I want to be, in spite of everything that's happened to me." He rested his hand gently on Jim's chest. "So don't you think I've pretty much shown that it's not going to be so easy to drive me away?"

There was silence for a moment. Then Jim reached out and took Blair's face in his hands, stroking his features gently; his thumbs skating over Blair's cheekbones, tracing his mouth; his long fingers skimming across Blair's temples. Blair stood completely still, wrapping his hands loosely around Jim's wrists, his eyes never leaving Jim's face. Words were his forte, but Jim was a very tactile person, and Blair often thought that he relied on his sense of touch to help him process things. He watched as everything he had said to Jim slowly sank in; as Jim's expression gradually shifted, the sadness in the blue eyes changing to warmth, a tender smile curving the long mouth. Confident that his point had been understood, he reached up and pulled Jim down into an ardent kiss.

"I guess that declaiming thing really works," Jim said, when Blair let go of him.

"Courtship rituals," Blair replied, "have never let me down."

Last night, Blair thought, had been almost frantic, fueled by desperation and fear and years of unrequited desire. Tonight was less turbulent, although no less intense.

They'd undressed each other slowly and carefully, spending what felt like hours learning the planes and hollows of each others' bodies. Although he'd seen Jim naked before, he'd never been in a position to allow himself free rein to touch, to appreciate, gliding his hands over Jim's broad, hard chest; his taut stomach and slim hips; his long thighs.

And Jim...Jim had turned his senses loose on him, taste and touch and smell, until he had absorbed all he could, covered every inch of Blair's body, and Blair was shaking, panting and hard. He'd had no idea how erotic it could be having Jim just look at him. And when Jim had rolled onto his back, pulling Blair on top of him, and begged him, mutely, with eyes and hands and mouth, to take him, Blair had thought that the answering wave of desire and adoration that washed through him was going to end things right there and then.

But he'd held on, and now he was just pushing inside Jim when he felt the prickle of anxiety at the edges of his consciousness. He'd pushed it away earlier in the day, when he'd needed to focus, but now it had returned; simply delayed, not dispelled. He closed his eyes and a wave of unreality swept over him. He was suddenly, irrationally sure that if he opened his eyes this would all turn out to be a dream, like it had so many times before, dissipating in the cold morning light like smoke, leaving him hard and aching and lonely. He'd wanted this so badly, and for so long...but even now he felt that slight itch in the back of his mind, the part of him that insisted that this couldn't be happening, couldn't be real...

He felt Jim's hands frame his face, and felt Jim's mouth against his, kissing him tenderly, passionately, murmuring between kisses, "I'm here, babe...I'm right here...not going anywhere..." Jim's voice and touch were like a balm, reassuring him, quelling the fear, and with a twist of his hips he buried himself in his lover and opened his eyes.

The sight took his breath away. He'd seen Jim smile, seen him laugh, enjoy himself, but he'd never seen him look like this. He looked...happy. He'd never realized it before, but even at rest Jim's face and body held some tension, probably due to both his Ranger training and his need to guard against his senses being overwhelmed. But even that slight amount of strain was gone now; he was wholly relaxed, his features suffused with joy and wonder, giving himself completely to Blair and to the moment between them.

He started moving, slowly and cautiously at first, inexperience making him unsure, but then Jim shifted underneath him, rearranging his body to fit Blair's, and suddenly Blair found the rhythm and they were in sync, moving together in a cadence that was as old as time.

Waves of pleasure flowed up from the base of his spine, making him groan. Jim's hands were running restlessly over his body, kneading back and shoulders and ass, occasionally moving between them to stroke himself. Despite his determination to go slowly, Blair could feel himself picking up the pace, the pressure building. He met Jim's eyes, and Jim smiled at him, the love and warmth in his expression so profuse Blair thought his heart would spill over. "Love you, Chief," Jim whispered, stroking the back of his hand gently down Blair's cheek. "Always."

"Always," he whispered back. The surface part of his reason was muttering that he couldn't say that, he couldn't guarantee what would happen in the future or how he'd feel, but the deeper part of him, his heart and his soul, knew without question that he was inextricably bound to this man, bound by ties of love and need and desire that would last the entirety of this life, and probably well beyond.

Jim's hand was more insistent between them now, and Blair knew that he was close. He ruthlessly held his own reactions in check, wanting nothing more than to make this good for Jim, wanting to erase the misery and unhappiness of the past, wanting to prove that he was worthy of the trust Jim had placed in him, worthy to hold his heart.

The dance between them had reached a fevered pitch when Jim breathed, "Blair...oh, babe..." and came, his legs tightening around Blair, his hips bucking upwards. The feel of the strong, muscular body shuddering under his snapped Blair's self-control and he thrust into Jim hard, hips pumping helplessly, crying out Jim's name as he found his own release.

He floated for long minutes after that, riding the gentle swells of pleasure, body limp, twined loosely around Jim's warm form. Gradually his breathing and heart rate returned to normal and he regained control of his limbs. He was aware of Jim's hand stroking idly up and down his back. Jim cleared his throat with a purposeful sound, and Blair tipped his head up to look at him.

"When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now..." he said, a glint in his clear blue eyes.

Blair grinned. "Many years from now? How about right now?"

That got him a gentle cuff to the back of the head, but Jim continued, undaunted. "Will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine? If I'd been out `til quarter of three, would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?" He looked down at Blair, a tender smile on his face.

"The Beatles? I give you Shakespeare and I get the Beatles in return?" Blair raised an eyebrow in mock outrage.

"Hey, don't knock the Beatles. Many people think that's some of the best poetry ever written."

Blair chuckled, burrowing into Jim's warmth, resting his head against Jim's shoulder. "Sixty-four, huh? Is that longer than always?" His hand stroked aimlessly across Jim's chest.

He felt Jim's chuckle, felt the gentle kiss on the top of his head. "I don't think so," Jim replied.

"Oh, well, then," he said, his hand waving airily, "no problem, I've got you covered."

Blair sighed, pulled out of his reverie by the sudden chill in the air as the sun slid behind a cloud. He got up from the bench, stiff from sitting for so long, and slowly crossed the path to stand in front of Jim's grave. He caressed the top of the headstone gently, the marble under his fingers still warm from the day's heat. "Well, nobody could accuse us of being swift on the uptake, but we finally got it figured out, didn't we?" he said aloud, smiling at the memories. They'd been like teenagers those first few weeks, teasing each other all day with surreptitious looks and comments and touches, then falling into bed together the moment they got home from work. And sometimes even before that; once, after he'd spent the morning humming "Do That To Me One More Time" under his breath, Jim had barged into Simon's office - interrupting a meeting with the DA - informed their captain that he and Sandburg would be taking a long lunch, and had manhandled Blair back to the loft, where he'd proceeded to ravish him thoroughly.

He stroked the top of the marble slab again. The stone was so smooth and sometimes, when it was warm like this, he could almost imagine...he sighed and put his hand back in the pocket of his jacket. "Love you, Jim," he said softly. "Always." Hunching his shoulders against the gathering gloom, he headed down the hill towards his car.

At six o'clock sharp on Sunday night, Blair knocked at the door of the McConnell residence, a bottle of wine nestled in one arm.

It was a nice house and a nice neighborhood, he thought, looking around. A small, two-story affair with a brick facade and vinyl awnings over the windows. A large shade elm stood in the yard and the beds in front of the house were planted with pansies and marigolds.

It was one of the older residential areas in Cascade; definitely a product of the house-building boom that had started around 2001. The homes on either side looked similar in basic design, except that the owners on the left had added on what looked like a den. They all showed signs of careful tending, though. A couple of kids were playing in a yard down the street, and there was a "Neighborhood Watch" sign prominently displayed. A nice neighborhood, Blair thought, a close neighborhood. He wondered how many others on this street were cops or family members of cops.

The door opened and Blair found himself face-to-face with a stocky, middle-aged woman, about his height, with a round face framed by long, straight, dark hair. Black almond-shaped eyes regarded him gravely, and Blair remembered that Andrea had said that her mother was Inuit. "You must be Betty, Andrea's mom," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Blair, Blair Sandburg."

Her eyes widened a fraction in surprise, and Blair realized that she had probably been expecting someone closer to her own age, not someone old enough to be her father. She recovered quickly though, and shook his hand with a firm, solid grip. "Come on in, Mr. Sandburg," she said.

"Please, call me Blair," he said, stepping into the foyer. He handed her the bottle of wine. "I hope this wasn't too presumptuous of me, but I wanted to contribute something..."

"Oh, no, thank you, that's very nice of you," she responded, smiling. "Can I pour you a glass?"

"That'd be great," he replied, glancing up to see Andrea at the top of the stairs. "Hey, there," he said.

"Hey," she replied, as she came down the steps.

"Honey, would you take Blair's coat and hang it up in the closet? And then set the table, okay?" Betty said. Blair grinned to himself as Andrea rolled her eyes and stuck her hand out. He shucked his coat off, putting it into her outstretched hand, and followed Betty into the kitchen.

"Sorry for the informal surroundings," Betty was saying as she took two glasses down from an overhead cabinet, "but I need to keep an eye on the salmon." She looked up at him suddenly, eyebrows raised. "I hope salmon is okay? Andrea didn't say if you had any strong food preferences or allergies..."

"No, salmon is great," Blair said. He heard the closet door close, and then Andrea came into the room. She pulled a drawer open and removed a handful of silverware, then crossed the kitchen and went into the other room, sighing theatrically at Blair as she did so. He grinned. "She's a great kid," he said quietly to Betty.

Betty worked the cork out of the bottle and poured the wine. "I know," she said, leaning close to Blair with a slightly conspiratorial air, "but don't tell her. It'll go to her head."

"Mo-om!" floated in from the dining room, and Betty smiled and handed Blair a glass of wine. The kitchen had a small island that jutted out into the middle of the room, with two barstools on one side; Blair took a seat on one and watched Betty slide on mitts and open the oven door. Using a spatula, she deftly turned the salmon filets and then put a long, foil-wrapped package on the rack beneath the fish and closed the door.

"So, Andrea tells me that you're Inuit?" Blair asked.

Betty nodded, taking a sip of wine. "I was born and raised in Sitka, a small town on the southeast coast of Alaska."

Blair nodded. "I've been there," he said. "Do you still have family there?"

She smiled. "My parents and my older brother still live there, along with a whole bunch of aunts and uncles and cousins; most of my extended family, really. "

"Do you get to visit them often?"

"Not often enough," she said, a wistful smile on her face. "The last time was about five years ago; Doug and I took Andrea up there for the first time." Her smile grew sad, then faded.

Blair felt slightly awkward. He wasn't sure what to say to her. "Andrea told me about her dad...your husband...I'm...I'm very sorry."

"Thank you." She looked up at him. "She told me that you used to be a cop, here, in Cascade?"

"Yeah. But I retired back in 2020. I taught at the academy after that, as did my partner, Jim. I don't think either one of us ever met your husband."

She shook her head. "We didn't move to Cascade until Andrea was two years old." The smile came back, faintly. "Doug liked Cascade a lot, liked the Police Department here; said it was much better than in Seattle."

Andrea came back into the kitchen and took three glasses down from the cabinet, then opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher full of water. "I like Cascade," she added, "but then I don't really remember anything about living in Seattle." She put the glasses and the pitcher on a tray and carried the tray into the dining room.

Betty watched her go. "Seattle was crowded and noisy. The traffic was terrible, and the crime rate was astronomical. Cascade is much better."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Blair said, "'cause I always thought Cascade was the most dangerous city in America."

Betty raised an eyebrow at him, but just then the timer on the oven went off. "Hold that thought," she said, opening the oven. She took the pan of salmon out and set it on top of the stove, then pulled out the foil package and set it next to the pan.

"Can I help?" Blair asked.

"Sure," she replied. She untwisted the foil package, revealing thick, round slices of bread, which she tipped into a cloth-lined basket, folding the cloth to cover. "You can put this on the table in there," she said, pointing in to the dining room.

He took the basket and did as he was asked, taking a look around as he did so. The dining room was furnished simply and informally; a rectangular oak table, six chairs around it, a matching oak sideboy against one wall. Two windows looked out onto a neatly groomed square of back yard, dusky in the early winter twilight. There were pictures along the wall opposite the windows and Blair went over to look at them. They looked like they had been printed on real paper and carefully framed and matted, a rarity in this day and age. Two older people, looking solemn; a woman who looked like an older version of Betty; a Black couple. Probably Andrea's grandparents. In the middle of the wall hung a thin plasma screen that displayed a formal portrait; Betty; Andrea in front, looking about ten or eleven, smiling shyly, long-limbed and gawkish; and a man, tall, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, with a wide, brilliant smile. He was standing next to Betty, his large, strong hands cupping Andrea's shoulders. That must be Andrea's father, Blair thought.

He turned as Andrea entered the dining room, a plate laden with salmon and green beans in each hand. She set them down on the table as Betty came in with her own plate. "Ready to eat?" she asked Blair.

He nodded. "Smells great," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

The salmon tasted great, too, and the first few minutes of the meal were taken up with Blair making appreciative comments and the general mechanics of eating: passing salt, pepper, bread, water. But finally Betty turned to him with a raised eyebrow and said, "So. Cascade. Most dangerous city in America?"

Blair chuckled. "Well, Jim thought so, anyway. We certainly managed to find a lot of trouble...well, I did, if you believed Jim. He always claimed I was a trouble magnet."

"Andrea told me about your first day on the job."

He didn't bother to correct her about the job part, but grinned across the table at Andrea. "Yeah, that one was a bit of a doozy." He shook his head, chuckling again. "I was inclined to just chalk it up to Jim's being a cop, you know, only seeing the bad side of people, but I have to admit that he had a point. Trouble did seem to have a way of finding us. There was this one time, when we were fishing with our captain..."

For the next hour or so, he regaled them with stories of the cases he and Jim had been involved with. Andrea seemed particularly intrigued by the story of the Masonic treasure "map" they'd found and the legend of gold bars hidden in a secret room.

"So they really didn't want to try and find that vault after the dig collapsed?" she asked incredulously.

"Nah," Blair replied, "apparently Cantor didn't think it was worth the effort. It was pretty unlikely that there was anything still in the vault anyway." He grinned at her. "It makes for an interesting story, though." He could see that her curiosity had been piqued, and wondered if her teacher was going to get a research paper in the near future on the possible existence of a vault full of gold under Cascade's waterfront.

He reached for his wine glass and heard a sharp intake of breath from Betty. Turning his head to look at her, he found that she was looking at the bracelet around his wrist, eyes wide. "That's...that's a really nice bracelet," she said, but the look on her face betrayed surprise, not appreciation.

"Thanks," he said, "Jim gave it to me...we took a cruise to Alaska when he retired. He got it there." He slid the bracelet off his wrist and handed it to Betty; it was a smooth oval of walrus tusk, carved with a stylized design and fastened with a leather thong. "Come to think of it, he might have gotten it in Sitka; do you recognize the artist?"

"No," Betty said slowly, "but I recognize the design. Do you know what this represents?"

Blair grinned, because he did know; it was why Jim had bought it for him. "Yeah, it's the Inuit symbol for a shaman." He met Betty's eyes calmly.

She gave him a long, measuring look, then handed the bracelet back. "My grandfather was a shaman."

Andrea, who had been watching the interaction between them intently, piped up. "You never told me that, Mom."

Betty shrugged. "There's nothing much to tell. That was the reason my parents wouldn't leave Sitka, because he wouldn't. He said the community - our tribe, as he put it - was his duty."

"That's so cool," Andrea enthused. "What kinda stuff could he do?"

Betty sighed. "He was trained in the old ways, trained by his grandfather, who was a shaman before him. He presided over all the important rituals in our community - births, deaths, marriages - and people came to him when they were sick. He said he would talk to the spirits on their behalf, because if they were physically sick it meant that there was something wrong in the spiritual realm."

"Sounds like he shared a lot with you," Blair said quietly, suddenly intrigued by this piece of information about Andrea's family.

"When I was little," Betty replied. "He was always telling me about the spirits, the elements, how people needed to pay proper respect and attention to the world in order to be happy, be fulfilled." She twisted the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. "I used to believe, used to buy into that stuff a lot. I'd help him out during the rituals, go with him to visit people, translate sometimes if they didn't speak Inupiatun - Grandfather never learned to speak English. But then I went to college, and nursing school, and I learned that people get sick because of things like germs and viruses, and because they have accidents, not because of spirits." She looked at Blair defiantly, but he just smiled and nodded. There had been a time when he would have taken that as a challenge, and launched into a passionate debate about shamanism, complete with descriptions of his own experiences, but one thing that had happened as he'd gotten older was that he'd learned to temper his enthusiasm a little.

"It still sounds cool," Andrea said. "I wish I could have met him."

"He died before you were born, honey," Betty said. She turned to Blair. "So, you're interested in shamanism?"

"I was an anthropology student before I became a cop," he said, deflecting the question. "Kinda comes with the territory."

She nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with his answer. "How about some coffee?" she asked, changing the subject smoothly.

"Sounds good," he said, rising to help her clear the table.

In the kitchen, Betty put the coffeepot on and stacked the dishes next to the sink, motioning Blair to do the same. "Andrea, honey," she called out, "it's your night to do dishes."

"Aw, Mom..." Andrea complained, as she came into the kitchen carrying the bread and the glasses.

"And then you've got that paper on Henry James you've got to write for English class for Wednesday..."

"Turn of the Screw?" Blair asked Andrea hopefully.

She shook her head sadly. "No such luck. The American."

"Oh." Blair made a face. "Sorry."

"S'all right. She just wants an excuse to talk to you about me in private."

"Mother's prerogative, dear," Betty said, squeezing Andrea's shoulders gently as she slid behind her to get to the coffee pot.

Andrea rolled her eyes and her sleeves up at the same time and turned to the sink. Betty handed Blair a mug of coffee and motioned him back into the dining room. He complied, pausing by the portrait on the wall. "When was this done?" he asked.

"About six years ago," she said. "We'd planned to have one done every five years." Her mouth was curved in a slight smile, but her eyes were sad. She walked through the door on the other side of the dining room and Blair followed her, into a small, cozy room with a fireplace. A small sofa and a couple of armchairs were arranged in a loose semi-circle facing the fire. A round glass-topped coffee table sat between them.

Betty motioned Blair to take a seat as she knelt in front of the fire. Blair put his coffee down and started rolling his sleeves up. "Here, why don't you let me take care of that," he said, reaching for the matches.

She raised an eyebrow at him, turned a knob hidden at the side of the hearth, lit a match, and held it to the grate. The logs ignited with a foomp. "Gas," she said.

"Right. So much for chivalry, huh?" Blair said, grinning. He took a seat in one of the armchairs, and Betty sat on the couch across from him. They sat for a few moments in silence, drinking coffee, and then Betty spoke.

"I hope you don't think this was too forward of me, asking you over for dinner," she said, staring down into her coffee.

"Not at all," Blair said.

"It's just that...it's hard, suddenly being a single parent, and I worry...I just like to know the people that Andrea spends time with."

"Mrs. McConn...I'm sorry, Betty," he amended, as she glanced up at him with a wry smile on her face, "there's really no need to apologize. I understand completely. And, for what it's worth, I admire you for making the effort. A lot of parents don't take the time to do things like this."

She smiled. "Andrea really likes talking to you...she's told me all about how you went to Rainier when you were her age."

Blair laughed. "Yeah, well, I've also told her that it was pretty difficult, socially, but I don't think she believes that anything could be worse than high school. To be honest, I think I felt that way, too, when I was her age."

Betty chuckled. "I didn't have that experience until college. I went to high school in Sitka, with all my friends and relatives, so it was a great time. But when I left and went to Seattle to go to UW, everything was different. I was so homesick that first year..."

"Did you go back home after college?"

"No," she said, smiling, "I stayed at UW and got my nursing degree. I had planned to go back, work as a nurse in Sitka, but I met Doug when I was doing a practicum as a student nurse in one of the city hospitals. After a few months, we got married, and then...well, my priorities changed after that."

"Yeah," he said, smiling wryly, "life can throw you some curves you never expected."

She rose and reached for his cup. "Do you want some more coffee?"

"Sure, thanks."

As she picked up the cups she asked, "So, do you volunteer at the school often?"

"I'm sorry?" Blair asked, confused.

"Andrea's high school. Do you volunteer there a lot?"

"I'm not volunteering at Andrea's high school."

Betty stared at him, brows drawn. "I don't understand. Then how did you two meet?"

"At the cemetery," Blair replied, then rose to his feet, hand outstretched in concern as Betty went pale, eyes widening. But she waved him off, putting the coffee mugs down on the table carefully, then slowly sitting down herself, her head in her hands. "She didn't tell you that," Blair surmised, sitting down again.

"No," Betty said softly, looking stricken.

"Oh, wow," Blair muttered, running a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly tremendously awkward. "Look, I don't want...I don't know why she didn't tell you... there's nothing bad going on, I promise you that..." His desire to respect Andrea's confiding in him was at war with his belief that, as her mother, Betty had a perfect right to know where her daughter was and what she was doing.

"No, it's okay," Betty said slowly, "I believe you. I'm just...I'm surprised."

"Surprised?"

She gave Blair a measuring look, then sat up abruptly. "Would you mind getting us more coffee?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said. He collected their mugs and walked back into the kitchen. The dishwasher was running and Andrea was nowhere to be seen; he supposed she was upstairs working on her report. He poured two mugs of coffee and returned to the den, placing one in front of Betty. She unscrewed the cap from a small pint bottle of whisky that was now sitting on the coffee table and poured a generous slug into her coffee. She tilted the mouth of the bottle towards Blair, but he shook his head, and she replaced the cap and put it back on the table. Leaning back against the couch, she lifted the mug in both hands and took a long drink.

"I was just getting on shift when they brought him in," she said in a flat, distant voice. "He was supposed to be picking Andrea up from school...but he'd stopped at a convenience store to get milk. He had his badge and his gun, but he'd left his cell phone in the car. They think that, when the robbery started, he tried to lay low, sneak out to get to his radio, but the robber shot the clerk and Doug was forced to reveal himself." She sighed and took another drink from the mug. "He'd never shot anyone before; never had to, even when we lived in Seattle. Seemed like a miracle to me, although he told me that that was true for most cops."

Blair didn't say anything, thinking about Andrea asking him whether he'd ever shot someone.

"He was unconscious when he got to the ER. They took him straight up to surgery, and they wouldn't let me in the operating room," Betty continued, "But I couldn't leave. I got my neighbor, Nina, to go pick Andrea up at school and take her home and stay with her until I got there." She took a deep breath. "The surgery team did their best, but there was just too much damage, and they couldn't save him."

"I'm sorry," Blair said quietly.

"You have to understand, Andrea's always been a quiet, solemn child," she continued. "She hardly ever made noise, even as a baby. Doug was one of the few people that could make her laugh. She adored him, and he...well, she was daddy's little girl, absolutely no question about it." Betty smiled faintly at the memory, but then her smile faded. "I was dreading having to tell her. I didn't know what she'd do, how she'd react...and I was on the edge myself. I didn't know if I'd be able to hold it together." She fell silent, staring off into the distance.

"So how did she react?" Blair prodded gently.

Betty shook her head slowly. "She didn't say anything at all. She just looked at me. I was a total mess; I was trying desperately to hang on, not burst into tears; I didn't want to scare her. She'd just lost one parent, I didn't want her to worry about the other one." She took another drink of coffee. "But she just looked at me. Then she gave me a hug, and said she was going to go up to her room for a while." She looked up at Blair. "And that's pretty much the way she's been ever since. I've never seen her cry; she didn't even cry at the funeral. And she never mentions Doug at all."

"I'm sure you've tried to get her to talk to someone," Blair said.

"Oh, yeah...she refuses to talk to most of them. And she's doing fine in school - maybe a little too well, actually - so it's hard to explain why I think she needs to talk to someone. But she doesn't leave the house much, like to go to the mall or do things with her friends...she just seems to spend most of her time reading or doing schoolwork. If I ask her about it, she says she'd rather stay home with me. I mean, what kind of 16-year old would rather hang out with her mother than go be with her friends?"

I was that kind of 16-year old, Blair thought, but didn't say anything. His circumstances had been very different from Andrea's.

Betty continued. "Most of the counselors I've sent her to have just told me that she'll work through her grief in her own time and her own way." She sighed heavily. "I'm sure they're right, I just...it doesn't seem okay to me that she won't talk about him." Her voice quavered slightly at that, and she looked up at Blair again. "So that's why I was a little surprised to hear that she'd been to the cemetery." Her tone was neutral, but there were questions crowding deep in her eyes.

Blair was silent for a moment, then said, "My partner, Jim, he...he died about fifteen years ago. I go there two or three times a week..." He met Betty's eyes. "You know, sometimes it's easier to talk to someone you don't know very well, someone you think you have a little bit in common with. Sometimes that's much simpler than talking to someone you love, someone you think might be disappointed in you if you do or say certain things."

Betty held his gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes. He returned her look calmly, trying to project reassurance; it seemed to work, because after a while she nodded and took a long drink of coffee.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Blair glanced at his watch, then finished his coffee and set the cup down on the table. "Well," he said, "it's getting late, and I should be going." One thing about getting old, he thought, you couldn't burn the candle at both ends like you could when you were young. He rose and followed Betty as she went into the foyer and got his coat out of the closet. She handed it to him; he shrugged into it, then, gripped by a sudden, nameless impulse, he took both her hands in his. "I promise you," he said softly, "I'll keep an eye on her. I won't let anything bad happen."

She squeezed his hands tightly, smiling, then released him and stepped to the bottom of the staircase. "Andrea?" she called, her voice strong and firm, "Blair's leaving now, honey."

Andrea appeared at the top of the stairs. "How goes the report?" Blair asked.

"Slow," she replied.

He made a face at her. "Sorry. Don't think it gets any better when you grow up, though." Betty laughed and Andrea rolled her eyes. "Thank you - both of you - for a lovely evening." He glanced up at Andrea. "I'll see you soon, then?"

"Yeah."

He started to walk out the door, then turned and looked back at Betty. "Maybe we can do this again sometime?"

She smiled. "I'd like that," she said, and he saw peace return to her eyes for the first time since he'd mentioned the cemetery.

"So, kiddo, how come you didn't tell your mom we were meeting here?"

Andrea sat next to him on the bench, turning his bracelet around in her hands. She'd asked him if she could look at it, since she hadn't had a chance to at dinner. "It's not like I lied about it," she said tersely. "I'd've told her, if she'd asked me. She didn't ask."

"But you knew that it would upset her to know where you were."

"But I didn't lie."

"You purposely didn't tell her."

"But I didn't lie."

The conversation gave him such a sense of deja vu that Blair had to turn away, hiding a smile. When he felt more composed, he turned back to her. "Sometimes not telling people something is as big a lie as telling them things that aren't the truth." And hadn't he learned that lesson the hard way.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said.

"Sure."

She raised her eyes to his. "Were you - are you - a shaman?"

Damn clever kid. Way to be hoist by his own petard. "Yes," he said, meeting her gaze.

Her lips curved in a slight smile. "Cool," she said. She handed the bracelet back to him. "How did you know?"

He slid the bracelet back onto his wrist. "I told you that Jim spent 18 months living with the Chopec, in Peru, right? And that they helped him with his senses?"

She nodded.

"He became a part of the tribe, functioned as their Sentinel, in addition to fulfilling the mission the Army had given him. And even though he left Peru and returned to Cascade, the Chopec still regarded him as their Sentinel. When a member of the tribe was killed by an employee of an oil company based in Cascade, a number of the Chopec - including Incacha, their shaman - came here to Cascade to seek retribution."

"They came all the way to Cascade from Peru?"

Blair nodded. "I was pretty amazed myself, although Jim didn't seem fazed by it at all. Incacha demanded that Jim help them find and kidnap the head of the oil company so they could bring him back to Peru to stand trial. Of course, he couldn't do that, being a police officer...and on top of everything else, he was having trouble with his senses..."

"So, what happened?"

"Well, we found out that the company - Cyclops Oil - was illegally drilling in a protected forest area. And we eventually arrested the men who were responsible for that. But Incacha - he was shot..." He broke off, remembering that day, remembering the feel of Incacha's hand on his arm, the blood, the words he had spoken, the look on Jim's face. He cleared his throat roughly. "He was dying. He told me that he passed the way of the shaman to me, that I had to guide Jim, help him get his senses back."

Andrea watched him solemnly, eyes wide. "That sounds like quite an honor."

Blair smiled faintly. "Yeah, it was. A tremendous honor. I didn't think so at the time, though. At the time I was terrified. I had no idea what to do, what it meant to be a shaman...most of the times that I had helped Jim with his senses I `d just been going on instinct. But then we took Incacha's body back to Peru..."

Blair sat cross-legged at the back of the barge and watched Jim as he spoke to the driver in Quechua. The man was shaking his head and rattling off a string of short, sharp words; Jim kept interrupting him and pointing insistently upriver. Finally he threw up his hands and pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket. Peeling a few off, he thrust them at the other man with a few guttural words. The driver pocketed the money and put his hand up placatingly, but Jim was already stalking back to where Blair was sitting. He dropped into a crouch next to his partner and placed a hand on the plain pine coffin. "Everything okay back here?" he asked Blair.

"Right as rain," Blair replied. "Which I'm glad we don't have any of right now."

"Wait until this afternoon," Jim said darkly.

"Good thing Spaulding gave you that walking-around money."

"Under the circumstances, Chief, it was the least he could do." Jim rose, giving the coffin a gentle pat. "Won't be long now. Another mile or so."

"Okay." He watched Jim head up towards the front of the barge.

They were lucky, Blair thought - or at least Incacha was - that Gerald Spaulding was a frightened man. Jim had apprehended Yeager and had been handing him over to the cops that had arrived at the scene; Blair had been talking quietly to Simon, trying to get his help in getting Incacha's body released. He'd been hoping Jim was too busy with Yeager to pay attention to him, because he didn't want him to get upset again and start shouting at Simon. But Spaulding must have heard him and Simon talking as the police escorted him out of the building, because suddenly he'd been next to Blair, offering whatever help Cyclops Oil could provide "to return this brave warrior to his proper resting place".

Blair had rolled his eyes, sure that Spaulding cared more about creating some good press for himself than where Incacha's body rested, but suddenly Jim had been there, looking grim and menacing, and within 20 minutes Spaulding had agreed to fly him and Jim, with Incacha's body, to Pucallpa, where Cyclops Oil would hire a barge to take them up the Yucayali River into Chopec lands. Spaulding had promised to have the plane ready to go in two hours, and to have Incacha's body brought from the morgue to the airport, which left them with just enough time to get back to the loft and pack, and for Blair to call a fellow TA and get her to cover his classes. At the airport, Spaulding had shoved a wad of bills into Jim's hand, jabbering something about probably needing "grease money" once they got to Peru.

And now, nearly 15 hours later, here they were, moving slowly up the Yucayali.

Blair blinked and stifled a yawn, still watching Jim. He was utterly beat. He'd slept poorly the night before, unable to get thoughts of Janet out of his head, feeling guilty and angry at himself for having gotten her involved. If it hadn't been for him, she'd be alive right now. And then thinking about Incacha dying, and Jim getting so upset, and trying desperately to think of how he could guide Jim to his animal spirit and bring his senses online again so they could find the rest of the Chopec.

He sighed and leaned back against the side of the barge. He'd slept - dozed, really - for a few hours on the flight to Pucallpa, but it hadn't really helped. Jim, though...he mentally shook his head in amazement. Jim hadn't slept at all on the flight, yet he stood in the front of the barge, arms crossed, at attention, looking calm and alert and prepared for anything. And gorgeous, his mind supplied, and with an ease born of long practice he pushed that thought to the side.

He'd long ago accepted that nothing was going to happen on that front, and most of the time he even managed to believe it when he told himself that he was okay with it, that it was a much, much better and more important deal to be Jim's friend, partner and Guide. And add to that now being a shaman - Shaman of the Great City, companion to the Sentinel of the Great City. Whew. He felt the familiar knot of anxiety coil in his stomach. What had Incacha meant when he passed the way of the shaman to him? What would be expected of him now? And how was he going to figure any of this out? He sure as hell didn't think he'd be able to find a book on this kind of thing at the Rainier library. He blew his breath out in a long exhale, running a hand nervously through his hair.

Jim sauntered slowly back and crouched in front of him, his attention this time on Blair rather than the coffin. "You doing okay, Chief?" he asked, reaching out to grasp Blair's shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, stifling another yawn. "Just a long day, you know?"

"I hear that, buddy," Jim said, giving him a one-sided smile and a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. "I don't think it'll be much farther, though."

"Good." Jim stood and Blair looked up at him. "Jim, how do you know where we're going?"

"There's a spot along the river where we'd go about once a month or so when I was here. We'd trade things - bows, arrows, skins, weavings, things like that - for items that we couldn't get in the jungle." He glanced upriver, then turned back to Blair. "It was the only way I could get ammo and supplies to keep the guns working. Occasionally I'd manage to get some medicine as well."

"What's going to happen once we get there?"

"The Chopec will meet us."

"How do you know that?"

Jim smiled down at him. "I just do, Chief. Don't worry."

Blair put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Me, worry? No way, man. Not when I'm with you." He grinned up at Jim. In spite of his exhaustion and the turmoil of the past few days, he had to admit that he was having a pretty good time. A much better time than the last time they'd been to Peru, mainly because he didn't have to jump out of a plane. Plus, it was fascinating to see Jim operating in the jungle, fascinating to think about how much more his senses could be in this environment. Like this thing with knowing that the Chopec were going to meet them...he tilted his head back, closing his eyes briefly. The existence of a sixth sense in humans was pretty well documented; it was possible that this sense was enhanced for Jim as well...but then why hadn't he seen any evidence of it before...maybe it was something that only worked in the jungle...

His reverie was broken by Jim speaking sharply in Quechua to the driver and pointing at a small, dilapidated wooden dock up ahead on the left bank of the river. The man obligingly slowed the barge and angled for the bank, slowly bringing the craft up alongside the battered dock, which was completely deserted. Blair felt a moment of panic - what were they going to do if Jim had been wrong? Then four Chopec, wearing loincloths and with faces painted red, materialized from the shadowy jungle surrounding the dock.

One of them called out to Jim and he raised a hand, returning the brief greeting. The driver shut the controls down, and he and Jim came back to the rear of the barge. Blair stood, stretching stiff muscles, and shouldered his backpack, and the three of them grabbed the handholds on the pine coffin and lifted it, carrying it off the barge and placing it on the dock.

The Chopec had come down onto the dock and the one who had hailed Jim asked him a question. Jim responded at length, gesturing; at one point he saw Jim point at him and then grip his own arm in imitation of the way Incacha had grabbed him. At this, the Chopec exchanged glances among themselves, nodding and murmuring. The Chopec who had spoken first said something to Jim, who smiled and nodded, saying something that sounded affirmative.

Jim turned to the driver and spoke to him, holding up two fingers, and then peeled a few more bills off the wad in his pocket and handed them to the driver, who nodded. Jim said two words, forcefully, again holding up two fingers. The guy nodded again, then got onto the barge, started it up, and pulled away and up the river.

Blair looked at Jim a little apprehensively. "What's going on, man? How come we're not taking the barge back?"

Jim gave him an inscrutable look. "We've been invited to the burial ritual, Chief," he said evenly. "I told the driver to come back for us in two days."

"Oh, wow, you're kidding me! That's, like, seriously cool! Not many Westerners have been allowed to observe current burial practices in South American tribes...I mean, we know some about ancient Inca practices, because of the burial mounds that have been found, but not many existing tribes have allowed observers to attend...and especially not the ones that are pre-industrialized, like the Chopec...oh, man, I wish I'd brought my laptop...well, at least I've got my notebook..."

Jim chuckled. "Breathe, Sandburg. They don't think of us as Westerners. I told them about what Incacha said to you, before he died. As far as they're concerned, that makes you a part of the tribe, like me. To them, it's only right that we should be involved."

Blair turned to Jim, his face splitting in a huge grin. "Me? Part of the tribe?" Jim nodded solemnly. "That is...that is really awesome, Jim." And a little overwhelming, he added mentally. He felt the anxiety shifting in his gut again. Jim had told the Chopec about Incacha passing the way of the shaman to him? He glanced over at them nervously and wondered what they thought about it; if he would be expected to say or do something at the ritual to mark his new station.

"C'mon, help me with this," Jim's voice broke into his thoughts. He turned and saw Jim sliding his jungle knife under the lid of the coffin. Digging a similar knife out of his backpack, he started from the other side, and, in short order, they had pried the lid off.

Two of the Chopec came over and spread a long, beautifully-woven cloth, bright with colors, on the dock. Blair watched as Jim reached into the coffin, lifting Incacha's body out carefully, and laid it on the cloth. His face was set in lines of grief; not the raw, desperate sorrow he had shown back in the loft, but more tempered, more resigned, more accepting. He stood back from the body and, without thinking, Blair moved to his side, resting his hand gently on the small of Jim's back.

The two Chopec folded the cloth tightly around Incacha's body and then motioned to Jim. Moving forward, he knelt down and they lifted the body on to his shoulders, passing one end of the cloth over his shoulder and the other end under his arm. They then fastened the ends of the cloth across his chest. Blair thought it looked like a cross between a sling and a fireman's carry.

Jim stood and turned to him. "You ready, Chief?"

"What about the coffin?" Blair asked, motioning to the bare pine box.

"Leave it. It'll get scavenged." Jim hoisted the burden across his back, shifting it slightly and settling the sling. "Let's go." He turned and headed off into the jungle, and Blair followed him.

The hike to the village took about an hour, by which time the sun was halfway up in the sky and the heat was starting to build. As they came into the center of the village, a group of women approached Jim, talking among themselves softly and animatedly. They reached their hands up towards him, and he obligingly knelt and unfastened the sling, lowering the cloth-wrapped body into their hands. Blair watched as they carried it off towards a hut on the outskirts of the village. Jim watched them go as well, then came and stood by his side.

One of the Chopec - Blair didn't think he'd been in the party that had met them at the dock - came over and exchanged a few words with Jim. Jim nodded; the Chopec turned and smiled at Blair, saying a few words in Quechua, and then left. Blair looked up at Jim. "Who was that?" he asked.

"Matayali. Incacha's apprentice - well, the Chopec shaman, now. He'll be presiding over the burial. But it won't start until tonight; there are things the women need to do to prepare the body. He welcomed us, and said if we wanted to rest we could use one of the huts over there," Jim pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb.

"I am down with that, man. I could use some sleep." He looked up at Jim, admiration flooding him again. They'd hiked for an hour through the jungle, Jim carrying Incacha's body the whole way, and he barely looked winded. Granted, Incacha was fairly small and slight, but still...then, as Blair watched, Jim yawned widely and scratched his scalp.

"Sleep sounds pretty good, Chief." He slung an arm around Blair's shoulders and maneuvered him towards one of the huts.

The hut contained a cot, really a length of canvas tied to a rough wooden frame, and a thick pallet of grasses bound with vines on the floor. Blair volunteered for the pallet, pushing Jim towards the cot with a smart-ass comment about his "old bones" not being able to handle sleeping on the floor. For a minute he thought Jim was going to argue with him, but then he knocked Blair lightly on the back of the head and turned towards the cot, grinning and shaking his head sleepily.

He had stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt when Jim spoke, his voice low and quiet. "Blair. I really appreciate you coming with me. I realize I didn't ask you if you wanted to, I just assumed..."

I'd go anywhere with you, he wanted to say, but that brought his emotions a little too close to the surface, so he settled for a reassuring smile and a pat on Jim's arm. "Hey, man, no problem. I'm your partner. That's what I'm here for." Jim met his gaze; he looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he smiled faintly and turned away.

"Sleep tight, Chief," he said, stretching out on the cot.

"You too," Blair replied, lying down on the pallet. Despite being on the ground, it was surprisingly comfortable, and he was asleep within moments.

When he woke, the sun was shining in through the other side of the hut, and he was alone. He stretched, arms over his head, flexing his feet, feeling the stiffness in leg muscles unused to doing this much hiking. Man, I'm out of shape, he thought, sitting up on the pallet and crossing his legs. It had been so long since he'd been on an expedition; he'd forgotten how physically demanding being in the jungle could be.

He saw a shadow darken the curtain across the hut entrance, and then, a few seconds later, the fabric was pushed aside and Jim came in. He was barefoot, wearing khakis and an undershirt, and his hair was still damp. He carried two mugs, made from what looked like hollowed-out gourds. He grinned at Blair and handed him one of the mugs. "Sorry, no coffee, Chief, but here's some mate...almost as good."

"Oh, thanks, man," Blair breathed, wrapping his hands around the mug and inhaling the rich scent of the tea. He took a deep drink, feeling the warmth spread through his limbs as the liquid hit his belly. "Nothing beats natural caffeine," he said, grinning back at Jim.

Jim was sitting on the canvas hammock, pulling his socks on, and then his hiking boots. He shrugged his shirt on, took a drink of tea and then stood. "When you're ready," he said, "come outside and I'll show you where you can clean up a little."

"Sounds good," Blair replied. Jim pushed the curtain aside and left, and Blair sat on his pallet, drinking tea and listening to the sounds of the village. He could hear people talking, voices rising and falling musically in Quechua. If he concentrated he could pick out Jim's voice among them. He heard children laughing; people running; a rough sound like stone scraping on dirt; some sort of soft, musical chiming.

He drank the last of the tea and rose, gathering his clothes and leaving the hut. Jim was standing near the center of the village, a length of cloth over his shoulder, talking with two Chopec. Blair thought that one of them was the man who had greeted them earlier; Incacha's apprentice; Matayali, Jim had called him. The other man looked like one of the group who had met them at the river.

Jim saw him and said something brief to the two Chopec, then came over to where Blair was standing. "Ready?" he asked, and Blair nodded.

He followed Jim into the jungle. After they had been walking for about 10 minutes, they emerged onto the bank of a river; it was narrow, but the arrangement of stones and bank created a small pool, just large enough for one person. Jim pulled the cloth off of his shoulder and handed it to Blair along with a small lump of homemade soap. "Do you want me to stay, or can you find your way back?" Jim asked.

"Nah, I'm good," Blair replied. Jim patted his shoulder and left.

Blair stripped off his t-shirt and boxers and waded into the pool. It wasn't very deep; the water only came to about mid-thigh, but the coolness was pleasant and refreshing after the heat of the jungle. Sighing, he sank down into the water. He ducked his head under, soaking his hair down, thinking that that would do in place of a good wash. He scrubbed himself all over with the soap, and then sat cross-legged on the bottom of the pool, up to his neck in cool water, relaxing. He could dimly hear the sounds from the village, but out here the jungle sounds were much louder - monkeys chattering, the rustle of birds' wings, the buzzing of insects.

After a few minutes, he rose out of the pool, drying himself off with the cloth Jim had given him and pulling on his clothes. He dug in his pocket, found a hair tie, and combed through his hair with his fingers, pulling it back into a tight ponytail. Throwing the cloth over his shoulder, he headed back towards the village.

As he was walking back into the clearing, a Chopec woman approached him, extending towards him a broad, flat leaf with chunks of meat and fruit on it. He accepted it, smiling, and remembered that Jim had told him the Quechua words for "please" and "thank you" on the plane. "Pachi," he said, thank you, and she smiled in return, gesturing towards the cloth on his shoulder. He handed it to her and she nodded and walked away.

The meat was good, although slightly gamy, and the fruit smelled and tasted like mango. As he ate, he scanned the village for Jim and found him sitting in front of one of the huts in a loose semicircle with some of the Chopec warriors. He went over to them, and the men shifted to make room for him to sit on the ground next to Jim.

One of the Chopec warriors had a small pot in one hand, filled with a dark paste, and he was crouched in front of Jim, using his fingers to paint a design around Jim's right upper arm: two broad solid bands, separated by a pale strip of skin that was studded with dark, round dots. Blair could see that Jim's left arm was already similarly marked. The warrior finished and chattered briefly to Jim, gesturing towards Blair. Jim responded, and Blair was sure he caught his name in among the Quechua.

Blair turned his head and raised an eyebrow at Jim. "Why do I get the feeling I'm being talked about?"

"This is Lemba. He wants to know your name, who you are, so he can decorate you appropriately for the ceremony," Jim told him, a slight smile curving his mouth. "I told him you were my partner and Guide."

Lemba sidled over and crouched in front of Blair, motioning for Blair to put his hands out in front of him. Blair complied, and Lemba painted the same design around each of his wrists, matching the ones on Jim's arms. He reached out and tugged at the right-hand sleeve of Blair's t-shirt, and Blair pushed it up obligingly. Lemba painted a triangle on the outside of his shoulder, with a dark, round dot inside it. "Pusaq," he said, pointing at the design.

"Guide," Jim translated and Blair grinned at him, and then at Lemba.

"Pachi," he said, and Lemba nodded and moved on to the Chopec seated next to him.

"So, what's next?" Blair asked.

Jim was sitting cross-legged, elbows resting on knees. "The burial caves are in the foothills of the mountains, about an hour's hike from here," he said quietly. "We'll head out when the women have finished preparing the body."

"Everyone will go?"

Jim nodded.

A group of women walked slowly into the center of the village, bearing Incacha's body on a flat pallet. He looked very different from the last time Blair had seen him. Gone were the blood-stained and travel-worn skins. His body had been washed and groomed with great care, and now he was dressed in bright robes woven with detailed, complex patterns, and he wore an impressive feathered headdress. His hands were folded together on his chest, a long, intricately carved staff clasped between them.

Blair noticed that there was a woman following the group, several paces back. She was covered with a white veil; two other women, dressed in colorful wrap dresses, walked on either side of her. "Kapila," Jim said quietly in his ear. "Incacha's wife."

The women stopped in the middle of the village and several warriors rose and walked towards them, replacing them at the sides of the burial pallet. Jim stood and headed in the same direction, turning to Blair as he went. "Just follow along with the crowd, Chief, okay?" Blair nodded, and Jim went and took his place among the other pallet bearers. They headed slowly out of the village and into the jungle, followed by Kapila and her attendants. Blair noticed that there was a large pile of stuff next to one of the outer huts, and as the other Chopec were falling in line and following the procession, each would take something from the pile and carry it with them as they walked into the jungle. In addition, some of the women who had initially been carrying the body were now carrying tall ceramic jugs and what looked like bundles of food.

He thought that the pile was probably things that had belonged to Incacha. It was a tradition, at least in the ancient Inca tribes, to bury the dead with their most treasured belongings, for use in the next life. He glanced at Kapila a little nervously. He'd studied enough about ancient Inca burial rites to have a pretty good idea what was going to happen to her.

He stood and joined in the procession and, as he passed the pile of belongings, he saw the blow gun and quiver of darts that Incacha had been carrying when he'd come to Cascade. He bent and picked them out of the pile and carried them into the jungle.

The hike to the burial caves didn't seem to take very long, in part because the Chopec set up a rhythmic call and response chant between the men and the women that kept the procession moving and that Blair found fascinating. He tried to commit as much of it as he could to memory; wishing he'd remembered to bring his mini-tape recorder, because he was pretty sure that there were no known recordings of Chopec burial chants.

When they reached the caves, they found Matayali standing outside one, wearing bright patterned robes and a feathered headdress very similar to Incacha's. He held a tall wooden staff like the one Incacha was holding, only his was smooth and devoid of carvings. Raising his arms, he said a few words; the pallet bearers responded and Matayali waved them inside. Kapila followed, as did the two women on either side of her. After about fifteen minutes the pallet bearers, Jim among them, came back outside, as did the two women. Matayali moved among the group slowly, marking each person's cheeks with some kind of red paste from a gourd in his hand, and reciting a brief phrase in Quechua.

Jim walked over to stand next to him; Blair glanced up at his profile apprehensively, but Jim's face was impassive. There was no trace of the sorrow or the fury he'd shown in the loft yesterday, nor the deep but resigned grief he'd shown by the dock. Despite this, Blair reached out and put his hand on Jim's back, seeking to ground him, comfort him. He was warmed when, a moment later, Jim's hand came to rest between his shoulder blades.

Blair noticed that people were entering the caves now, alone or in pairs, and reemerging a few moments later, leaving the things they had brought inside. Jim nudged him gently and he realized he was still carrying the dart gun. He looked up at Jim hesitantly; Jim's eyes were hooded, but he nodded and motioned towards the cave entrance with a tilt of his head. Blair took a deep breath and headed in that direction.

The cave was cool and dim, and there was no one else inside when Blair entered. A passage stretched away from him back into the mountain; he could barely make out the darker shadows on the walls that hinted at narrow shelves, scooped out of the wall, which held the Chopec dead.

To his right was Incacha's body, propped in a sitting position on a flat slab hewn roughly from the surrounding rock. Gifts of food, water, lengths of cloth, bows and arrows were arrayed all around him. Kapila knelt at his right hand, so still that Blair didn't notice her until he saw the slight movement of the veil covering her face.

He knelt and placed the dart gun and quiver at Incacha's feet. "I hope you can use these in the next life," he said softly. He glanced over at Kapila; here in the dim stillness of the cave he could just make out her face through the sheer cloth of the veil. She was staring straight ahead, eyes fixed and round. She didn't blink, didn't look at Blair, didn't give any sign that she knew that he was there. Grief weighed heavy in her face, transforming her into an old woman. Blair felt a prickle along the back of his neck. Without saying anything to her, he rose and made his way out of the cave.

As he exited, Matayali approached him and marked a red line on each of his cheeks, chanting something. He nodded at Blair when he was finished, and Blair went to stand by Jim again. Although the sun was low, it was still warm, but the prickle shivered across his neck nonetheless.

Matayali raised his arms again and spoke, then entered the cave. A soft sound, like a sigh, arose from the women gathered around the entrance. Blair felt the prickle grow into a full-fledged shudder that traveled down his spine. He knew what Matayali was doing inside the cave. Ancient Inca burial practices decreed that tribe members - especially someone as prominent as the tribal shaman - be buried with all the things they would require in the next life...including their spouses. Matayali, as the new Chopec shaman, bore the responsibility of ushering Kapali into the next life to join her husband there.

Jim's hand was on his shoulder. "Not our place to argue, Chief," he murmured quietly.

"I know," he breathed, "I'm an anthropologist, remember? I get it...it's just...." He trailed off, at a rare loss for words. Traditions and culture were one thing, but the depth of the sorrow and loss he had seen in Kapali's face unsettled him. He found it hard to imagine a grief so profound, so all-encompassing, that a person would willingly choose death rather than go on. He shivered again, and Jim's hand moved gently to the back of his neck, the warmth and strength of it comforting.

Matayali emerged from the cave; he turned and faced the entrance and spoke several sentences. When he had finished, there was a moment of stillness, and then the Chopec began heading back towards the village. Still feeling sobered after his visit inside the cave, Blair fell into step behind Jim as he followed the Chopec into the jungle.

A roar of laughter went up from the men sitting around the fire, and Jim glanced down, his eyes meeting Blair's as he grinned. When the laughter had subsided, Jim continued his story. Naturally, Blair thought, he couldn't understand it, because it was being told in Quechua, but listening to the rhythm of Jim's speech and watching his gestures, he had a pretty good idea that the Chopec were being treated to the story of how Blair had taken out a group of bank robbers with a few well-placed baseballs.

Of course, his sudden ability to understand the nonverbal nuances of Quechua might also have something to do with the fact that this was his third cup of chicha, the fermented drink the Chopec made from maize. He was feeling pretty nicely buzzed.

The feast following the return had been sumptuous, by any standards: fresh fish, roasted vegetables - including sweet potatoes and corn - and several different varieties of fruit. There was more of the meat that he had eaten that afternoon and some kind of maize pudding that looked remarkably similar to polenta.

Now the men were gathered around the fire, telling stories, which he had been able to follow because Jim was sitting next to him, quietly translating. "At first the stories are amusing," Jim had explained to him, "to entertain the spirit of the deceased, whom they believe to be watching. Later the stories will focus on the bravery and honor of the deceased. The Chopec believe that, if the spirit is pleased by the stories, he or she will be satisfied and will move on to the next life."

Well, this story should be plenty entertaining to Incacha's spirit, Blair thought, as another wave of laughter erupted from the Chopec. Jim sat back down beside him. "I guess they liked the story, huh?" Blair said.

"Yeah," Jim replied. "I had to make a few...cultural...alterations, but I think it went over well." He grinned at Blair and Blair couldn't help but smile back at him. It was good to see Jim enjoying himself after the stress of the past few days.

An older Chopec, his gray hair woven into thick braids, rose from his seat across the fire and said something to Jim. Jim glanced over at Blair. "What is it?" Blair asked.

"He wants you to tell the story of how you met Incacha," Jim replied.

"Who is he?"

"He's the Chopec chief, the head of the tribe."

Blair took a quick gulp of his chicha for courage. "Will you translate for me?" he asked Jim.

"Of course."

Blair stood and took a deep breath, wiping his hands nervously on his khakis. "I didn't know Incacha very long, but I felt a kinship with him right away." He paused while Jim translated. "We both liked what he called `earth music', and I was in awe of the fact that he was willing to travel so far from his home. I came to realize that this was because he felt strongly about justice; justice for the Chopec and for their land." An approving murmur went up from the Chopec when Jim finished translating this last. "When he knew he would not return to the tribe, he passed the way of the shaman to me and charged me with guiding the Chopec Sentinel, now the Sentinel of the Great City." He stopped and took another deep breath, throat tight. "I swear to you that I will do my best to live up to the trust Incacha placed in me."

Many of the men gathered around the fire were nodding when Jim finished translating, and the old chief walked around to stand in front of Blair. He stared into Blair's face with bright brown eyes; after a few moments he placed a hand on the top of Blair's head and announced, "Qhusi!" then returned to his seat by the fire.

The Chopec exploded with yells and whistles, some banging on the ground. Blair looked down at Jim, confused. Jim grinned up at him. "Looks like you've got yourself a Chopec name, Chief," he said.

"Really? What?" he asked, seating himself as the commotion died down and one of the Chopec got up to speak.

"Qhusi. Literally, it means `blue eyes' in Quechua. But to the Chopec, who are mostly brown-eyed, a blue-eyed person is a seer, someone who can see the future, see to the heart of things."

"Man, that's so cool," Blair said happily, drinking the rest of his chicha. "Is that the same guy that gave you your Chopec name?"

Jim nodded.

"And what's your name - Enqueri - mean?"

Jim smiled faintly. "It's got a double meaning. It's a variation on the Chopec word for warrior, but it can also mean `believer'. Incacha had a hard time convincing me to believe in my senses at first."

"No, really?" Blair said, deadpan. "I can't imagine." He got a smack on the forehead for that, which he would have countered with another smartass comment, except that just then one of the Chopec called to Jim and he turned away.

Blair grinned, feeling warm and quite a little bit more than buzzed now. He searched around for the gourd containing the chicha, but didn't see it. Just then he caught sight of Lemba coming towards him, another small gourd cup in his hand. He crouched at Blair's side, smiling, and offered him the cup.

Blair took it and peered inside. It was full of, not chicha, but a thick milky green fluid. He glanced uncertainly at Lemba, who smiled at him and made hand motions that clearly indicated that he should drink. Shrugging - maybe this was part of the ritual festivities - he drank the liquid in a few gulps.

It tasted bitter, and had a viscous quality that felt unpleasant sliding down his throat. He had to stifle the urge to gag. Forcing a smile, he turned to Lemba and handed him the cup back, thanking him. He didn't feel very thankful, though, and wished he could find more of the chicha to scour the taste out of his mouth.

Jim had risen to his feet again, and started to tell another story, a more serious one this time, by the look on his face. Blair tried to listen as he had before, pay attention to the cadence of Jim's speech and his gestures, but he was finding it increasingly hard to focus. Jim's voice wavered, becoming softer and then louder, like someone was playing with the volume dial. A wave of nausea moved through him, and he realized suddenly that he was going to need to find the bathroom really fast.

He got to his feet and Jim broke off his story to look at him, concerned. "I'm okay," he rasped, feeling anything but, yet not wanting to interrupt Jim's story. "Just need to find the can."

He staggered away from the circle around the fire and headed for the jungle on the outskirts of the village. He reached it just as another wave of nausea swept through him; his guts cramped painfully and he fell to his knees and vomited, hard. The bitter stench and oily taste of the green liquid filled his nose and mouth and he promptly threw up again.

The jungle reeled around him and he felt like the ground was tilting under his feet. He felt a damp, cool cloth wipe across his mouth, across his forehead and he turned, realizing Lemba was crouched next to him, an arm across his shoulders, supporting him. He started to say thanks, but then his stomach twisted and he vomited a third time.

Lemba held his shoulders firmly, preventing him from keeling over completely, and then ran the cloth over his face again once he was done throwing up. Blair stood unsteadily, bracing his hands on his thighs. He felt dizzy and his head was pounding; his legs felt wobbly and weak. God, what was in that drink? he wondered. Was he allergic to something? Or was it just too much on top of all the chicha and the unfamiliar food? A small paranoid voice at the back of his mind wondered if he'd been poisoned, but the Chopec had seemed nothing but friendly and accepting since he and Jim had shown up. He shot a sidelong glance at Lemba, but he couldn't see anything untoward in the man's face, just calm certainty and resolve.

The Chopec warrior stood and put his arm around Blair's shoulders again, turning him away from the jungle and back towards the village. He didn't head back towards the men gathered around the fire, however, but instead guided Blair towards a small hut set back from the others. Blair started to protest, feebly; he wanted to be back with Jim, but Lemba patted his shoulder reassuringly, making comforting noises.

He let Lemba guide him inside the hut and help him lie down on one of the cots. Thankfully, he really did feel much better once he was lying down; the dizziness had mostly passed and his head wasn't pounding as hard. Plus, he didn't feel like he was trying to walk across a ship in high seas anymore. He sighed as he relaxed into the support of the cot. His limbs felt heavy and lax and he could barely keep his eyes open. Lemba patted his shoulder and said something in Quechua. Blair tried to thank him, but the words somehow got lost on the way to his mouth, and nothing came out.

But then he noticed that he could see quite clearly, in spite of the fact that his eyes were closed and it was dark. Startled, he tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't respond. He looked around the inside of the hut. It was larger than the one that he and Jim had slept in that afternoon; there were a total of five or six cots arranged around the perimeter, but none were inhabited except the one he was currently lying on. He stepped forward to take a closer look at himself; he looked like he was sleeping peacefully, his breathing deep and regular--

And jumped back in alarm when he realized what he was doing. What the hell was going on? How could he be looking at himself from the outside? His heart pounded; he felt a cold tendril of anxiety snake up from his belly as he remembered what had happened the last time he'd seen things that no one else had. Had he been drugged? Or was this a flashback? He looked nervously around at the shadows in the hut.

"Peace, little one," came a voice from behind him, deep and calm.

Blair spun to see Incacha regarding him with grave, kindly eyes.

"This is...you're...how...what's..." he stuttered, a million questions crowding in his brain. He picked one at random. "You can speak English?"

Incacha smiled. "No. But you can understand me, and I you, because this is the spirit world."

Panic seized his throat, made it hard to breathe. "Then...then I'm d-dead?"

"No. The drug Lemba gave you made it possible for you to walk in the spirit world while still being present in the world of the living. Eventually you will be able to accomplish this without the drug. For this is the way of the shaman."

Blair exhaled, running a hand through his hair, feeling relief and frustration in equal parts. "Incacha, I...I'm honored that you chose me, but I don't know what that means. I don't understand what I'm supposed to do."

"The way of the shaman is not a goal, little one. It is a journey. The shaman learns to walk between worlds--the dream world, the spirit world, the world of the living--and to help those who travel there. He studies the play of energies in the world and becomes skilled in influencing them. He observes how the elements of life interact--air, water, fire, and earth--and strives to create balance between them. He draws on knowledge of the past to inform the future."

"But for what purpose?"

"It is for you to discover. Each must find their own purpose. Mine was to care for my people and set Enqueri's feet on the path he now follows. You are the Shaman of the Great City. Your purpose will be different."

Blair was sure that his purpose had to do with being Jim's Guide. All the years of research, all the years of searching, and now this; everything clearly indicating that he was meant to help Jim manage his senses, use them effectively. But-- "All those things you mentioned...walking between worlds, influencing energy...how do I learn how to do those? Who will teach me?"

Incacha gave him an odd smile. "Life will be your teacher. When you are open, when you are paying attention, life will give you the opportunity to get what you need. But know this: life is not always fair, or just, or gentle. Many of the lessons will be hard. Some will be painful."

Blair felt anxiety coiling deep in his gut again, but he took a deep breath and resolutely pushed his fears aside. If it would help him help Jim, make him a better Guide, then it would be worth it, no matter how hard or painful it was. He raised his head and looked into Incacha's eyes with determination. "I understand. I'm ready."

Incacha's expression softened. "I and those who came before me; we will always be here to give you help and advice. And when the time comes, you will pass the way of the shaman to another, as I did, and as the one before me did, and the one before him."

"Chief!"

The shout seemed to come from outside. Blair looked over his shoulder, but didn't see anyone. He turned back, but Incacha was fading, his form growing indistinct.

"Chief! Blair, wake up!"

In fact, the whole hut--the cots, Incacha, his own body--was fading out, fading to a featureless gray.

"Wake up, dammit!"

He felt hands gripping his shoulders tightly, shaking him. With an effort, he opened his eyes, blinking as Jim's face swam into focus above him, his features tight with worry. "Hey, Jim. Whassup?" he mumbled.

Jim exhaled heavily, letting go of Blair's shoulders. He sat on the edge of the cot and ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Chief. You scared the hell out of me."

Blair struggled up onto one elbow. He actually felt pretty good, aside from a foul taste in his mouth and sore stomach muscles. His headache was gone; he felt light and hollow, like a reed with the wind blowing through it. "What happened?" he asked.

"When you didn't come back to the fire, I got worried and went looking for you. No one seemed to know where you were, but I was able to find you in here by following your scent. You looked like you were sleeping, but I couldn't wake you up. I shouted, shook you, but nothing seemed to work."

Blair sat up slowly, grimacing at the protest from his stomach muscles. "Well, obviously something did, `cause I'm awake now." He stretched his arms over his head, feeling the joints pop.

Jim took a deep breath, ran a hand over his face. "For a second there, I thought you were dead."

A shiver worked its way down Blair's spine and he heard Incacha's words echoing in the small hut. Many of the lessons will be hard. Some will be painful. He put a hand on Jim's shoulder, squeezed it gently. "Hey. I'm okay." He wrestled with himself about whether or not to tell Jim about the vision. Jim had never been very comfortable with the more spiritual aspects of being a Sentinel...and the part about life lessons might just send him into protective overdrive. "I don't know what it was; if I had too much chicha or just ate something that disagreed with me, but, man, let me tell you, I was sick as a dog."

"But you're okay now?" Jim's eyes searched his, concerned.

"Yeah. I threw up, and..."

Jim held his hand up, a slight smile curving his mouth. "Okay, okay, I don't need the play-by-play, Sandburg, thanks."

Blair grinned. "Say, is the story-telling still going on? Maybe we should get back there."

"You feel up to it?"

"Are you kidding me? How many chances am I gonna have to actually hear the Chopec recounting their oral history? This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, man. I'm not gonna let a little hangover, or food poisoning, or whatever, keep me from it." He stood, suppressing yet another wince at the twinge of pain from his sore stomach muscles. He felt a little light-headed, but that cleared as he took some deep breaths.

"Okay, then," Jim said, standing and looping his arm over Blair's shoulders for support. As they headed out of the hut, Blair glanced back. He thought he could just make out Incacha, standing in the shadows, and behind him, many others, men and women; black and brown and red and pale, all watching him with eyes that said, We'll be here, waiting. When you need us, we'll be here. He smiled, and turned his attention back to Jim.

"No more chicha for you, I think," Jim was saying, as they headed towards the fire. "Maybe some fruit juice, or just water."

"Water sounds great," he replied.

Andrea was holding his bracelet, turning it over and over in her hands; she'd asked to see it again about halfway through his story, when she'd dropped the studied adolescent nonchalance and become intensely interested in what he was saying. "It must be so cool, to be able to do stuff like that," she said softly, "like walk in the spirit world..."

He gave her a rueful smile. "It's like any other skill. Once you can do it, it doesn't seem all that exciting."

"But..." she looked up at him, eyes hopeful. "Doesn't it mean that you can see Jim whenever you want?"

He felt a sudden hard pang in his chest. "No. The spirit world's different from the afterlife. I can't travel into the afterlife. I haven't seen Jim or talked with him since...since he died."

"But you could see Incacha."

"Because he was a shaman himself, I guess. And he felt a responsibility to stay in the spirit world and help me, at least for a while, since he was the one who had passed the way of the shaman to me in the first place."

"So, he was your teacher?"

"I had a lot of teachers," he demurred. "Incacha was right - a little cryptic, but right. When there was something I needed to know, a teacher, or a lesson of some sort, would come along. I just had to be open enough to see it."

"What happened if you didn't see it?"

He grimaced. "Well, I'd get the skills I needed eventually, but the road to get there could be really rocky." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, seriously. Remember the part where Incacha said painful and hard? Remind me someday to tell you about the day I died."

She raised both eyebrows but didn't press him, just handed the bracelet back to him. He slid it back on his wrist. "So, your purpose was to help Jim by--what did you call it? Being his Guide?"

"Yeah, he answered. Then, because he could already see the questions building in her eyes, he continued to explain. "See, a Sentinel can focus too much on one sense, like hearing or smell, and can lose awareness of the rest of the world, fall into kind of a zone-out. If that happens, he's vulnerable to being attacked - whether he's in the jungle or in a city like Cascade. So part of my job as a Guide was to watch Jim's back; to make sure he didn't focus too much on any one sense; to be there to bring him back if he zoned."

"Part of your job?"

"Well, I did try and get some research done, even after I went native. I'd also think up ways to stretch his senses, test their limits, make them work together, things like that."

"So how did being a shaman help you be a Guide?"

He sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Like Incacha said, it was a process, not an endpoint," he said. "In ancient times Sentinels were very connected to the natural world, obviously. That's a lot harder in modern times, especially living in a city. Being a shaman connected me to Nature, which helped me think of ways to help Jim deal with his senses, think of unique or novel ways to use them, things like that." He paused. "Plus, there's a spiritual component to being a Sentinel...Jim never liked that part; he felt uncomfortable with it, so my being a shaman helped him to deal with that as well." He grinned at her. "He could let me visit the spirit world, deal with visions, and he could focus on the practical side of his senses."

She turned to face him and looked at him eagerly. "And so you have to pass the way of the shaman on to someone else?"

"That's what Incacha said," Blair said, "but I don't know how or where that's supposed to happen." He smiled at her, a little sadly. "I guess, like learning the skills, I just have to stay open and wait for a sign."

"How did Incacha know to pass it to you?"

Blair shrugged. "He said he just knew the moment he saw me."

"Oh." She turned away, slumping back against the bench.

They sat in silence for a while, Andrea staring at her fingernails. Blair inhaled deeply, appreciating the scent of the cedar that surrounded them. It was a cool winter day and the sun struggled to cast its thin light on them through a cover of high, wispy cirrus clouds. He was enjoying the quiet afternoon sounds around them when Andrea spoke.

"I didn't tell her because she'd want to come."

"Huh?"

"My mom. I didn't tell her that we'd met in the cemetery because then she'd want to come with me."

"And that would be a bad thing?" he inquired.

She sighed, hunched her shoulders, staring at her feet. "No, it's just...I just...." She stopped, took a deep breath. "She misses Dad, a lot. If she came, she'd be sad; she'd want to talk to him nicely, tell him how much we miss him..." She trailed off.

"And you don't want to tell him that?" Blair said softly.

There was a long pause. "I do, but..." She spoke so quietly Blair could barely hear her. "Most of the time I just want to scream at him. I mean, why did he do something so stupid? Why did he freeze like that? Why was he even there in the first place? He wasn't even on duty..." Her voice thickened. She broke off, ran her sleeve under her nose; looked at Blair, her eyes bright. "So, now you know what an awful, hateful person I am..."

"Aw, kiddo, you're not an awful person," he breathed, sliding an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to his side. "That's a really, really normal reaction to have when someone you love dies."

She sniffed. "I bet you didn't feel that way when Jim died."

He nodded. "I did. Before and after." She looked at him mutely, disbelieving, and he nodded again in affirmation.

"How do you...how did you get over it?" Her voice was barely audible.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Well, to tell you that I guess I'll have to tell you why I was mad at him in the first place," he started...

Blair opened his eyes, blinking sleepily in the bright morning light that filled their bedroom. He could hear Jim down the hall in the kitchen, making coffee and humming lightly under his breath. He peered over at the clock, then stretched, hearing joints pop, and burrowed deeper into the nest of warm covers, knowing that Jim would come wake him up once the coffee was ready. The best thing about retirement was that he didn't have to set the alarm clock anymore.

They'd bought this cabin almost ten years ago, about a year after Blair had retired from full-time police work. He'd gotten his twenty years in, which qualified him for a basic pension and benefits; he taught occasional classes or courses at the police academy more for fun than from any need for money. Between his pension and Jim's salary as an instructor, not to mention the profit they had made on selling the loft, they were more than fine, even after Jim had finally formally retired from the academy. The cabin was small, but perfect for their needs; close enough to Cascade that it wasn't a pain to get into town and run errands, see old friends, but far enough away to be peaceful. It had been hard to contemplate leaving the loft, but, once they'd found this place, they hadn't ever regretted their decision to move.

He stretched again, yawning, and chuckled to himself. If anyone had told him, after he'd walked out of that hospital room thirty-five years ago, that he'd not only eventually be living with this guy, but be working as a cop as well, he'd have thought they were crazy. Thirty-five years. He'd known Jim for over half his life. He shook his head in amazement. Life could sure throw you a few curves sometimes. But that was what made it exciting, wasn't it?

Suddenly there was a crash from the kitchen, like glass breaking, and a heavy thud. Blair sat bolt upright. "Jim?" he called, "you okay?" No answer. Sudden panic squeezed his heart like a vise. "Jim!" He scrambled out of bed, grabbing his robe off the hook on the back of the door, and hurried down the hallway to the kitchen as fast as he could.

Jim was lying on the kitchen floor, on his back, arms and legs jerking spasmodically. His jaw was clenched tight and he was making an odd, rhythmic grunting sound. Shards of glass from the broken coffee carafe lay scattered around him on the floor.

Blair felt a moment of almost pure, primal terror; the hair rising on the back of his neck, before a word floated to the surface of his brain, from somewhere in the dark recesses of all the knowledge he'd absorbed as a cop. Seizure. He's having a seizure.

He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. A woman answered the phone, speaking in calm, even tones. "Please state the nature of your emergency."

"Uh, my...my partner, he's having a seizure..."

"What's your location?"

Blair gave her the address. "I...I don't know what to do..." Frustrated, he searched his memory, but after that one word, his brain seemed to have gone on hiatus. He knew they'd covered this in the academy; what to do for someone having a seizure, but for the life of him he couldn't remember a bit of it.

"I've sent paramedics to your address," the calm voice replied. "They're on their way. Is your partner still seizing?"

Blair looked up. Jim was still now; lying on his back as if he were asleep. Blair caught the sharp odor of urine. "No, it seems to have stopped." That was good, right? He seemed to remember something about people who couldn't stop seizing being in real trouble.

"But he's still breathing?"

Fear clenched his heart again and he made his way cautiously around the glass to crouch at Jim's side. He put a hand gently on Jim's chest, marking its regular rise and fall, feeling Jim's heart beating steadily beneath his hand. Jim's eyes opened halfway at his touch, but his pupils were dilated and there was no recognition in his gaze. "Yeah, he's still breathing, and his pulse feels pretty regular." Jim's eyes closed again. "What...what should I do?" he asked again.

"If the person has stopped seizing and they're breathing okay, then, if you can, get them up on to their side..."

Blair wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder and reached out for Jim, then hesitated. "Uh...he fell when he had the seizure; I'm not sure how...I'm afraid to move him, I don't know if there's been any back or neck injury..."

"Okay, well, in that case, the best thing you can do is just keep him warm until the paramedics get there."

"Okay," Blair replied, going into the living room and grabbing an afghan off the couch.

"What's your name, honey?" The voice was warmer now.

"Blair. Blair Sandburg." He went back into the kitchen and covered Jim with the afghan; crouched at his side again, one hand rubbing gently up and down Jim's arm.

"And what's your partner's name?"

"Jim Ellison."

"Okay, Blair, I'll tell you what...I'm going to stay on the line with you until the paramedics get there. You don't have to say anything, but if you want to talk, or you've got any questions, you just let me know, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks." Blair replied. I was a cop, he wanted to tell her, I know the drill, I've been involved in hundreds of crises like this; but somehow he didn't feel like a cop, he felt alone and terrified, and the fact that there was someone there was more comforting that he wanted to admit. He crouched at Jim's side, rubbing his arm, scanning him anxiously for any changes, any signs of breathing problems or another seizure. He knew he should be doing something more helpful, like cleaning up the glass so the paramedics could work around Jim, but he couldn't do it, he couldn't make himself move from Jim's side.

After what seemed like an eternity he heard a knocking on the door and got up to go let the paramedics in. "They're here," he told the 911 operator.

"Good, honey...let me talk to them, okay?"

Blair nodded and wordlessly handed the phone to the guy standing at the door, a tall, strapping, blond fellow. "Hey," he said, acknowledging Blair before putting the phone to his ear. He listened, nodding once or twice, then said, "Okay, thanks," and handed the phone back to Blair. "Hey, Carson!" he shouted back to his partner, "get the collar and the backboard. Might have some neck or spine injuries." He pushed past Blair into the cabin and then turned and looked at him questioningly.

"In the kitchen," Blair said, pointing. "Back there." He lifted the phone to his ear. "They're here now," he repeated. "I think everything's fine. Thanks for all your help."

"No problem, Blair. Just listen to the paramedics and do whatever they ask. Everything's going to be okay."

"Okay. Thanks." He clicked the phone off, clutching it to his chest, only realizing now that he had never asked her her name.

He felt strangely detached and numb. Carson, a dark-haired guy about Blair's height, entered the cabin with the gear and he pointed him towards the back. He trailed after him, standing in the door to the kitchen and watching the two paramedics work at what seemed like double speed. They slid the collar around Jim's neck and fastened it, and then moved him carefully on to the backboard, talking back and forth rapid-fire the whole time.

"Vitals are okay."

"Pupils are equal and reactive, but dilated and sluggish."

"Airway is open, breathing is regular, pulseoxs good."

"Okay...tilt him up on his side...easy...slide it under him...okay, good..."

"Starting an IV of saline..."

"...and let's add a little Lamictal to that..."

"How long has it been?"

Blair blinked as he realized the question had been directed at him. "Uh..." He looked at the kitchen clock, trying to work backwards to when he'd woken up. He frowned. That couldn't be right. According to the clock, it had only been about thirty minutes. It had felt like hours had passed while he was crouched next to Jim, waiting for the paramedics. "Uh...about thirty minutes, I think?" he said uncertainly.

"Okay. Let's get him in. Ready? One, two, three...LIFT!"

The two paramedics stood in unison, lifting the stretcher and engaging the legs. Jim was strapped to the backboard, an IV bag on his chest. He looked like he was asleep. The paramedics wheeled Jim out the front door and pushed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Blair drifted out after them. The blond one, the one whose name Blair didn't know, backed out and headed around to the driver's side door.

The dark-haired guy, Carson, looked at Blair oddly as Blair tried to climb into the back of the ambulance. "D.J., hang on a sec, okay?" he called up to his partner in the cab. He grasped Blair's shoulders. "Hey, wait a minute there, Mr. Goldberg."

"Sandburg," Blair corrected him automatically.

"Mr. Sandburg. Sorry. You...you can't ride with us."

"I can't?" Blair asked, feeling panic start to take hold of him again. "But...but Jim's my...my partner..."

"I understand, but we can't let civilians ride with us." The guy's voice was low and soothing, and he ducked his head to try and catch Blair's eyes. "You can follow us in your car. We're going to Cascade General. But you probably want to put some clothes on first."

Blair realized he was standing there in his boxers and robe, phone still clutched tightly to his chest. "Oh...yeah." He wondered if it would make any difference if he told the guy he was a retired cop.

Carson patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Mr. Ellison's recovering from the seizure very well, and now that we've got the Lamictal started, it's unlikely that he'll have another one right away. They'll probably want to check him in and keep him for a day or two, at least, run some tests and stuff, but he's not in any immediate danger right now. He'll probably still be in the ER, waiting to be seen, by the time you get dressed and get down there. Okay?"

"Okay," Blair nodded. Nevertheless, he was unable to do anything but stand in the yard and watch as Carson closed the back doors and the ambulance took off down the driveway.

Once the ambulance was out of sight, however, he was able to galvanize himself into action. He hurried back into the house, replacing the phone in its cradle, and pulled on the first set of clothes he could find. He grabbed the file with their medical papers, and was halfway to his car when he realized that Jim was probably going to need some things as well. He raced back inside and threw some clothes--underwear, socks, shirt, jeans--toiletries, and a couple of paperbacks in a duffle bag. Tossing the bag into the back seat, he drove quickly down the driveway, fishtailing a little on the gravel as he made the turn onto the main road.

He called Marisa Parvedes on his way to the hospital. She had succeeded Victoria Carmichael as Chief of Staff at Cascade General, and, although she had written him a new letter supporting any requests he made for Jim's care, he thought it would be a good idea if he let her know Jim was there. She wasn't in her office, though, so he left an urgent message with her service.

It seemed to take much longer than the 30 minutes they usually needed, but finally he arrived at Cascade General. He parked his car in the deck and hurried into the hospital, skidding to a stop in front of the ER check-in desk. "I'm looking for my partner, Jim Ellison," he told the man sitting behind it. "He was brought in by ambulance about 45 minutes ago."

The guy tapped some keys on his computer, then pointed off to the left. "He's in Bay 5, waiting to be seen." Blair turned, but before he could leave, the guy slid a clipboard up onto the desk. "I need you to fill out this information."

Blair sighed. It seemed he couldn't avoid doing Jim's paperwork even after he'd retired. He completed the forms quickly and hurried over to Bay 5.

Jim was one of four patients in the bay; he was lying on a bed at the back of the room,now dressed in a hospital gown; a nurse was checking his IV, and a machine was monitoring his pulse and blood pressure. Blair could see that the collar and the backboard had been removed, but the rails were up. He made his way to the side of Jim's bed.

The nurse looked up and smiled when she saw him. "You must be Mr. Sandburg," she said, "Mr. Ellison's partner. The paramedics told us you'd be coming right behind them."

"Yeah," Blair replied. "How's he doing?"

She nodded. "Pretty good. We drew some blood and that's gone off to the lab for analysis. His reflexes seem okay; there's no sign of paralysis or decreased sensation, so they took the collar and backboard off. They're going to wait until he wakes up, and then get X-rays just to make sure, but it doesn't seem like there's been any neck or back injury. His vitals have been strong; the IV's mainly for the sequelae of the seizure and to keep him hydrated. And to administer Lamictal - that's an anticonvulsant." She looked down at Jim. "He should wake up in an hour or two...he'll probably be pretty drowsy, and he might not remember what happened. But once he's woken up they'll probably want to do some more tests, try to figure out what prompted the seizure."

"Okay," Blair said.

"I'm going to check on some other patients, but I'll be back in a little bit." She picked up what looked like a small remote. "If you need anything, or if there's any change, just press this button here."

He smiled at her. "Thanks. Thanks a lot." She left, and he stood at Jim's bedside, hands clenched on the bedrails. This was always the way it was in hospitals; moments of panic and action interspersed with long hours of waiting. He slid his hand into Jim's, holding it tightly, and took a few deep breaths, trying to center himself after the adrenaline rush of the drive there. Everything was okay. The seizure was over, Jim was doing well, there was no reason to panic. Everything would be okay.

After several minutes he felt himself get calmer, felt himself relax. He loosened his hold on Jim's hand; found a chair and brought it over to the side of the bed. But he still couldn't sit down, preferring to stand so he could be in contact with Jim, holding his hand or occasionally rubbing his arm reassuringly.

After about a half an hour, Marisa Parvedes entered the bay. She saw Blair, standing at the side of the bed, and came over to him. "Hi, Blair," she said, giving him a quick hug.

"Marisa, thanks so much for coming. I'm sorry to bother you, but--"

She cut him off with a hand gesture. "It's no problem, no problem at all." She flipped up the cover on the chart she was carrying. "We just got the results back from the lab. Everything generally looks okay; there were a couple of levels that were a little out of whack, though, so I think once he wakes up we're going to do an EEG and a CT scan. Plus they're going to want to do an X-ray, just to rule out any subtle neck or spine injuries."

"Are they gonna be able to figure out why he had the seizure?" Blair asked.

Marisa frowned. "Maybe. That's what the EEG and CT scan are for. But over half of all seizures never have an identified cause. We can rule out some of the more obvious things: stroke damage, aneurysm, tumor, things like that. But in a lot of cases we can't be exactly sure how or why the seizure occurred."

Blair rubbed his hand across his forehead. "But he's not gonna have any more, right? Now that he's on the Lamictal?"

"I hope not. Most of the time the meds control things just fine." She patted his shoulder gently. "You were with him when he had the seizure?"

"Yeah," Blair said quietly, scrubbing his hands over his face. "He was in the kitchen; I heard him fall and I ran in. I had no idea what was going on--it was scary as hell."

"Well, it's okay now. He's here in the hospital, so if he has another one, there'll be plenty of help around. We'll do these tests, figure out what we can--if he doesn't have another seizure, you'll probably be able to take him home tomorrow."

Blair just nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

"I took the liberty of booking you a room at the family hotel across the street," Marisa said. "I know you won't go back to the cabin, but I'll bet you don't much feel like sleeping in a chair next to his bed all night."

He smiled faintly. "No, I'd rather not. My back will give me hell in the morning." He looked up at her; she was smiling kindly at him. "Thanks, Marisa. Have I mentioned lately how much I appreciate having you as a doctor?"

She gave him a quick, one-armed squeeze across the shoulders. "Have I mentioned lately how much I appreciate you guys not giving us as much business since you retired?" He laughed. "You can make it up to me at your Fourth of July party. Make me one of those stupendous margaritas."

"Count on it."

She flipped the chart closed, back to being all business. "Well, we're in the process of getting him moved to a room--I don't think we can do private, we're a little busy tonight--but it'll just be a double and it'll be at the end of the hall, far away from the noise and bustle of the nurses' station. Once he wakes up, which should be in about an hour or so, we'll start the tests. I'm not sure I'll know anything tonight, but I'll come by first thing in the morning, okay?"

He smiled at her gratefully. "Sounds great."

"Okay. See you later, Blair." She took off, weaving her way out of the bay.

After about 20 minutes, the orderlies came to move Jim to a room; the other occupant was an elderly man who seemed to be fast asleep. Blair pulled the privacy curtain between the two beds and settled in to wait for Jim to wake up. After a while he dug out one of the paperbacks he'd thrown in the duffle; it was a spy novel, not the kind of thing that usually interested him, but he was about ready to give it a try when he looked over and saw Jim looking at him out of half-open eyes. He jumped to his feet and leaned over the side of the bed. "Hey," he said softly, gently rubbing Jim's arm.

"Chief," Jim croaked, his voice sounding raspy. Blair turned to the nightstand and poured him a cup of water, then helped him drink it. "Thanks. What the hell happened?"

"You had a seizure. What's the last thing you remember?"

Jim's brows drew together. "I was in the kitchen. I'd gone in to make coffee...and then, nothing." He looked up at Blair, brow still furrowed. "I had a seizure?"

"Yeah," Blair exhaled. "Scariest fucking thing I ever saw. You feel okay?"

"Yeah. A little sore, a little headachey, but otherwise fine. Like I just woke up from a nap." Jim craned his head, looking for a clock. "What time is it?"

Blair pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked. "10:30 in the morning."

"I was out for more than four hours?"

Blair nodded, swallowing tightly at the memory of it.

Jim slid his fingers under Blair's; rubbed his thumb gently across his knuckles. "Sorry, babe. Didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh, really? `Cause I thought you'd planned the whole thing..." Jim smacked him lightly on the forehead, grinning, and he chuckled, his tension dissipating in the familiar banter between them.

"So, when can I get the hell out of here?" Jim asked, looking down at the IV in his arm.

Blair shook his head slowly, still smiling. "Not until tomorrow, I'm afraid. Marisa said they'll want to do some tests, try to figure out why it happened." He rolled his eyes at Jim's exaggerated groan. "Come on, just play nice...I want to know what's going on. I do not want a repeat of this morning, trust me."

Jim settled back onto the bed with a heavy sigh, but he was smiling fondly at Blair. "You called Marisa?" he asked.

"Of course. Don't I always take care of you?"

"You always do, babe." The smile had grown more contemplative, and Jim reached out and gently cupped Blair's cheek, brushed his thumb across Blair's jaw. Blair closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, absorbing the sense of warmth and security it gave him. "Love you," Jim whispered.

"Love you, too," Blair whispered back. "Always."

Then the orderlies were coming in to take Jim to X-ray, and Blair heard his stomach growl, and felt his head pound, and realized he'd had neither food nor caffeine this day, so while Jim was at X-ray he went down to the cafeteria and had a bagel and a nice big cup of coffee and read the newspaper.

Jim was back when he returned to the room. He'd brought the newspaper up, but no sooner had they started in on a discussion of possible Jags draft picks for next year than the orderlies were back--different ones, this time--to take Jim for a CT scan.

And after that it was the EEG, which involved Jim having to sit in a room alone, bored, while the leads on his head monitored his brain activity. Blair couldn't even sit outside and talk to him, for fear of messing up the results. He went across the street instead and checked in to the family hotel. He laughed at himself; he'd brought Jim's stuff, but not his own--he didn't even have a change of underwear or a toothbrush. So he went downstairs to the gift shop and bought a few things, including a pack of cards. He also picked up dinner for himself at the cafeteria.

Amazingly, Jim was actually back in his room when Blair returned, eating dinner with a gusto that he usually reserved for Wonderburgers. "What?" he said, when he caught Blair's surprised look. "I'm starving. They haven't let me eat anything all day."

Blair grinned and settled into the chair next to Jim's bed with his own dinner. Jim introduced him to his elderly roommate, who was also eating. He had apparently been a firefighter with the Cascade FD and was delighted to be rooming with a retired cop, and before long the three of them were telling stories and trying to one-up each other--not that he was likely to ever one-up Jim, Blair thought.

He saw Marisa stick her head in the door at about seven and he waved her in. "Hi, Marisa," Jim said, smiling. She came over to give Jim a hug, and he kissed her on the cheek.

"Any news yet?" Blair asked.

"Well, the X-ray was clear; you didn't break or injure anything when you fell during the seizure." Blair breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been pretty sure that everything was okay on that front, but it never hurt to get confirmation. "We haven't gotten the results of the CT scan yet, but the EEG looks clear."

"So--no telling why it happened?" Jim asked.

"We'll wait for the CT scan to be sure, but, like I told Blair, sometimes we don't know why a person has a seizure. Doesn't mean we can't treat it."

Blair saw Jim's eyes darken at the mention of treatment, and knew that his partner didn't feel good at the thought of having to take anticonvulsants on a regular basis. "Well, we can talk about that more tomorrow," he broke in, wanting to delay the argument with Jim until he'd had time to do some research, get his facts in order.

"All right," Marisa said, agreeably, "I'll see you two in the morning."

They played cards for a while with the firefighter until Jim yawned widely and Blair scooped the cards up. "Time for bed," he said firmly.

"I've done nothing but sleep today," Jim protested, but he was lying back and his eyes were closing almost before Blair had left the room.

Blair slept badly; the bed seemed cold and empty. He kept flinging his arm out to touch Jim; when he didn't find him he'd wake with a start, see the unfamiliar room, and then remember where he was and why, and then the whole memory of the seizure would come back to him...the horrible thud of Jim's body hitting the floor...the convulsions...the feeling of panic that had frozen him in his tracks...his heart pounding like a bass drum....

Finally, around five in the morning, he accepted that he wasn't going to get any more sleep and got up and took a shower. Visiting hours didn't start until eight, but he figured he could go down to the cafeteria and drink coffee until then.

He lasted until about 7:15, then snuck up to Jim's room. Jim was up, drinking his own coffee and watching the news. The bed next to him was empty.

"Hey, where's your roomie?" Blair said as he slid in the door, closing it behind him.

Jim glanced over at him, looking relieved to see him. "Morning, Chief. He went out early for surgery."

"Ah." He came over and gave Jim a kiss. He noted that the IV was gone. "How'd you sleep?"

Jim shrugged. "Okay. Missed you."

"Me, too. I'm ready to go home."

"You'll get no argument from me, Chief."

As if on cue, there was a light warning knock on the door, and then Marisa entered with a chart in her hands. She looked tired, and something about her bearing drew Blair's attention to her like a pointer to a pheasant. Something was wrong.

"Morning, guys," she said, and even her voice was weary.

"What is it?" Blair blurted out, too anxious to go through the usual niceties. Jim gave him a sharp look, then turned his attention to Marisa.

She flipped open the chart, took a deep breath. "Jim, the results of the CT scan are back. We think the seizure was caused by a tumor in your brain." Blair felt his spine turn to ice, sliding slowly down his back. His heart started to pound and his lungs felt constricted.

Jim reached out, wrapped his fingers gently around Blair's wrist. The contact steadied Blair, and he took a deep breath. "Where?" Jim asked.

"It's deep..." Marisa said, and then she was explaining something, using her hands to try and describe it, but Blair couldn't hear her anymore; her mouth was moving, but there wasn't any sound except for some kind of white noise feedback screaming in his ears...

"Breathe, Chief," Jim said, softly, squeezing his wrist again, and he did, feeling his lungs spasm. Marisa's voice came back, something about an oncologist--Jesus, wasn't that somebody who treated cancer?--and then Marisa and Jim were talking, and Jim was nodding, and the white noise had returned, and then Marisa was leaving the room and Jim was tugging on his wrist. "Blair, look at me," he said.

Blair turned to look at him. How could his voice be so goddamned calm? "Cancer?" His voice squeaked; he hated when that happened. "Brain cancer?" How in the hell could Jim be so damned calm?

Jim had shifted his grip on Blair's wrist and was lightly stroking the pulse point with his thumb. "Blair, listen to me. Chill. Just calm down, take a few deep breaths..."

"Don't use my shtick on me," he growled at Jim.

"Then don't make me have to," Jim replied, almost affably, and it was that, more than anything--that Jim seemed just as calm and unruffled as if Marisa had just invited them over for lunch--that enabled him to finally take a few deep breaths, slow his pounding heart, get the white noise out of his ears, and get his reaction under control.

He looked up at Jim guiltily. "I missed the last thing Marisa said." Well, actually, he'd missed quite a bit more than that, but first things first.

"She said an oncologist--Dr. Allen--would be coming by in a little while to talk to us, give us more information. She doesn't really know that much about it, it's not her specialty."

"But she knows you have a tumor."

"Yes."

"And she knows where it is." Another piece of information he'd missed.

"Yeah. She tried to explain it to me, but all I got was that it was underneath the cerebral cortex." Jim shrugged apologetically. Blair tried to call up a memory of how the brain was structured, but freshman biology had been a really long time ago.

"And it's cancer." His heart was starting to pound again.

"Blair, just calm down, let's just wait and talk to the oncologist, okay?"

"Okay." There was a knock on the door, and Blair's heart rate spiked, but it was just one of the nurses from the front desk.

"Mr. Sandburg, there's been a problem with the insurance and they want to talk to you."

Blair pulled his wrist free, rolled his eyes at Jim, and followed the nurse to the front desk. He then spent over an hour on the phone--at least half of that being placed on hold--arguing with a succession of people on the other end of the line that the reason that he hadn't asked for preapproval of the hospital charges was because it was an emergency, and he hadn't known that it was going to happen.

He finally got things straightened out and, with a major effort of will, kept himself from slamming the phone down in the cradle. Frustrated, he stomped back into Jim's room, only to find Jim dressed and standing at the window looking out at Cascade, duffle packed and waiting on the bed.

Jim turned as he came in. "Ready to go, Chief?" he said.

"What...what happened to Dr. Allen?" Blair asked, confused.

"Oh, her medical student came by, said there'd been an emergency and Dr. Allen had been called away. Said we could make an appointment to come back sometime next week...but no rush."

"No rush?"

"Nope." Jim hefted the duffle off the bed. "You ready?"

"So, that's it, we can just go?"

"Yup."

Blair felt a sudden and welcome sense of relief. If the oncologist didn't think it was urgent, then maybe it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. "Yeah. Let's blow this pop stand."

Jim took care of the discharge papers while Blair brought the car around, and in short order they were on the road, weaving through the streets of downtown Cascade.

They had driven in silence for a while when Jim said, "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Why don't we try out that new place down on the waterfront?"

Blair turned to look at him, slightly surprised. Jim didn't usually go for upscale, trendy places like that. He usually had to talk him into it. "You sure?"

"Yeah." He shrugged one shoulder casually. "It's a beautiful day, I'm not in the hospital, and I'm in the mood to enjoy a nice lunch with my partner." He twined his fingers gently in Blair's. "Sound okay with you?"

Blair grinned at him. "Sounds great to me." He turned the car towards the waterfront.

In spite of the recent opening, the restaurant was fairly empty, maybe because it was the middle of the week, or because it was a little early for lunch. In any event, they were able to get a table outside, right next to the water. And it really was a beautiful day; one of those rare warm days in Cascade where the sun was shining and the sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue.

They placed their orders and Blair sat back, watching Jim. He was looking out over the bay, a solemn expression on his face, but Blair couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses, couldn't tell what he was thinking. He nudged Jim's foot with his. "Hey. You feeling okay?"

With a slight start, Jim turned back to face him, a small smile curving his mouth. "Yeah. Just a little tired. Didn't sleep so good last night."

"I hear that," he said, returning the smile. "Me neither. It'll be good to get back home." Jim nodded, and they chatted about inconsequential things until the food came.

They took a long, leisurely time over lunch and then stopped at the grocery store on the way out of town, getting back to the cabin around mid-afternoon. Blair had just finished putting the groceries away when he heard Jim come up behind him. "Think I'll go lie down for a while," Jim said.

"Good idea."

Jim's arm slid around his waist; with his other hand he pushed Blair's hair aside, biting gently at Blair's neck. "Want to join me?" he said huskily, his breath tickling Blair's exposed nape.

Blair grinned, Jim's touch making him shiver, making him hard. He realized that after the stresses of yesterday, not to mention this morning, he needed this, the reaffirmation of their physical and emotional bond, badly, almost as badly as Jim probably did. "I don't know," he said, amusement clear in his voice, "it doesn't sound to me like we're going to get much rest."

"Babe," Jim said, maneuvering him towards their bedroom, "have I ever mentioned that I love how smart you are?"

Blair rolled up on one elbow and watched Jim sleep. Normally after they made love he'd sack out for a while, too, but not today. Today, for some reason, although his body was sated and relaxed, his mind was awake and restless.

He ran a finger lightly down the outside of Jim's shoulder, marveling at his physique. It was rare that he got a chance to just look, just visually enjoy his lover's body; usually when he was awake Jim was awake as well, and looking was typically followed in short order by touching, and then by other things.

Jim might have lost muscle mass as he aged, but not definition; his chest was still sculpted and hard, his stomach still firm, and his long legs still powerful, despite the knee injury. The lines at the corners of his eyes might be deeper, but Blair was pleased to note that the laugh lines around his long, curved mouth were deeper, too, something he credited to his influence. Jim's hair had gone completely gray, and he still kept it clipped short. Even in his seventies, even with the stiffness from his knee, he was as graceful as a cat when he moved.

Blair dipped his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the point of Jim's shoulder, the skin there warm and soft. Jim stirred slightly, turned his head towards Blair, but didn't wake. Blair felt slightly disappointed; he'd been halfway hoping Jim would be up for another round, in spite of the fact that his own body was protesting that it was too soon.

He sighed and slid out of bed quietly, being careful not to wake Jim, and pulled his boxers and a robe on. He padded out into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, then went into the study and turned the computer on.

Pulling up the web browser, he started looking for information on brain tumors, but found himself a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume of facts that were available. He printed out a few pages, basic primer kind of stuff, but realized that he would need more specific information about Jim's condition before he could do a useful search. Then he remembered that he'd wanted to do some research on epilepsy and anticonvulsant treatment. That search led him to another series of pages, and in short order he had opened a file and started typing up a list of questions to ask Dr. Allen when they went to meet with her next week.

He heard the bathroom door close, heard the shower start, and realized that Jim must have woken up. Looking up at the clock, he was startled to see that he had been at this for a couple of hours. He saved the stuff he'd been working on, including bookmarking a few sites to revisit later, and shut the computer down.

Heading into the kitchen, he put his cup in the sink and then went into the bedroom, shucking his robe and pulling on a pair of jeans and a Henley. Jim came in just as he'd finished dressing; his hair still damp and a towel wrapped around his waist. He grinned appreciatively at Blair and pulled him close for a kiss; Blair had just about decided to lose the jeans and shirt when Jim let him go, swatting him lightly on the rear. "Go make dinner, huh? I'm starving," he said, with a wide grin.

"Sir, yes, sir!" he said, with a mock salute and a smile, then went back into the kitchen, turning the oven on and pulling the chicken they'd bought out of the fridge. Jim came in a few minutes later and started making a salad and, between the two of them, they had dinner on the table in no time.

"Say, I was thinking," Blair said as he sat down, "maybe we should look at renting a place in town. I mean, I know it depends on what the course of treatment is, but it might make more sense--"

Jim cut him off. "Sandburg, can we talk about this later?" he said irritably. "I'd just like to enjoy my dinner right now."

Blair shrugged. "Okay," he replied, wondering what had suddenly put Jim in such a pissy mood.

Whatever it was, it seemed to have passed with that comment, because the rest of the dinner passed in easy conversation. They cleaned up the dishes, then Blair snagged a pencil and the paper and sat down at the table, opening the paper to the classifieds.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked.

"I'm just taking a look to see what kind of rents we're talking about here, if we were gonna try and get a place near the hospital," Blair said absentmindedly, circling a few ads.

"Blair, look--" Jim said, and then he stopped.

Something in his tone set off a warning bell in Blair's head, and he looked up. Jim was sitting in one of the chairs, running his hand over his head and looking grim. "What?" he said, his voice tight.

Jim glanced away, then took a deep breath and looked at Blair, his face calm and set. "I'm not going to get any treatment."

"What? If this is an insurance thing, they can't deny you--"

"It's not."

"Look, you haven't even talked to the oncologist yet, how do you know--" He stopped cold at the guilty look that flashed across Jim's face. "You did talk to her." Anger flared in his belly.

"She came in while you were on the phone..."

"You bastard. You talked to her without me."

"She said there was an emergency, she couldn't wait. I didn't make that up."

Blair stood up abruptly, pushing the chair back with a loud scrape. He walked stiffly into the kitchen, grabbed the kettle, filled it, slammed it down on the stove and snapped the burner on underneath it. He walked back over and leaned against the doorway to the dining room, crossing his arms, his shoulders rigid. "So she said you didn't need to get treatment?" he said tightly.

There was a long pause. Jim stood and strode to the other end of the room, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. Finally he turned to face Blair, took a deep breath and replied, "No. I made that decision on my own."

"You made that decision on your own?"

"Yeah."

"I wasn't aware that this was a dictatorship."

"Well, it's sure as hell not a democracy."

"I thought I was your partner!" Blair retorted, hotly.

"You are. But it's still my body, Sandburg," Jim growled. "I still get to decide what goes in it and what happens to it."

"Look, I agree, brain surgery is tricky, but--"

"It's inoperable."

That stopped Blair in his tracks, a sudden wave of panic flowing up from his belly. "What?" he whispered.

Jim sighed. "It's inoperable," he said quietly. "It's deep, located close to the brainstem. They don't want to risk it."

His body felt frozen solid, his heart jolting painfully underneath his ribs, his throat closing like there was a hand on it. "But...but what about radiation...chemotherapy..." he rasped.

"C'mon, Chief," and there wasn't a trace of the irritation of earlier, just a sad, resigned tone, "think about the side effects those treatments have for normal people. Can you imagine what it'd be like with the senses?"

Nausea spun through him and suddenly he had to move. The room was too small, the walls were closing in, his breath harsh and painful in his own ears. He lurched towards the front door; Jim reached out a hand. "Blair," he began, but Blair jerked away from him, hands up in the air.

"Screw you, Ellison," he gasped, and then he was turning, moving, out the door, heading blindly for the edge of the clearing in which their cabin sat.

He wasn't fool enough to go stalking off into the woods at night, but he couldn't go back to the cabin, so he just paced in a tight circle, trapped between having to move and not having anyplace to go. He was trying desperately to hold on to some of the anger he had felt earlier, but it was draining away fast, being replaced with a sick sensation in his stomach and a painful thudding in his chest. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling shudders move through his body.

There was a picnic table out here, something the prior owners had installed which he and Jim had never bothered to get rid of, and he sank onto it, burying his face in his hands, trying to take deep breaths, trying to calm himself, control the shudders. Jesus. This couldn't be happening. Cancer. Inoperable. No treatment.

The thing was, he couldn't blame Jim. He was right. Radiation and chemotherapy could be miserable even for the strongest person. Nausea, vomiting, ulcers and other skin conditions, fluid retention, hair falling out, organs not functioning, bleeding, diarrhea...both treatments had a laundry list of side effects that he could only imagine would be utter and complete hell to have to endure with Sentinel senses. The best dials in the world weren't going to be much help with that.

But...but when the alternative...when the alternative was...he caught his breath in a sob, slammed his fists down on the picnic table. This couldn't be happening. He folded his arms on the table, rested his forehead on them, clenching his jaw, fighting the wave of grief and sorrow that threatened to swamp him. His breath whistled painfully through his tight throat. With a huge effort of will, he forced himself to focus only on breathing, only on his inhale and exhale, until he felt control return, until the anguish had been pushed back into the distance. He'd deal with that later. Eventually he became aware that he was shivering; not from emotion this time, but from the cold seeping through his clothes into his body.

A mug of tea appeared on the table in front of him, and he heard Jim lean his cane against the table. Raising his head, he felt a coat drape around his shoulders. He wrapped his hands around the mug and drank deeply, relishing the warmth that permeated through him. Jim sat down, straddling the picnic bench; he tugged at Blair's shoulder and Blair moved, turning his back to Jim and straddling the bench himself. He leaned back into Jim's warmth and Jim wrapped his arms around him.

"I'm sorry," Jim murmured, his breath ghosting across Blair's ear. "I should have told you as soon as you came back to the room. I was planning to, I wasn't intending to keep it a secret or anything, I just...I just wanted to have a nice afternoon with you, before this shit takes over our lives."

"That protective instinct again, huh?" he said, proud that he was able to keep his voice steady.

"Old habits die hard," Jim said, ruefully.

He leaned his head back against Jim's shoulder, looked up at him, his features faintly visible in the light from the cabin. "It was a really nice afternoon."

Jim smiled. "Yeah, it was."

"You're right. It's your body, your decision."

"I still should have waited until you were there."

"I'd say the same thing even if I'd been there. And you're right...radiation and chemotherapy would be hell for you."

Jim sighed. "It would just be palliative, anyway; according to Dr. Allen, the tumor's too advanced for anything else." He nuzzled the spot behind Blair's ear gently. "I just don't want to spend the little time we have left being sick and feeling like crap."

The little time we have left. He took a deep breath. "About that...uh...how much time? Did Dr. Allen say?"

Jim paused. "Three or four months, probably," he said quietly.

The words hit him like a physical blow, robbing him of breath. "M-months?" he managed to get out. He felt his throat close again, felt the nausea roil in his stomach, felt his body start to shake. Fumbling, he managed to set the mug back on the table before he spilled the tea all over himself. Months? Not years, not even one year. Not even half a year. Months. Three to four months.

Jim tightened his arms around him. "Easy, babe. It's okay."

No, it's not! he wanted to scream, but when he opened his mouth something between a laugh and a sob came out instead. "Jesus, Jim," he gasped, "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. You're the strongest person I know, Blair."

But he didn't feel strong. He felt shaky and terrified and overwhelmed. He turned, shifting; burrowed his face into Jim's neck, wrapped an arm around his waist, clenched his fist in Jim's shirt. Jim shifted with him, folding his arms tightly around Blair, holding him close. You're the strong one, not me he wanted to protest. You're my protector. And for the first time he thought about what it would be like if he didn't have Jim's strength to draw on anymore.

No. It couldn't happen. He wouldn't let it happen. He felt his determination rise. He'd find something, some way to beat this. He'd do research--there had to be some kind of alternative treatment, something that wouldn't wreak havoc on Jim's senses. He had access to libraries full of research, thousands of studies, terabytes of information on the Internet. He'd find something.

Jim was talking to him, stroking his hair, trying to reassure him. "It's okay, babe. We'll go see Dr. Allen next week. You can ask her all the questions you want, and maybe she'll know about some resources, some support groups or something..."

He pushed the thought of support groups away. That was fine, but he wouldn't need that. Questions, though...now that would be useful. He could get some more information from Jim, do a little research between now and then, and be able to pick her brain about other types of treatments, things that wouldn't have the negative side effects of the more traditional approaches. He leaned into Jim, soaking up his warmth, his closeness. He was not going to let him go. It was going to be okay. He would make it okay.

Andrea looked up at him doubtfully from underneath his arm. "So, did you find a different kind of treatment?"

Blair smiled ruefully. "I found a whole bunch of them. And Jim was as good as his word. We met with Dr. Allen, and I pestered her a lot--I think at one point I was emailing her three or four times a day with questions. Jim kept trying to get me to go to one of the support groups at the hospital, but I wouldn't do it. All I wanted to focus on was finding something that would keep him alive."

Her gaze was solemn. "I bet you can be pretty determined, once you get your mind set on something..." she said.

He nodded. "Yeah. The thing is, though--sometimes it's a lot easier to focus on what you want instead of what you need...."

Blair carefully carried the hot cup of tea down the hallway and into their bedroom. Jim was stretched out on the bed, sleeping; his book open and tented over his chest. Blair quietly put the tea down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of Jim's chest. He slid his fingers gently around Jim's wrist, not wanting to wake him up, but just needing some contact, some warmth, some reassurance.

He sat there for a few moments, letting himself bask in the beat of Jim's pulse, then released Jim's wrist and stood up. He bent to pick up the tray sitting on the ground next to the bed, frowning when he saw that Jim had barely touched his lunch. He stood, lifting the tray, and looked up to find Jim watching him.

"You didn't eat very much," he said, keeping his tone light so it didn't sound like a rebuke. These last couple of days he'd had trouble getting Jim to eat much more than chicken broth.

"That's `cause you keep trying to feed me rabbit food, Sandburg," Jim said quietly, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

"Hey! Cabbage and grape leaves are reportedly very helpful in cleansing the body of antioxidants and free radicals," he said, as he carried the tray back down the hall to the kitchen.

"Well, no wonder; they taste so bad, they drive everybody out," Jim said. Blair put the tray down and returned to the bedroom, ready to argue his point, but when he caught the look in Jim's eyes he knew he was being teased. He bit back the retort he was about to offer and grinned sheepishly, instead. "Sorry, Chief," Jim said, matching his grin, "I'm just not feeling very hungry today."

"Okay, well, maybe later." He sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the tea and handed the cup to Jim, handle towards him. "Time for your next dose." He'd found a recipe for a tea, made from burdock, slippery elm, sheep sorrel, and Indian rhubarb, that was purported to shrink malignant tumors. The recipe called for it to be drunk four times a day.

Jim had taken the cup and was blowing across the top, trying to cool it. He wrinkled his nose. "Did you put some sugar in this?" he asked.

"No," Blair said sharply, "sugar is, like, pure food for tumors." Jim glared at him and he relented a little. "I did put a little organic honey in."

"It smells awful," Jim muttered, but he took a sip.

Blair watched him, wondering, as he often did nowadays, if it were the senses that were to blame; if the same genetic legacy that had endowed Jim with his supernatural abilities had also set a time bomb ticking inside his head; if the traumas that had activated his senses had also set in motion an inevitable chain of events that had led to this outcome. Frowning, he shook his head sharply. Negative thoughts wouldn't get him anywhere. No negative thoughts.

Jim had finished the tea and was handing the cup back to him. "Did you do your visualization exercise today?" he asked Jim.

"Yes, Mom," Jim said mildly.

Blair sighed in exasperation. "Jim, you have to believe in it. It's not going to work if you don't believe."

"Look, babe, I'm sorry," Jim said, spreading his hands wide, "I'll go through the steps, I'll eat and drink whatever you want, I'll do whatever you ask me to, but I just can't make myself believe that visualizing my spirit animal destroying the tumor in my head is going to help." Blair sat very still, focusing on a point on the bedspread, concentrating on pushing away the feeling of anxiety that rose from his insides. Jim sighed. "I believe that you believe it, okay? And I have faith in you, Chief. Isn't that enough?" Blair still didn't reply, his jaw clenched shut so tight it hurt. Tears prickled at the back of his eyes. He clamped his fingers tightly around the teacup.

Gentle fingers touched his cheek. "Hey." He looked up; Jim was gazing at him, concern in his eyes. "You okay?"

Blair drew on reserves he hadn't known he had and with a mighty effort clamped a lid on his emotions. "Yeah, fine," he said, unable to meet Jim's eyes, his own voice sounding tinny--but steady--in his ears. He got up from the bed quickly and hurried to the kitchen to put the teacup in the sink.

Once there, he gripped the counter hard with both hands and took several deep breaths. He couldn't let Jim see how he'd nearly lost it. Then he'd want him to go to one of the support groups for families at the hospital. Not that support groups weren't good; they were, absolutely. Jim went to one, himself; Blair drove him down to the hospital once a week, then hung out in a nearby bookstore and read until it was over and they could go back home. No, good stuff, totally. He just didn't have time for that now. And, honestly, as helpful as they were, support groups sometimes tended to focus a lot on negatives. And he really couldn't afford that.

Because things had been going good, really good. It had been four months since Jim was diagnosed, and he was still here. Sure, he slept a lot, and he didn't have the energy he used to have, and he'd lost some weight, but all in all, it was beginning to look like maybe they were beating the odds. Blair allowed himself a small, momentary victory smile.

Yeah, that was the trick. Focus on the positives, not the negatives. Feeling better and more in control of himself, he rinsed the teacup out and put it in the dishwasher. He did the dishes from lunch, loading the dishwasher and starting it. Then he opened the freezer, thinking about dinner, and pulled out a couple of salmon steaks. Something simple and light, that wouldn't put too much stress on Jim's digestive system, seeing as it'd mainly been dealing with chicken broth these last few days.

He stuck his head in to see if Jim needed anything. Jim was looking out the window at the woods beyond, his book lying open on his chest.

"Hey," he said. Jim turned and looked at him. "Need anything?"

"No, I'm good--" then, as Blair started to turn away, he said, "Actually, Chief, would you...would you read to me for a little while?"

Blair came in and sat on the edge of the bed, cocking an eyebrow at Jim. "Read to you?" he said, surprised. "Why, is your vision giving you trouble?"

Jim rolled his eyes in exasperation. "No, Sandburg, my vision is fine. I just...." He met Blair's gaze, a tender, slightly sheepish smile curving his mouth. "I just like to hear your voice."

Blair grinned, delighted. He was reminded, with startling clarity, of that night when he'd read Shakespeare out loud to Jim, trying to push him into opening up about his feelings for him. "On one condition," he replied.

Jim raised an eyebrow warily. "What's that?"

"You try to eat some dinner tonight."

"What's for dinner?" Jim asked, the eyebrow still raised.

"Salmon."

A look of relief crossed Jim's face. "Oh, well, sure, then. I thought you were going to try to get me to eat more of that cabbage casserole."

Blair glowered at him. "Prick. That stuff is good."

"In your dreams, maybe," Jim retorted, grinning. He patted the bed next to him. "C'mon up here," he said.

Blair climbed onto the bed and settled next to Jim, leaning back against his hard, warm chest, settling the bedspread over their legs. Jim's arm slid around his waist. Blair tilted his head up and back and Jim gave him a thorough, searching kiss.

"Mmmm," Blair murmured throatily, "you'd better play nice or there's not going to be much reading going on.

He felt Jim's chuckle vibrate against his back. "Easy, there, Tiger," he said. "Remember I'm old, and infirm."

Blair snorted. "My ass. Okay, where's the book?" Jim handed him the book that had been lying open on his chest, and Blair flipped it closed for a moment to read the cover. "The Dharma Bums, huh?"

"Did you know Kerouac worked one summer as a fire lookout in the Cascade Mountains?"

"Huh, I didn't know that," Blair said, pensively. "Where're you at?" Jim pointed out where he'd stopped reading and Blair, clearing his throat, continued on aloud:

"We went on, and I was immensely pleased with the way the trail had a kind of immortal look to it, in the early afternoon now, the way the side of the grassy hill seemed to be clouded with ancient gold dust and the bugs flipped over rocks and the wind sighed in shimmering dances over the hot rocks, and the way the trail would suddenly come into a cool shady part with big trees overhead, and here the light deeper...."

He read steadily for about an hour or so, and then he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes and the sun was low in the sky, the light in the room shadowed and dim. "Oh, man, I'm sorry," he said, yawning and stretching, letting the book fall to his side, "I must have nodded off. I'll go get dinner started."

Jim didn't reply.

He considered whether he should just let Jim sleep; more likely than not he needed it, but he'd been sleeping most of the day, and if he slept any longer he probably wouldn't be able to sleep through the night, so he decided it'd be better to wake him up. He turned, shifting onto his knees, and put a hand on Jim's shoulder.

Immediately he knew something was wrong. Jim didn't move, and his body felt cool and lax under Blair's hand. He gripped Jim's shoulder, shook it lightly. "Jim," he said, "hey, Jim, wake up."

Jim still didn't move. His face was placid and relaxed, smoothed of lines and worry, a slight smile curving his mouth.

Blair took his hand. It was slack and cool; the fingers lay motionless and heavy against his palm.

There was an awful, hollow feeling rising in his stomach, and his heart felt like it was being clamped in a vise. Freeing his hand, he reached forward, shaking slightly, and pressed it to Jim's chest, searching for the familiar thump of his heartbeat.

Nothing. No sound, no movement.

No.

"No," he said aloud, "no, not yet, I'm not ready." But only silence answered him. Silence filled his ears with its toneless hum; slowly expanded to fill the room, crushing him under its weight.

A wave of cold traveled up his spine; his muscles trembling in its wake. He felt a sensation on his chin, realized that he was crying, tears rolling down his face unnoticed. With bare presence of mind, he bent and stretched out at Jim's side, anchoring himself to the cold, still body.

The first sob tore through him like a convulsion. Pain, worse than being hit, worse than being shot, worse even than dying--and he'd never thought there'd be anything that felt worse than that--rippled through him in long, slow swells, each one stronger than the last, until with the part of his mind that wasn't dissolving in grief he was hoping, praying, that the next swell would be the one to do him in, wipe him out, toss him into some limbo of unconsciousness...or maybe the one after that...and then maybe the one after that...

But none of them were, and none of them did, and eventually the swells subsided, giving way to tears the way the rhythm and fury of the thunderstorm gives way to the driving, mindless rain. He didn't know how long he lay there; it was full dark when he raised his head. He'd cried until there was nothing more inside him, until he was completely empty, emptied of grief and pain and longing, but empty of joy and hope and pleasure as well, and all that was left of him was a hollow husk, a cracked shell, worn and bleached and useless. Moving slowly, feeling as brittle and as fragile as old parchment, he let go of Jim, pushed himself off the bed, and went down the hall and into the study to start making calls.

Blair tipped his head up, resting it against the back of the bench, and let the weak winter sun shine on his face, drying his cheeks, wet with tears. Andrea was burrowed into his side, her arms wrapped around his waist. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, hugged her gently. "Hey, kiddo, it's okay," he said.

She pulled her face out of his coat to look at him, her eyes red and watery. "I'm sorry I made you sad," she said, her voice hoarse.

"It's okay," he said gently, "you didn't make me sad. I just haven't thought about that night in a really long time."

She sat back against the bench, sniffling, still pressed against his side in the sheltering curve of his arm, and drew her sleeve across her nose. He waited for a while, until she seemed to have regained her composure, then squeezed her shoulder gently. "You okay?" he asked.

She nodded.

"You want to hear the rest of the story?"

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "There's more?"

He chuckled deprecatingly. "Oh, yeah. I still had a lesson or two to learn..."

Blair woke, blinking in the cool gray light of dawn. Yawning, he stretched and then burrowed deeper into the warm blankets, closing his eyes. He heard someone moving in the kitchen, water running, beans being ground; he smiled, knowing that Jim would come and wake him once the coffee was ready. But then the person started singing softly, in a light, accented, feminine voice, and the reality that Jim was dead came surging back to him.

He curled up, hugging his knees to his chest, the grief piercing him like a spear. He struggled for breath, his lungs feeling like they were wrapped in tight bands of iron. Gasping, he tried to relax and breathe, knowing from experience that, given time, the pain would eventually diminish; not go away, but at least lessen. After all, he'd been through this every morning since Jim had died.

He wasn't sure how he'd managed to make it through the past two weeks. Much of the credit for that had to go to Megan, who had caught the next flight from Australia as soon as he had called her. She, and Stephen, had helped him make arrangements, notify people about the service, and get through the required paperwork.

He didn't remember much of the service, actually. He thought he had spoken; he couldn't remember what he'd said. There'd been lots of hugs, and condolences, and people crying. He hadn't. He hadn't shed a tear since that first, terrible night. He didn't think he had any left.

The one part he could remember with sharp, painful clarity was standing in the cemetery watching them lower Jim's coffin into his grave. In a burst of insight, he'd known that the expression on his face was exactly the same as he had seen on Kapali's in that cave in Peru so long ago, and he'd understood, then, the kind of grief that could lead someone to find death preferable to life. He'd felt an overwhelming urge to follow, to plunge into the grave and be covered up with Jim, to do whatever was necessary to stay with him. It was only Megan's hands on his shoulders that had prevented him from doing it. The first hollow thump of dirt on the coffin lid had been like a blow; he'd shuddered, and Megan's hands had tightened comfortingly around him. But he still hadn't cried.

Since then he'd moved through his life like a ghost, aimlessly, disconnected from everything and everyone around him. The best part of him had died that night, and now he was just waiting for the rest to catch up.

"Sandy?" He heard Megan rap softly on the bedroom door. "You up?"

"Yeah."

"Coffee's ready. And the cab will be here soon."

"Okay." He dragged himself out of bed, pulled his robe on, and made his way slowly into the kitchen. Megan handed him a cup of coffee and he sat at the table, letting it warm his hands. She sank down into the seat across from him.

"You want some cereal, mate? Or some toast?"

He shook his head, sipping the coffee. "Not right now, Megan, thanks."

"There's still a lot of leftovers in the fridge, and I put some stuff up in the freezer for you." She leaned across the table and put a hand on his arm, the expression on her face solemn and concerned. "I want you to promise me you're going to eat something today."

He nodded.

She sighed heavily. "I don't like leaving you like this. I wish I could stay longer, but Ramona's getting married in a few months, and she needs my help, and Peter's got a lot of stress at work--"

"It's okay, Megan; I'll be okay," he said, knowing it was a lie.

A short honk sounded from outside; the cab had arrived. He helped her carry her bags to the door and watched as the cabbie loaded them into the trunk. Then she came back inside and gave him a warm hug. "I'm going to call you every day, right? I want you to get up and do something, every day, so we've got something to talk about on the phone."

He nodded.

"It'll get better, Blair, I promise," she said softly. He couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he didn't. She kissed him on the cheek and got into the cab. As the cab went off down the driveway, she waved at him and he raised his hand in return.

He closed the door and headed into the kitchen. He made some toast, picked at it, then decided he'd try and eat later. He wandered aimlessly around the cabin, looking at things; tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. The same thing happened when he tried to watch TV. Eventually he found himself back in the bedroom and he decided he'd made a good faith effort to do something and now he'd just go back to sleep for a while. At least when he slept he didn't have to put up with this constant, dull ache. And, like this morning, when he woke up there'd be those few seconds when everything would be okay. Jim wouldn't be dead, he would be happy, his life would be normal again. What followed was hard; but not so hard, yet, that he was willing to give up those precious moments in a place where his life hadn't been irrevocably shattered.

He crawled back under the covers; the next time he opened his eyes the sun was setting. He considered getting up and making some dinner; he'd promised Megan, after all, but it just didn't seem worth it. He'd try to start with a clean slate tomorrow.

But when dawn came he just burrowed under the covers again. Later, he heard the phone ringing and thought he probably should answer it, but it was just too much of an effort. He'd get up in a little while and move the phone in here, but not right now. It was raining, and the slap of the water on the glass reminded him of tears, and he hunched in on himself, anguished, drawing the blankets around himself and trying to push his thoughts away as he descended back into sleep.

He wasn't entirely surprised to find himself in the blue jungle; after all, most of the major events in his life had involved a trip here at some point. What he was surprised to see, what robbed the breath from his lungs and brought tears to his eyes, was Jim standing at the other end of the small clearing.

"Chief," Jim said, softly, with an apprehensive look.

His heart was pounding and he took a shaky breath. Oh, God, it's so good to see you, he wanted to say, I miss you so much, but when he opened his mouth something entirely different came out. "You fucking son-of-a-bitch," he rasped, "you didn't even give me a chance to say goodbye."

Jim hunched his shoulders, his expression miserable. "I know...I'm sorry, I just...I just thought it would be easier...."

"Easier for you or easier for me?"

"For both of us," Jim said, sadly. "I just thought...you know, like taking a bandage off; if it was quick, well, it'd still be painful, but that'd be better than something long and lingering...." He looked at Blair, his eyes deep with sorrow. "I just didn't want you to have to go through that."

Blair chuckled, a wet, heavy sound that had more in common with a sob. "My Blessed Protector to the end, huh?"

Jim smiled faintly. "Something like that." He took a deep breath, his expression becoming more serious. "Plus, I wasn't sure that I could handle it. Watching you, I mean. Dying, now, that's relatively easy."

Blair blinked. "I was supposed to help you," he whispered, a fresh wave of sadness, now mixed with guilt, washing over him. "I'm a shaman, that's what I'm supposed to do."

"You did, babe, you did," Jim replied, an earnest look on his face. "That was why I wanted you to read to me. Your voice--it's always been a touchstone for me, an anchor. I just listened to your voice as you read, and it was like floating out on a river or something...." He trailed off. "Look, promise me--"

"Nuh-uh," Blair interrupted him. "I'm not promising anything. You left. You snuck out when my back was turned. You don't get to make any demands."

"Blair, I--"

He knew he was being unfair, but he couldn't help himself, the anger and sorrow boiling inside him. "No. I'm not. I'm not getting back to my life, I'm not moving on, I'm not thinking positive thoughts, I'm not looking ahead to tomorrow. Or whatever you were going to say. I'm not. I'm just not."

Jim ran his hand through his hair. "Look, I said I was sorry; what more do you want from me?"

"I want you to come back. I came back for you."

Jim sighed, shaking his head, his eyes mournful. "Blair, I can't. It won't work that way this time."

"Then make it up to me," Blair said suddenly, the idea striking him even as he spoke, "take me with you."

Jim didn't look surprised at his request, just unutterably sad. "Blair, don't."

"I can't do this, Jim. You thought I had the strength, but you were wrong. This is...I'm not...." He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. "I can't do it, I'm sorry."

"Blair, I can't."

"Jim," the tears were rolling down his cheeks now, "please don't leave me. Let me come with you."

"Blair--" Jim raked his hand down his face, looking unsure, and Blair, sensing he was on the verge of giving in, pressed his advantage.

"Please, Jim." He put his hand out. "I'm begging you. Take me with you."

Jim exhaled heavily. His eyes met Blair's, love and regret mixed in their depths. The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. "I could never say no to you," he said softly. He reached his hand towards Blair's.

The moment their hands met, there was a flash of light and a percussive sound like an explosion. Blair was thrown backwards; he flew through the air and landed hard, the wind knocked out of him. Gasping for breath, he struggled up on his elbows to see Incacha standing where Jim had been a moment before, his features stern and impassive. "That is not allowed, Qhusi," he said, sharply.

"Why not?" Sudden anger washed through him. He got to his feet and crossed the clearing to stand eye-to-eye with Incacha, fists clenched. Damn it, he'd been so close! "Why can't I go with Jim if I want?"

"It is not allowed."

"Says who?" In previous spirit walks and teachings, he'd always trusted the Chopec shaman completely, questioning him only to gain understanding. But now he felt rebellion rise up inside him, fueled by his anger. "It's my life, I can do with it what I want."

"You have been given a gift. And you must pass it on, in turn, to another."

"Are you talking about the way of the shaman?" Incacha nodded slowly. "Fine, no problem. If that's all I have to do, bring it on. I'll pass it on to someone right here and now."

"The one who will receive the gift from you is not yet ready."

"And what if I don't want to wait?" Blair snapped.

Incacha's eyes blazed with fury. "What you want is of no consequence! Do you think I wanted to risk my life, the lives of my companions, on a long and perilous journey? Do you think I wanted to die in a strange and unfamiliar place; thousands of miles from my home, my people, my loved ones?" Blair stared at him, shocked. He'd never seen Incacha get angry before. "No, I did not want these things. But it did not matter. I had to find you, and so I had to do these things. When I accepted the way of the shaman, I set my feet on that path, and I had to follow it to its end, no matter how hard it was. You must do the same."

The anger drained out of Blair, replaced by the wrenching sorrow that had been his constant companion for the past two weeks. "Incacha," he started. His voice broke, tears spilling down his cheeks again. "I just don't think I can do it. I don't think I can survive without him."

Incacha's expression softened, and he put his hands on Blair's shoulders. "You can, little one. It will be hard, but you can do it. You are stronger than you know." The gentle regard and the quiet confidence in Incacha's voice were soothing. A rhythmic thumping started up in the jungle behind them, reminding Blair of tribal drums.

"Blair!"

It wasn't continuous, though, like drumming usually would be. It went in bursts: pounding, then silence, then pounding again, then silence.

"Blair, open the goddamned door!"

Blair's eyes snapped open. The blue jungle was gone, and he was lying in bed. It was dark outside. And someone was pounding ferociously on his front door.

"I'm counting to three and then I'm coming in!"

I'm coming, he tried to say, but his throat was dry and it came out as more of a croak. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and then had to brace himself against a wave of dizziness.

"One!"

He fumbled for his robe and pulled it on, then made his way slowly down the hallway towards the front door. His muscles were stiff and aching. Maybe I'm coming down with something, he thought.

"Two!"

He reached the door and, with hands that were slightly shaking, undid the bolt and opened it. Daryl Banks stood on the front step. "Hey, Daryl," he rasped, his voice like gravel. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What's up?"

Daryl pushed past him and into the house, then turned and grabbed his shoulders tightly. "Did you take something?" He stared into Blair's eyes intently.

"Take something?" Blair asked, bewildered.

Daryl exhaled and let him go, rubbing his hand slowly down his face. "Megan's been trying to call you--she started as soon as she got back to Australia, but when she couldn't reach you, she called me, in a panic."

He frowned. "But Megan just left this morning. How'd she get back so fast?"

Daryl raised an eyebrow at him. "Blair, man, that was two days ago."

Two days? Blair grabbed the door for support as a wave of light-headedness moved through him. Then Daryl had a hand under his arm and was guiding him into the kitchen, making him sit down, putting the kettle on for tea. He dimly remembered, now, the sense of time passing as he lay in bed; waking and thinking that he needed to get up, but not having the energy or the will.

Daryl put a mug in front of him and he automatically picked it up, took a sip. His nose wrinkled in disgust. "Dude, how much sugar did you put in this?" he asked.

"A lot. You need it; you look like you're about to go into shock. What have you been doing for the past two days?"

"Nothing," Blair answered, truthfully. "Sleeping, mostly." He grimaced as he forced himself to drink more of the sugary tea. He had to admit, though, that it did make him feel better; less shaky and light-headed, more able to concentrate. Daryl pulled a chair out from the table, sat down next to him, his own mug in his hands.

Now that his brain was working better, he remembered what Daryl had said when he'd come in. "You asked me if I'd taken something...did you think?...." He trailed off; met Daryl's gaze, full of compassion and concern. "Oh, no way, man, I'd never...."

But wasn't that what you were going to do? he thought. I mean, sure, maybe not actively...but you asked Jim to take you with him...what did you think that meant? And how would that have made Megan feel; for you to die right after she left? Or Daryl? He'd have probably been the one who found your body... He felt a sudden pang as he realized how hard that would have been for his friend.

I've been selfish, he realized. I've been acting like I'm the only one affected by Jim's death, like I'm the only one who feels sad. He took a deep breath, feeling acceptance settle into his heart. Incacha was right. Fate, destiny, karma, whatever I call it; it's not my time yet. I have a duty, a responsibility, and I can't deny that. As hard as it might be to stay here, I have to do just that. I owe it to Jim, and to Incacha, and to my friends.

"And a time for every purpose under heaven," he murmured softly to himself.

"What?"

He looked up to find Daryl still watching him apprehensively. "Nothing, nothing. Just a dream I had." He smiled faintly. "Man, Lorraine must be really pissed at me for making you come out here so late."

Daryl gave him a rueful grin. "Naw, she's gotten used to me getting phone calls and then racing off in the middle of the night, now that I'm in Homicide." His grin faded and he met Blair's eyes. "And she's worried about you; we both are." He reached out and gripped Blair's shoulder gently. "If there's anything we can do--"

"Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

Daryl let go of him; looked at his watch, sighed. "I'd better be going. If you're okay?"

Blair nodded firmly. "Yeah. I'm okay. I'm good, really." He collected their mugs and put them in the sink with the other dishes, then walked Daryl to the door. "Thanks for coming by, man. I'll call Megan tomorrow, I promise."

"Okay." He paused at the door, then turned and gave Blair a quick, hard hug. "I miss him, too," he whispered. "You ever need to talk, you call me, you hear?"

Blair blinked, his throat suddenly tight, a pang stabbing through him. "Right. Thanks, man," he said hoarsely.

He watched Daryl drive off, pushed the door closed and locked it. The sorrow was still there, aching and deep, but it felt manageable somehow; like he could feel its edges; knew now that it wasn't infinite, wasn't forever. He took a deep breath. C'mon, Sandburg, he told himself, the journey of a thousand miles starts with one step. Let's go do the dishes.

"Things got better after that," Blair said, "not immediately, and not without some setbacks--I still had bad days, lots of them, at first--but eventually I could think and talk about Jim without losing it. But it took a while."

Andrea looked up at him curiously. "So, how did you end up coming here?"

Blair smiled. "One day, after I'd caught myself for what seemed like the millionth time turning to tell Jim something, or thinking that I wanted to tell Jim something later on, I just decided that I was going to start telling him stuff. So I came up here and started talking."

Andrea huffed slightly. "It was that easy, huh?"

"Well, at first it seemed so. After a while I realized that there were still some things that I was pretty angry about, and we had a few knock-down drag-outs." He grinned mischievously. "Actually, it was pretty nice to have a fight with Jim without him being able to say anything in return." He looked down at her. "But eventually I got all that out of my system and was able to go back to just talking to him normally."

She didn't say anything, picking at her fingernails intently.

"The thing is, kiddo," he said gently, "anger is a perfectly normal reaction to have when someone we love dies. But if you bottle it all up inside yourself, pretty soon, anger is all you have. And then it starts to get hard to remember the things you loved, or that made you laugh, or even the things that made you sad. Then anger goes from being something you feel to something you rely on; something you do because it's a habit, or because it feels better than being sad."

She glanced up at him sharply. "Like you hung onto finding a cure?"

"Yes, exactly," he said firmly, his gaze not leaving hers. "If I could go back and do it differently, I would...I'd spend a lot less time looking for treatments and a lot more time just being with Jim. But that was my crutch." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Is anger yours?"

She turned away and didn't answer, looking off to her right, her legs swinging rhythmically.

He sighed and gave her a gentle squeeze with the arm he still had around her shoulders. "Just think about it, huh? That's all I'm saying."

She nodded sharply.

He released her shoulders and stood, stretching; stiff from sitting so long. "It's getting late, and I think we've talked enough for today, huh? Why don't you let me drive you home?"

"Okay," she said, brightening. "What kind of car do you have?"

"Oh, it's a classic; a 2015 Volvo," he said, laughing at the look of horror she gave him as they headed down the hill.

Blair stood in line at the coffee shop, mentally running through the list of errands he had to run before going to meet Andrea this afternoon. He smiled to himself. The kid was stubborn; maybe even more stubborn than he was. Despite his telling her, several weeks ago, about Jim's death and the circumstances surrounding it, she still hadn't seemed ready to make her peace with her father; preferring, instead, to sit and talk with him. He wasn't going to press her again, though. Tenacity was a virtue, but so was respect. And it wasn't like he hadn't had to take time, on occasion, to fully absorb something before acting on it. He wasn't sure what was stopping her, but he knew that she'd do it when she was good and ready, and not a moment before.

The man in front of him moved away and he was at the counter. "Oh, hi, Mr. Sandburg," chirped the young woman there. "The usual?"

He smiled at her. "Whitney, how many times have I told you, it's Blair, not Mr. Sandburg." She blushed prettily, and he continued, "No, I think today I'm going to have the 20-ounce. I need the caffeine, I think." He'd hardly slept at all last night. And usually he could read or watch a movie or even just sit in a chair and think if he couldn't sleep, but last night he'd been restless; unable to settle to anything. He'd spent the better part of two hours just roaming aimlessly around the cabin.

Whitney called the order out to the barista and turned back to him. "Six dollars and thirty cents, please," she said. He reached to his back pocket for his wallet, but, oddly enough, his arm wouldn't obey him. It remained stiffly at his side, shaking slightly. He frowned at it, raised his head to try and say something to Whitney, but now his head wouldn't obey him, either. In fact, his entire right side seemed frozen; it was twitching slightly, but he couldn't move anything on that side at all. He felt tremors, like small tingles of electricity, running down his right arm and leg.

"Mr. Sandburg, are you okay?" he heard Whitney say. He felt a momentary irritation that she was still calling him Mr. Sandburg, but it vanished as he realized that he couldn't speak; couldn't even open his mouth.

"Oh, my God!" he heard her cry, "I think something's wrong with him!"

He realized that he was being lowered to the floor, and he tried again to say something. He heard someone call for an ambulance, and he tried to tell them that he was okay, but he couldn't make his mouth work right. He felt completely normal, he just couldn't move or communicate that to anyone. But he wasn't frightened or anything. Whitney was hovering above him, her eyes wide and scared, and he wanted to reassure her, but he couldn't move a muscle.

The face of a middle-aged Black man swam into his view, smiling reassuringly. "Hi there, Mr...." The guy looked over at Whitney. "What did you say his name was again?" he hissed quietly.

"Uh...Blair...Blair Sandburg," she replied. He tried to catch her eyes, give her an encouraging look, but she wasn't watching him; she was looking out the front window of the shop.

"Uh...hi, Blair," the Black guy said, and Blair glanced at him. "Can you smile for me?" the guy asked, and he rolled his eyes, because if he'd been able to smile, he'd have smiled at Whitney. "Okay, how about raise one or both of your arms?" Blair rolled his eyes again, although he wasn't even sure that small motion was actually happening.

"The paramedics are here," Whitney whispered to the guy, and Blair heard footsteps pounding on the ground towards them.

Then time seemed to jump ahead, and he was in the ambulance. The paramedic at his side was sliding an IV into his left arm. He realized that the stiffness he'd felt before was gone; he could move now, but he didn't really have any coordination. The whole right side of his body felt numb and he couldn't control his movements. He tried to move something, to get the paramedic's attention, and it must have worked, because she was leaning over him, saying, "Just relax, Mr. Sandburg, we're headed to the hospital. Everything's going to be fine."

Then time passed by him again, or something, because the next thing he knew, he was being wheeled into the ER, strapped tightly onto one of the gurneys. There was an oxygen mask over the lower half of his face, and the IV was still in his arm. The people around him were shouting things, but it sounded like gibberish to him. He frowned, wishing someone would tell him what the hell was going on.

He was wheeled into a room and then surrounded by a number of people in surgical gowns, pulling gloves on. They were all still talking in a strange language. Blair knew that it had been a while since he'd been to the hospital, but he'd thought he remembered the lingo well enough to at least follow along marginally. But this was like Greek.

The people started to do things to his body; he felt something slide over his left finger, and heard a machine beeping erratically off to his right. He could see one of the nurses injecting something into his IV line. Throughout all the babble continued; although he still couldn't understand what they were saying, it seemed to him that the voices were getting higher and shriller, as if the people were panicking. He tried to catch someone's eyes, to let them know that he didn't understand what was going on, but to no avail. Everyone around him appeared to be busy with something else. The machine to his left was beeping more slowly and erratically now; it almost seemed like the faster the people moved, the slower and more random the machine sounded.

Suddenly, he was standing across the room, watching the doctors and nurses frantically working over him. But it was as if he was watching a program on TV with the volume turned down. He concentrated for a moment, and the voices came into focus and became louder. He was pleased to hear that they were speaking English again.

"...stroking out! Get the crash cart!"

"...okay...charging...CLEAR!"

There was a burst of bright, white light, and a sudden spasm of pain so brief and intense that he thought he might have imagined it. He blinked. He was lying on a bed in the middle of a hospital room. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked around. The room was dim and shadowed; the only source of light seemed to be from behind blinds that had been pulled over the window. There were no doctors, no nurses, no machines, no IVs; just him, lying on the bed.

What the hell happened? he thought, confused. Where is everybody? The room was completely quiet, which was totally weird. Usually, in a hospital, there were a myriad of small sounds at all hours of the day and night: nurses and doctors moving around, machines, patients shifting in their beds, the phone ringing, the hiss of heating pipes. But he couldn't hear anything.

He looked down at himself. He didn't have the same clothes on that he'd come in with. He'd been wearing a dark blue sweater this morning, khakis, and hiking boots; now he was dressed in jeans, a cream-colored Henley, and a red checked flannel shirt. And his feet were bare, he realized, wiggling them slightly. Aw, man, he thought, these guys lost my socks! My favorite wool socks.

Why wasn't he wearing a hospital gown? And how come there weren't any machines monitoring his vitals or anything like that? If he was this well off, then he couldn't see any reason why he couldn't go home. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, wincing slightly as his bare feet made contact with the cold linoleum floor. He was going to go get some answers.

As he headed for the door, he passed the full-length mirror that appeared to be the room's only furnishing, other than the bed. He glanced at his reflection, out of habit, then froze.

He was...well, at least his reflection was...young again. He moved closer, examining his features. No gray in his hair at all, his face was unlined...he glanced at the rest of his body. He looked about twenty-seven, twenty-eight years old. He raised a hand to his face, touched it; the reflection did the same. His face felt like it looked, the skin smooth and taut, the faint bristle of his five o'clock shadow scraping his palm. He pulled a strand of hair in front of his eyes; pulled another, and then another. No gray that he could see. What the hell was going on?

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement in the glass; obscure, vague movement from behind him in the room. He spun, his heart pounding, a spike of fear lodging under his breastbone.

Someone cleared their throat. A long, shadowy form unfolded itself from a chair next to the bed.

"Chief," the shadow said.

His heart swelled with sudden, fierce hope. He knew that voice. Even though it had been fifteen years, he knew that voice. He'd have known that voice even if he'd been deaf. He'd have heard it, known it, in his bones, in his soul.

"Jim?" he whispered hoarsely.

The figure stepped forward into the light, and Blair's breath caught in his throat. It was Jim, looking almost exactly as he had the day that Blair had talked his way into his hospital room. He swallowed apprehensively. Was this a hallucination, some kind of dream?

Jim chuckled. "Surprised to see me, huh?" he said.

Without any conscious effort on his part, Blair crossed the room, coming to a stop directly in front of Jim; reached out and put his palm gingerly on Jim's chest. It was solid and warm, and he could feel the faint thump of his heart under the fabric of his shirt. "Oh, my God," he whispered, "you're real."

Jim smiled a wide smile that filled his eyes as well as his mouth. "As real as it gets."

Blair wasn't sure who'd moved first, but they came together, Jim enfolding him in a close embrace. His arms were around Jim, his head against Jim's shoulder, dazed by the feel of the strong, familiar body against his, the regular rise and fall of his chest. Jim held him tightly, one hand tenderly cradling the back of his head. He buried his face in Blair's hair, took a deep breath. "Christ, it's good to see you, babe," Jim murmured, "I've missed you so much."

Blair pulled back slightly, just enough to let him look up at Jim's face. "How?" he gasped, drinking in the sight of him; whole, vital, real, alive.

"You know, for a genius, you're a little slow on the uptake," Jim teased gently, but when Blair just looked at him, uncomprehending, his smile faded a little. He cupped Blair's face in his palm. "You're dead, Chief," he said softly.

Blair blinked, surprised. "So...so this is the afterlife?"

"Well, not this," Jim replied, "this is a...kind of a way station, a...a waiting room, so to speak." He motioned to the light filtering in through the blinds over the window. "That's the afterlife, out there."

Blair turned and looked; turned back to Jim, brows furrowed. "But you're...you're alive. Your heart's beating, I can feel it."

Jim gave him a crooked grin. "Well, the afterlife's not all that different from real life." Blair looked at him, puzzled, and Jim sighed. "It's...it's hard to explain..." he started.

And suddenly, Blair didn't care anymore. "It's not important," he interrupted, framing Jim's face with his hands. "All I care about is that you're here, and you're real, and I can touch you."

A devilish smile snuck across Jim's mouth. "Touch all you want."

Emboldened by that, Blair pulled him close and kissed him. He felt a rush of pleasure; the texture of Jim's mouth at once heartbreakingly familiar and excitingly new. It had been so long, too long, and yet a part of him felt like it had been only yesterday; that all the years in between had been just a moment of waiting.

Jim slid an arm around his waist, cupped the back of his head, his fingers tangling in Blair's hair, and kissed him back so deeply and thoroughly that it made his knees wobble and his dick stiffen. Blair pulled away, startled, his hands dropping to Jim's shoulders. "Wait, we can have sex? In the afterlife?"

That drew a laugh from Jim, although he didn't loosen his hold one bit. "What did you think, Sandburg? That we'd be floating around in long white robes with wings and harps and halos?"

"No," Blair replied, slightly stung, "of course not." He snorted, his irritation vanishing, as he contemplated the image of the two of them with wings and halos. "I guess I figured we'd just be...like, balls of energy or something, just pure spirit, no physical form, or something like that."

Jim shook his head. "Like I told you, it's fairly similar to life before death." He lightly traced Blair's mouth with a fingertip; stroked gently across Blair's lower lip. "Sorry to disappoint you," he said, a slight grin on his face.

"Did I say I was disappointed?" Blair murmured. He captured Jim's finger in his mouth, sucking on it gently, a shiver of desire moving through him when he saw Jim's eyes darken, felt the arm around his waist tighten. He luxuriated in the feeling. It had been a long time since his body had felt this good, this responsive, this alive. He released the finger, slid his hands down to Jim's chest, started unbuttoning his shirt.

Jim groaned and picked him up, sat him on the bed, sliding his hands underneath his layers of clothing. Blair shivered at the touch of Jim's hands on his flesh; tracing across his back, his chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake, quickening his desire. He wrapped his legs around Jim's waist, pulling him in close for another long, satisfying kiss.

And then Jim was pushing him backwards onto the bed, fumbling with the buttons of his jeans, tugging them and his underwear off. Blair grabbed the bottom of his Henley and pulled it, along with the flannel shirt, over his head and off. When he emerged from the pile of cotton, Jim was leaning over him. "Blair," he said, his voice hoarse, "do me a favor?"

"Hmmm?" he replied lazily, arousal thrumming through his body.

"Just relax. Just let me make you happy."

He reached up, traced Jim's features; the line of his cheek, his strong jaw, his mouth. "But you already have," he said, smiling, joy like a flame burning inside him.

Jim gave that shy, almost embarrassed half-smile that he loved, and he felt his heart swell. "I know," Jim said. "But I...I need..." and there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, "I need to do this. For you."

"Oh...okay," Blair responded, unsure why it was so important, but willing to do anything Jim needed him to.

Jim put a hand on his hip, a gentle nonverbal command, and Blair wriggled further up on the bed. Jim followed him on his hands and knees, still suspended over him. He bent and kissed Blair, sliding his tongue inside Blair's mouth. Blair groaned with pleasure, caressing Jim's shoulders, his back and sides, glad that the ban on action didn't seem to involve his touching Jim. He wasn't sure he could have stopped even if it was; it felt so good to finally be touching him again after all these years apart.

Jim moved slowly down his chest, nuzzling and licking, biting and kissing, and Blair sighed, tilting his head back, giving himself over to the sensation. By the time Jim had gotten down to his belly button he was aching and hard, his breath coming in short gasps. Jim sat back on his heels, running his hands slowly up Blair's legs, gently stroking his inner thighs, the sensitive skin where his leg met his hip. "So beautiful," Jim murmured, his hot, hungry gaze sweeping over Blair, making him shiver. "Missed you so much, babe."

That forced another shiver and a groan from Blair. He reached down and wound his fingers with Jim's where they were resting on his right hip. Jim smiled, and bent his head. As soon as Jim's mouth closed over him, he knew he wouldn't, couldn't last. It just felt too good, had been too long. Desire coalesced inside him and surged upward. He tightened his hold on Jim's hand and came with an inarticulate cry, his hips bucking.

Dizzy, he lay back and closed his eyes, feeling the lassitude spreading through his body. He felt Jim move away, heard faint rustling sounds. Opening his eyes, he saw Jim, now shirtless, standing at the end of the bed, stripping the rest of his clothes off. Blair couldn't stop watching him, hungry for the sight of Jim's long, muscular body; his graceful, economical movements. Once he was naked, Jim climbed back onto the bed and knelt between Blair's legs again. A finger probed at his opening, slid inside him. Blair sighed, heavy with pleasure. "Jim...oh, please..." he murmured.

Jim smiled, pulling Blair's hand to his mouth and kissing his palm gently, sensuously. He stretched Blair slowly, carefully, sliding two fingers in, then three. Blair felt drugged, limp and pliant; when Jim's finger brushed across his prostate it sent a pleasant thrill humming along all his nerves.

Withdrawing his fingers, Jim positioned himself between Blair's legs, his hands gripping Blair's hips firmly, entering him leisurely, unhurriedly. Blair cried out in delight, desire moving through him in waves, despite his body's depleted condition. When Jim finally slid home; it seemed to Blair that he felt something almost imperceptible click into place, like a lock fitting a key, or two puzzle pieces snapping together.

Jim leaned forward, bracing himself on his arms, looking down at Blair, who felt himself drowning in that summer-hot blue gaze. "Love you, Blair...always," Jim whispered, and Blair gasped to feel the love and need that scorched through him.

"Love you, too, Jim...always," he answered, his heart feeling like it might burst; it was so full. Always together, always joined...in this life or any. Jim started to move, sliding in and out of him, and he moaned, clutching helplessly at Jim's arms. It felt so good, he felt so good; the pleasure mounting until he felt as though there must be ecstasy pouring out of him, bliss leaking from every pore. Jim brushed his prostate once, twice; he stiffened and came with a shudder, hearing Jim's ragged groan as he followed, then collapsed, covering Blair with his body like a blanket.

Blair lay quietly, sated, eyes closed, basking in the so very real weight of Jim's body on his, Jim's warmth enveloping him. One hand idly traced patterns on Jim's back; the other still clutched Jim's biceps. After a while, Jim stirred and shifted, and Blair made a protesting grunt, reluctant to lose the sensation of Jim's body against his so soon. Jim slipped free, but then eased back against him, turning his head so that his lips brushed Blair's neck.

"I was afraid you'd still be angry at me," Jim said quietly, after a few moments.

"Angry?" Blair asked, drowsily. "For what?"

"For leaving you like that. For not taking you with me."

Blair's eyes flew open. "What? Oh, no way, Jim, no way!" He rolled onto his side and scooted down on the bed until he was level with Jim; framed Jim's face in his hands. Jim looked down, his eyes suspiciously bright. "No, no. Not at all. You were right, you were absolutely right. Quick and sudden...it wasn't easy, but it was definitely better in the long run." He gently caressed along Jim's cheekbones with his thumbs. "And not taking me with you, well, that wasn't exactly your call, was it? But it was the right one, anyway." He paused. Now he understood the pain he'd seen in Jim's eyes earlier, his plea to Blair to let him make Blair happy. He sighed to himself. You could always count on the good old Ellison guilt to crash the party.

He slid his hands down to Jim's shoulders, kneading them gently, feeling the tense muscles like steel cables under his hands. "So...you don't get to see what goes on after you leave, huh? No sitting around watching your funeral or anything, no visiting the world of the living to see how folks are doing?"

Jim shook his head. "No, not really. It's...it's hard to explain. It's possible, but difficult. There are conditions...rules, kinda...you'll see when we get there."

"But how can they prevent people from doing it?"

Jim was silent.

"Wait, wait, don't tell me," Blair said, his hands stilling and a huge grin breaking across his face, "you're a cop. In the afterlife."

Jim grinned, rolling his eyes. "Well, it's more complicated than that. But...yeah, sorta."

"And your senses?"

"Still there. They work a little differently, though...." A million questions crowded Blair's brain, and he drew in a quick breath and opened his mouth, "...and I promise, Chief, I'll explain it all in excruciating detail...but not today, okay?"

He closed his mouth and made a face at Jim in mock irritation. "Okay." A thought occurred to him. "But you were here, waiting for me. So that's okay?"

"Yeah. It's one of the conditions; when there are loved ones crossing over."

Blair smiled, warmed by the gesture, then sobered as another thought occurred to him. "Who was here for you? Was it Incacha?"

Jim sighed. "No. And it was a good thing, too. I was pretty worked up - it hadn't been an easy decision to go in the first place, and you were so upset, and then I'd agreed to bring you with me, and I couldn't - well, let's just say I wasn't in a good frame of mind when I got here. I don't think I'd have been able to handle a lecture from Incacha on my duties to the tribe, or some such thing." He smiled at Blair ruefully, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "So, no, it wasn't Incacha. It was my mom. And that's also another story for another day, okay?"

"Okay." Blair said softly. He cupped Jim's face in his palms again. "I wasn't really angry at you, you know. It was just...it was just what I needed to do to process, work through my grief. Sometimes it was easier to be pissed off at you than to feel sad." He stroked Jim's face lovingly. "But I could never stay mad at you for long. We've been through way too much together for that."

Jim wrapped his hands around Blair's wrists, pulled him in so their foreheads were touching. He took a shaky breath, a tremulous smile playing across his lips. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, his voice rough. "I'd have hated to spend eternity with you pissed off at me."

Blair smiled, leaning into the embrace, tilting his head to catch Jim's mouth. "Not a chance, man. Not a chance."

He wasn't sure how long they lay there, twined together, reacquainting themselves slowly with each other's bodies. Eventually Jim sighed and rolled over on his back, and Blair stretched out alongside, his head pillowed on Jim's shoulder. "So, how long we got the room for?" Blair asked, grinning.

Jim chuckled, his arm tightening across Blair's back. "As long as we want."

Still smiling, Blair closed his eyes, his body relaxed but his mind still active, drifting back to what Jim had said - and not said - about the afterlife. A part of him was incredibly excited to be embarking on what was undoubtedly going to be a fantastic new adventure - the ultimate anthropological expedition, really. There was a part of him, though, he now realized, that was grieving for the life he'd left behind, the friends he hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to. He hadn't really noticed, as caught up as he'd been in his reunion with Jim, but now his thoughts turned to those he'd left behind. Simon...Daryl...Megan...Andrea.

Andrea.

He sat bolt upright, the realization of what he hadn't seen going through him like a shock.

Jim looked up at him, concern creasing his face. "Blair, what is it?"

"There's something I have to do."

Jim gave him a look of fond exasperation. "Christ, Sandburg, you've been dead less than two hours and you already have a to-do list?"

He turned back to Jim. "Tell me more about these conditions..."

Andrea frowned at Mrs. Shaker, her principal.

"Did you hear me, hon?" the woman asked, kindly. "Your mom is going to pick you up today. So don't get on the bus after school, okay?"

"Okay," Andrea replied, "but why?" Her mom rarely picked her up from school, even when she had the day off.

Mrs. Shaker slid her eyes to the side. "Oh, I don't know...maybe she wants to take you shopping or do something fun together."

Andrea knew instantly that she was lying. She did know why, and she didn't want to tell her, which must mean that it was something bad. "Can I go back to class now?" she asked.

"Sure, hon," Mrs. Shaker replied.

It worried her all through the rest of the day. She was supposed to be discussing Light in August in English class, but all she could do was stare out the window and chew on her thumbnail. The next period she had free, but she didn't really want to talk to any of her friends or explain why she was anxious, so she holed up in the library and pretended to do her math homework. Her final class of the day was Spanish; she did so poorly at the recitation that Mr. Roper assigned her extra homework.

She trudged outside and sat on the steps, waiting for her mother to arrive. At about five minutes past three, Betty pulled up to the curb and opened the door. Andrea got in, but before her mother could pull the car back into traffic she turned to her and demanded, "What happened?"

"Honey, let's wait--" Betty started.

"Is it Grandma or Grandpa?" she interrupted.

Betty took a deep breath; exhaled heavily. "No. It's not Grandma or Grandpa." She looked at Andrea sadly. "Wouldn't you rather wait--"

"No!" she said forcefully. "I've been waiting since lunch; it's been driving me nuts."

Betty pursed her lips and shook her head. "They weren't supposed to worry you when they told you I'd be coming to get you."

"Mom, honestly," Andrea said, rolling her eyes. "You never pick me up. What was I supposed to think?"

"Okay." Betty shut the car off, took a deep breath, turned to face Andrea. "It's your friend, Mr. Sand - Blair - he...he was brought in to the hospital this morning. He...well, he had a stroke, honey, and he...he didn't make it. He died."

"Oh." Her own voice sounded very far away to her. "You're sure?"

Betty nodded, sympathy plain on her face. "I wasn't there, but I talked to one of the nurses who was." She reached out and stroked Andrea's hair. "She said it happened very fast. She didn't think he'd been in any pain." Andrea didn't say anything; Betty kept stroking her hair. "He was pretty old, honey."

"Yeah," Andrea said, a lump forming in her throat, "I know."

Then her mom was reaching across the car and enfolding her in a tight hug, and she hung on to her mom's coat, blinking away the tears that were gathering behind her eyes. She hated to cry; she'd hated it even before her dad had died, but especially since then. She sniffed, and Betty let go of her, dug in her purse, and handed Andrea a Kleenex. "Let's go home, honey," she said, and Andrea nodded, wiping at her eyes and blowing her nose.

Betty started the car and pulled out into traffic. She drove along, casting concerned side glances at Andrea every now and then. When they passed the street where the bus would have turned for the cemetery, Andrea had a sudden, irrational urge to beg her mom to drive her there, sure that this would all turn out to be a mistake and Blair would be there, sitting in his usual place, his car in the parking lot, wondering where she had been. But she didn't say anything, equally sure that the request would just make Betty more worried about her.

When they got home, Betty put her arm around Andrea's shoulders. "Why don't you come do your homework in the kitchen, while I make dinner?" she said.

Andrea shook her head. "I just want to be alone for a while, okay, Mom?" she said. Betty frowned, her look of concern deepening, and Andrea squeezed her hand where it lay on her shoulder. "I'm okay, Mom, really. I just want...I just want to sit and think for a while." She could feel the tears prickling behind her eyes again.

"Okay, honey." Betty hugged her tightly again, then let her go. "You know where I am if you want to talk."

Andrea nodded, not trusting her voice, and headed upstairs to her room. She closed the door, dumped her backpack by her desk, and sat cross-legged on the bed. She'd told her mom that she wanted to be alone, and she did, but now that she was, she didn't really know what to do. There was a stuffed animal on her bed - a teddy bear she'd had since she was two - and she picked it up; she lay down on the bed, her knees pulled in to her chest, and hugged the bear, closing her eyes and giving in, letting the tears roll down her cheeks.

She opened her eyes to find herself in a green forest. A soft wind was rushing through the trees overhead, and she could smell the clean, strong scent of pine. There was a path leading off to her right. She heard a soft hoot and looked up to see a white barn owl perched in the lower branches of the tree in front of her. As she watched the owl, it launched itself into the air and flew into the forest, roughly following the path. She shrugged. I guess that's as good a direction to go as any, she thought, and headed that way. The sunlight slanted through the tall trees, dappling the path in front of her with pools of light and dark. Looking ahead, she saw that the path led into a clearing, where a man in jeans and a blue flannel shirt was crouched down in front of a firepit, coaxing the flames there into life.

She stepped quietly into the clearing, and the man stood, raising his head to look at her. She had the impression he'd already known she was there. He was tall, with close-cut brown hair and icy blue eyes, his expression stern and forbidding. Then he smiled, and she was amazed to see how it warmed his entire face, changed his entire bearing. "You must be Andrea," he said.

Something clicked in her head, what she saw lining up with a remembered description, and she smiled in return. "And you must be Jim," she replied.

His smile widened. "Hey, Chief," he called out, "I think your visitor's here."

"I'm coming," Blair's muffled voice came from a tent pitched at the other end of the clearing.

Jim put his hand out, and Andrea shook it. "It's nice to meet you," he said, "although I understand we've already been formally introduced once."

"Well," she said, still grinning shyly, "I won't hold it against you if you don't remember it."

He chuckled, but before he could say anything else Blair emerged from the tent and started over towards them.

Andrea stared at him, stunned. She'd always thought he was pretty good looking, for an old guy, but now...whoa. He looked about in his twenties. He was wearing jeans and a white v-necked t-shirt, with a long-sleeved red shirt over it. His hair was as long as before, only it was loose, instead of pulled back in a ponytail as usual. And it was dark, chestnut brown, with gold and red highlights; not a strand of gray in it. She felt suddenly, unaccountably shy, as if Blair were a stranger, someone she didn't know. But then he stopped in front of her, and she saw that he had the same eyes, dark blue and sparkling, and the same bright, wide smile, and she immediately felt at ease again. "Hey, there, kiddo," he said, and his voice was the same, too, warm and soothing.

"You're...you're so young," she said, and immediately felt her cheeks go red at the idiocy of that statement.

He chuckled. "Yeah, guess that's something that happens when you cross over. Keep things in line with your internal view of yourself, or something, I don't know...I haven't gone to the orientation session yet."

She raised an eyebrow. "There's an orientation session?"

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a mysterious smile. "Can't say. Not allowed to reveal the secrets." He glanced over at Jim, who was back by the tent, and she was struck by the open adoration in his gaze.

"So...you're dead, then. Crossed over." She was surprised by the way her throat suddenly closed on the last words.

Blair looked back at her with a mix of sadness and compassion. "Yeah." He reached out and drew her into a warm embrace. "I'm really sorry, kiddo. I would have liked to hang out with you a little longer."

She returned the hug fiercely and then let him go and stepped back, swallowing hard and clearing her throat. "Well, at least you get to be with Jim again. I'm really happy about that."

The smile that broke across his face was incandescent, and, oddly enough, made her feel a little less sad. "Me, too," he said. "But before you go, there's something I need to give you. I'd have given it to you earlier, but I didn't realize I was supposed to."

She stared at him, puzzled, as he pulled his Swiss Army knife out of his jeans pocket. Opening the blade, he made a long, shallow cut across the palm of his left hand. Blood welled up and suddenly, without a sound, Jim was looming behind him, looking like a thundercloud.

Blair glanced up at him. "Chill, man. Everything is fine." He rolled his eyes at Andrea. "It's this Blessed Protector thing he's got going. Hold your arm out." She complied, confused and unsure, and he pushed her sleeve up on her arm, then grasped her arm firmly with the hand he had cut.

She felt the cut on his palm like a brand against her skin, and it seemed to her as if a bolt of electricity passed between them, zooming up her arm, moving throughout her whole body, making her gasp, making the hair on her arms and legs and the back of her neck stand up.

Blair smiled. "I pass the way of the shaman on to you," he said, quietly but intensely, his eyes almost luminous in the soft half-light of the forest. "I pass to you the way of air and fire, water and earth. I pass the way of the spirit world to you, the power to walk in shadow, to help those who journey far from home. I pass to you the way of your animal spirit, the one who will lead you to wisdom."

No sooner had he finished saying this than the white barn owl she had seen earlier swooped into the clearing and perched on a nearby tree branch, hooting loudly. "And speaking of your animal spirit," Blair said, cheerfully, "I think we've just met him."

"I saw him earlier," Andrea said, in a hushed tone. "He guided me here."

"Well, there you go," Blair said, releasing her arm, "you've already had your first lesson as a shaman." He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wrapped it around his hand.

"But...but...I thought you said you were supposed to know who to pass the way of the shaman on to as soon as you saw them...and you had already seen me...so I thought..."

Jim snorted. He was still standing behind Blair like a grim sentry, arms crossed, but Andrea could see the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Running late, as usual, Sandburg?"

"What can I say, man? Remember, Incacha was from a culture that wasn't burdened with modern conceptions of time...you know, there are some theories that, the more we try to measure time, hold on to it, manage it, the more it slips away from us, and we end up chasing--"

"Do I have to find a Sentinel, then?" Andrea interrupted Blair's monologue.

Jim gave Blair a surprised look, and Blair sighed. "Oh, yeah, I told her about the Sentinel thing," he muttered to Jim. He turned back to Andrea. "No, that was my purpose, kiddo. `Each must find their own purpose'; that was what Incacha told me. You've got to find out what to use these skills for, what you're supposed to do as a shaman, on your own." He grinned at her. "I have an idea where you could start, though."

She gave an exasperated huff, because she knew what he was talking about. "Okay." Just then the barn owl took off from his perch, arrowing into the trees right where the path left the clearing. "And I guess that's my signal to take off," she said, smiling ruefully.

Blair gave her another hug. "Take care," he said softly. "You know I'm always here--all of us are here--if you need us."

"Okay," she said. She looked up at Jim. "'Bye, Jim. It was nice to meet you."

He nodded at her gravely, a smile in his eyes. "You, too."

She turned and walked into the forest, grinning as she listened to the conversation continue behind her.

"All right, Chief, let me see that hand."

"It's no big deal, really, man. Just chill. You know, you're a little bit in BP overdrive, here..."

"Did you have to make it so long?"

"It was what it was, buddy."

"Let me get the first aid kit."

Sigh. "You are really being a pain in the ass here, you know that?"

"I'll show you a pain in the ass..."

"Jim! Not until the kid leaves, okay? We don't want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor, now..."

Andrea smothered a giggle as she followed the path. Too cute, those two. She heard a woodpecker hammering on a nearby tree. She glanced around, but couldn't see any sign of her spirit animal.

"Andrea?"

Her name was so clear that she stopped and looked back, thinking that Blair was calling her. But the path had closed in behind her and she couldn't see the clearing anymore. She heard the woodpecker again.

"Andrea!"

She opened her eyes to find herself on her bed, still clutching her teddy bear. Her mother was knocking at her door insistently. "Andrea, are you okay?"

She sat up, heart pounding, and cleared her throat. "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. I was just taking a nap."

"Oh...okay, honey. Sorry to wake you. Dinner's in ten minutes, though."

"Okay." She heard her mom go down the stairs, then sat up, putting the stuffed animal aside, and pushed the sleeve of her shirt up. There, on her arm, right where Blair had grabbed her, was a thin white line, like a scar. She heard the far-off hoot of an owl and smiled.

The bus ground to a halt in front of the cemetery; the doors opened with a whoosh and Andrea swung out, her backpack over her shoulder, a paper bag clutched in one hand. As the bus rattled off, she took a deep breath and smiled at the clean piney scent.

It was one of those rare beautiful days in Cascade, the winter rains having given way to clear skies and balmy, gentle breezes. No doubt the winter weather would return before all was said and done - it was only early February, after all - but for today it was briefly, gloriously, spring. She grinned and took another deep breath.

She headed up the hill, remembering the first time she'd come here, so nervous and tentative. Not like today. She walked unerringly to the bench; set down her backpack and pulled a small bottle of milk out of it. She pushed her backpack under the bench and picked up the milk and the paper bag.

Turning, she walked across the path to face the two graves there, one old and one new. Jim's was the same as always, with its familiar granite headstone, but now she could put a face to that name. The earthen mound next to Jim's didn't have a headstone yet, they hadn't even replaced the turf; it was just a rectangle of bare brown dirt. Andrea smiled.

"I'll come back and talk to you guys in a little bit. There's something I have to do first."

A white barn owl swooped low over her head, hooting. It came to rest on a headstone about five in from the far end of the row. Moving restlessly on the stone, it hooted at her insistently.

"All right, all right," Andrea grumbled, "I'm coming." She walked down the path until she came to the grave where the owl was perched. "I can find it myself, you know; I've been here before." The owl hooted at her and lifted into the air, landing on a tree branch behind her, where it started to groom itself.

She sat cross-legged on the ground in front of the grave. Douglas Phillip McConnell, the headstone read, Born September 18th, 2003. Died May 4th, 2043.

She pulled a cookie out of the bag and ate it slowly, washing it down with milk. When she was done, she put the bag and the bottle to the side and folded her hands in her lap. She took a deep breath. "I miss you, Dad," she said softly, feeling her throat trying to close around the words. Swallowing hard, she continued. "A lot. But Blair says this is going to help, and I trust him, so here goes." She cleared her throat. "So, I've been thinking that I might study Japanese when I go to college, `cause Mr. Roper--he's my Spanish teacher--he says I've got an ear for languages..."

The End

Specific warnings/spoilers: This story takes place in the future, and Jim's already dead. But he's in it a lot, because there are a lot of flashbacks and memories. Things get pretty heavy about two-thirds in - you find out how Jim died - but it all turns out okay, because then Blair dies and is happily reunited with Jim in the afterlife. There's also some shamanic stuff, but I've got to leave you some reason to read, don't I?

End

Every Purpose Under Heaven by PsychGirl: jsnyder@snycock.com
Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.