From Martha: My thanks to Kitty, who tolerated this eight-month distraction in my fannish life and asked annoying questions about every facet of this story every step of the way; to D. who asked unanswerable questions, and for believing in this world so much; to Jean for her enthusiasm and careful beta, because greater love hath no fan; and especially to Lemon Drop. She will probably deny it, but she made the story possible. She solved problems that have haunted me ever since TSbyBS aired and finally allowed me to believe in a happily ever after. Thank you, LD.
***
From Lemon Drop: Special thanks are due to so many people. G., of course, first and foremost and always. R., who read it during a dark time, for which I am deeply grateful. Martha's friends Kitty and D. and Jean: thank you! And darling mab, congratulations! A world of happiness to you. And to my husband, Craig, for reasons too numerous to list. All my love, sweetheart.
And of course, Martha. What can I say. She's a miracle.

Martha's website: http://www.skeeter63.org/soulcake/
Lemon Drop's website: http://www.slashcity.org/~quercus/

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." Anatole France

Distant Journey, Unknown Lands

The man in front was holding the gun, but he didn't look like he really needed it. He filled the doorway with his presence and size, naked to the waist, heavy pectorals pressed together by his upper arms as he clasped the gun in both hands. The photograph was grainy black-and-white captured from videotape, cheaply printed on gray newsprint which did nothing to improve the quality of the picture. All subtlety of expression was lost, so it was impossible to tell what the smaller man, the one with the long, uncombed hair, shielded in the doorway by the muscular bulk of his companion, was really thinking. He might have been terrified, but it was just as likely that he wasn't quite awake yet. Both of them looked as though they had just tumbled out of bed.

"You see, Jim?" Blair muttered to himself in grim triumph. "You see? This is why there is absolutely no point in making a list." He dug through his pockets one last time, then pulled out his wallet and rifled through the contents of the long bill sleeve. Sure enough, his grocery list wasn't there either. All he found were six one-dollar bills and a five, a movie ticket stub, and the receipt from his last ATM deposit. He had to give Rainier credit for that, he reflected glumly, glancing at the balance and tucking it back into his wallet. At least the bursar's office had issued his last stipend check, even if even if they had prorated it from the date of his dismissal.

He turned the ticket stub over, trying to remember the last movie he'd seen. It was a generic red coupon like the revival house down on East Main used, so that meant it must have been The Seven Samurai. Yeah, that's right. He had gone with Jim. Come to think of it, the movie had been Jim's idea in the first place. He'd grumbled that Blair had been working too hard -- spending too much time hunched over in front of his computer. He needed to get out and live a little.

So they had gone to the movie a few nights before Naomi's visit, just before he'd finished the dissertation.

The last night he had seen Jim truly happy.

Blair crumpled the stub up into a little red ball and stuffed it deep into his jeans pocket, but the immediate problem remained. He leaned heavily on the handle of the shopping cart, and moved at a snail's pace down the aisle. Jim had insisted he write out a grocery list if he was going to the store, claiming they hadn't had mayonnaise or plain white sugar -- not that brown grainy stuff that wouldn't dissolve in a cup of coffee -- in the loft in months. Fine, so he'd made a list, but now that he was at the store he couldn't find it, and since he'd written everything down instead of just composing a mental list, he couldn't remember anything on it.

That was the whole problem with written language. It made people lazy, forgetful and careless. Made bureaucracy not only possible, but necessary, along with all its attendant woes. Slavery, taxation, standing armies, concentration camps, fast food, email, and graduate school. When you thought about it, mankind would probably be better off today if nobody had ever painted that first bison on the cave wall.

Blair Sandburg certainly would have been, anyway.

Look, I didn't do this.

Right. You didn't write the book and you didn't put my name all over it.

Blair closed his eyes and lowered his head, his knuckles whitening around the handle of the shopping cart. He couldn't figure out why it still felt like this. Like he had just stepped off a cliff. No, worse than that. He'd actually walked off a cliff before, and as terrified as he had been, Jim had been right there at his side, plummeting beside him. This was a free fall into darkness, and he was all alone.

He stood up straight, opening his eyes fast, blinking against incipient tears. He was not alone. James Ellison was at home waiting for his Miracle Whip and refined white sugar and whatever else had been on that list. And maybe Jim always seemed a little sad and distant these days, but that was only because they had been through so much recently. His leg was hurting him, and he wasn't resting like he should, hobbling around on that cane and daring anyone to say a word to him about it, and as if things weren't bad enough, a few TV people were still hanging on. Even no story was a story, apparently. Or maybe they were just waiting for him or Blair to break and deck a cameraman. It might still happen at that.

So, that damned grocery list. It was a pretty good bet that miso and mango-flavored kefir weren't on it, but he reached out and grabbed a carton of each anyway as he wheeled determinedly past the refrigerated section. Jim was going to be all right. They both were. The next class at the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission started in six weeks, and Blair would be there. His calf muscles ached from his new ten mile a day regimen, and he could already tell the difference in his forearms and shoulders from the sessions at the gym. He had complained to Jim the way he was bulking up he could hardly manage the lotus position anymore, and Jim had smiled. Almost a real smile.

Sour cream. Definitely sour cream had been on the list, or should have been if it wasn't. Hadn't Jim been grumbling about not having any for his baked potato the other night? For Jim, then, sour cream. He picked up a full pint of the real stuff, since the last time he had come home with fat-free it had sat in fridge until it started to grow mold. Tossing it in the cart, he cut a sharp corner around the next aisle and nearly ran into a tall guy carrying a basket with nothing in it but ramen noodles and a box of Frosted Flakes.

"Whoa, excuse me." Blair pulled up short, and his old friend Rick Feldman lifted his head and looked at him.

"Rick," Blair said. "Hey."

Rick had always reminded Blair of a glass of skim milk anyway, pale and tall with white-blond hair and a guileless, sensitive face. He looked even paler under the glare of the florescent supermarket lights, and he was staring at Blair now as though he'd seen a ghost. It was a reaction Blair was getting so used to that his own response was automatic, even though he hated it even more than the way his own colleagues and classmates had been treating him. His bright, false smile, the patter of equally false conversation. He hated it, hated it. Maybe Jim could give him some tips on doing that strong, silent thing. Blair was obviously no good at it.

"So you doing okay?" he heard himself ask Rick. "You were gonna take your comps before summer term, weren't you? Or you did you decide to wait until fall? I say go ahead and get them over with, myself. No use prolonging the inevitable."

Rick's mouth twitched. For a moment Blair thought he wasn't going to be able to answer him at all, but then he said in a voice that was almost normal, "I'm waiting until fall. A lot happened this quarter."

"Yeah, I know, you're right, you've got a point about that. How's Jill? I heard they got Kari Gattis to take over my 101 class. I know it must have been tough, switching instructors mid quarter like that, but Kari's really good."

Rick started to shake his head but did not quite finish the gesture. He looked away over Blair's head and said in the same almost-normal voice, "Jill said the class went fine."

"Well, that's great." Blair felt as though his insides were turning to glass. Brittle and etched, chipped along the edges. "That's just great. I --" God this was stupid. "For pete's sake, Rick, it's just me," he burst out. "It's not like I grew horns and a tail overnight, is it?"

Rick shook his head again, for real this time. "I don't understand you at all," he told Blair, speaking very carefully in clipped, precise tones. He had an awful expression on his face. It was the heartbreaking look of a fundamentally gentle man who's been goaded beyond all endurance.

"Rick," Blair began a little desperately, holding up both hands as though warding off a blow.

"I just don't understand you at all," Rick said again. "You were ready to see me thrown out of school over that paper I wrote for Brad Ventriss."

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You know that's not the way it was."

"And the only reason I did it was to try and help Jill. What excuse did you have?"

"Are you even listening to yourself? Brad was a Grade A psycho. He killed a man, Rick! Do you really think you could have protected Jill by writing term papers for the guy?"

"You know what the crazy thing is?" Rick said softly. "I admired you anyway. Most people, you know, they just do what they have to do to get along. Not you, though. Not you. I thought you were the most --" Rick's voice rose and broke. "The most -- principled man I'd ever met. "

Blair closed his eyes.

"Pretty stupid of me," Rick whispered. "Sorry."

Blair was talking before he even got in the door. "I told you, Jim," he said, his shoulder against the door, one bag of groceries hugged to his chest. "I told you lists never work out for me." He'd set the second bag down on the floor outside, leaning precariously against the jamb. "I couldn't find the list once I got to the store, but I think I got everything anyway."

"You left it on the dining room table," Jim said. He had pulled himself to his feet with the help of his cane and was making his way to the door even though he knew what Blair would say to him about that. His leg had been aching all day, a dull throb deep in his calf muscle, far below the path of Zeller's bullet. Probably just sore from limping around on it. "Need any help?"

"No, I do not need help. Sit down, Jim, or you're never going to get better. It would have been nice if you'd told me."

"Sorry, Chief. I didn't see it until after you'd left this morning."

"Great. That helps a whole lot." Blair half knelt and scooped up the other bag of groceries, kicking the door shut behind himself. "I think I remembered everything anyway. Hope I did." He made his way to the dining room table and put down both bags again and started pulling stuff out. "Got your mayonnaise and sugar and olive oil and broccoli and shaving cream--"

"Toilet paper?"

"God damn it" Blair slammed both hands down on the table. He turned around furiously, as if he were trying to find something to take apart. "This stuff makes me crazy," he raged. "Feels like I'm losing my fucking mind around here." He felt in his back pockets for his keys.

"I think you left them in the door," Jim observed quietly, and Blair shot him a look wild with fury before whirling around and stalking for the door.

"Is there anything else you need while I'm out?" He spit the words out through his clenched teeth. "'Cause it might save a little time if you'd tell me about it now instead of waiting until I get back."

"Put down your weapon, Sandburg. It's not my fault you forgot the grocery list."

Blair gave a snort of anger, but he stopped, and after standing motionless for a moment, he turned around and shrugged. "Yeah, I know." He pushed his hair out of his face with both hands, still breathing hard, obviously trying to let everything go. The pulse throbbed in his throat, and with his hair back, Jim could see the glint of both earrings in his left ear. He'd been wearing his hair down a lot lately, after months of always keeping it tied back. The earrings had been gone too, but they had quietly reappeared after Blair had agreed to go to the academy. It didn't take a psych minor to figure out either one of those particular fashion decisions.

Blair suddenly seemed to realize Jim was watching him, and he dropped his hands. "Long day, I guess. Hey," Blair interrupted himself. "I swear, Jim, you're just like a little kid sometimes."

"I'm like a little kid?"

"Your leg's hurting you." Blair came marching back, took the cane away from Jim with one hand, in the same gesture slipping his arm around Jim's waist. "Don't bother to deny it." His forearm was warm and solid against the small of Jim's back, and his hip pressed gently but insistently against Jim's thigh, forcing him to let Blair take some of his weight. The relief Jim felt was so profound that a sigh escaped him. "Easy," Blair said. "One step at a time." He shuffled around, drawing Jim with him, his arm still locked tightly around Jim's waist. "Sorry about snapping your head off, man. I don't need to be bringing that stuff in the front door. I know that."

"What stuff?" Jim asked. "Did something happen at work?"

Within days of losing his fellowship, Blair had found a part time job with the Department of Human Services, on call as a translator for Cascade's small Nepalese immigrant community. It wasn't enough money to pay many bills, far less the looming student loans, but as Blair had told him, it beat the hell out of waiting tables.

Blair hadn't mentioned his other job opportunities, and Jim hadn't been able to bring himself to ask.

"No, it's not work," Blair said. "Actually there's some good news there. They put off Rokhung's immigration hearing until next week, when they can get someone who speaks Bahing down from Seattle to translate for him. He's from the Okhaldunga District, you know? He speaks enough Nepali enough for us to communicate, but I feel better knowing the hearing will be in his first language."

Sandburg's usual smokescreen, too much information rattled out in a rush, as though that could keep Jim from noticing that he hadn't answered the question. Usually Jim obliged and pretended he really hadn't noticed, but tonight he just wasn't in the mood. Maybe because his leg was aching so badly, maybe just because Blair was standing next to him and supporting Jim's weight while refusing to allow Jim to share any of his own burdens.

"C'mon," Blair was saying. He shifted around in front of Jim, holding his forearms in a fierce, gentle grip. "Sit down before you really do hurt yourself."

Jim locked his knees. "I don't get you," he said, and even though the coldness in his own voice startled him, he went ahead and said the rest anyway. He was more afraid of letting Blair slip any further away than he was of hurting his feelings. "Don't you think the secret life of Blair Sandburg has already caused us both enough trouble?"

Blair's head came up fast, and Jim wouldn't have been surprised if Blair had belted him one. The words hung in the air between them, ugly and unanswerable, and Jim found himself hoping Sandburg would throw a punch, anything to break the moment.

Blair didn't, of course. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

"Yeah, I know." He sighed heavily. "It's really no big deal, but it's like I'm having trouble keeping stuff in perspective these days." Blair shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was looking away from Jim. "I ran into Rick Feldman at the grocery store, and he's kind of freaked out by the stuff about my dissertation. That's all."

The name didn't mean anything to Jim, but it was easy enough to figure out who Rick probably was and what he might have said to Sandburg. Jim had gotten an earful the few hours he had spent on campus since Blair's news conference. "Sandburg, the opinion of people like that -- you can't let it get to you. They don't know. They don't have any idea."

Blair nodded, his eyes fixed on Jim. "I know," he said, his voice breaking under the weight of all the bewildered, frustrated rage he'd brought home with him. "None of the rest of it matters," he announced decisively, and suddenly both his arms were around Jim, and he was holding on tight. He didn't say anything more, but Jim felt it in the desperation of that fierce embrace, Blair straining up a little so he could fit his chin over Jim's shoulder, still clutching the cane he had taken from Jim, the rubber tip hitting the back of Jim's calf. Blair's breaths were quick and hot at the side of neck, and Jim held his hands above Blair's shoulders, uncertain as he had never been around Blair before. He finally put his hands on Blair's shoulders, intending to ease him away, but Blair sensed his intent and released Jim first, bringing his arms around to grip Jim's forearm again, telling Jim with his eyes averted, "How does this sound? I'll go ahead and take my run tonight, pick up a roll of TP from Ye Olde Quickie Mart on the way back, then fix us some dinner. Maybe I'll even be able to act like a human being by then."

The walls receded once Blair was gone again. They began to close in on Jim when Blair was too close, too present, fussing over the bullet wound, washing dinner dishes, sitting next to Jim on the sofa during the endless evenings after even longer days, the two of them watching CNN or even, god help them both, the weather channel because sometimes it was easier to just keep sitting there rather than face the silence once the TV was turned off.

So it had become shameful relief to him when Blair was gone, because the air was easier to breathe then, the ceilings were higher, even the goddamned couch was more comfortable. His leg didn't throb with every beat of his pulse when Blair wasn't here, and he stopped seeing Simon sprawled flat, eyes blank and astonished, blood pumping from the wound left by a bullet intended for Jim spreading across the floor of his office. He didn't hear the sound Megan's brother had made, a choked whimper, trying so hard not cry, when Jim had called to let him know his sister was going into surgery. He couldn't smell Naomi's perfume, amber and patchouli and myrrh, as sweet and dark as Naomi herself, intending nothing but the best for her beloved boy.

But most of all, when Blair was gone Jim could stop reliving the end of everything.

Jim rubbed his eyes with his hand. He had a dull, cruelly persistent headache. It had lingered for days now, and nothing really seemed to help. Blair thought it might be a reaction to the antibiotics, but Jim suspected something else.

Oxygen deprivation, Chief. When you're in the same room with me, it's like a weight on my chest.

Before leaving for his evening run, Blair had fixed Jim a tray and left it on the coffee table to tide him over until dinner. A glass of iced tea, a plate of cheese and crackers and most of a sliced apple -- Blair had helped himself to a couple of the slices, grinning at Jim as he munched, his eyes hecticly bright, like a man on the verge of tears. Fixing the tray had been yet another of those kind, protective gestures made without consulting Jim or requesting acknowledgment. One in a series that stretched to infinity, beginning from the moment Blair hadn't refused to go to the academy.

Or no, even earlier. They had begun at his press conference when he'd swallowed hard, a look on his face like he was Peter denying Jesus Christ, before finally blurting out that James Ellison wasn't a sentinel.

There would be no end to them now. Blair had shed his past like a refugee fleeing his homeland. Abandoned his life and almost everything he loved. What did he have left now but these kindnesses and accommodations? Shaping himself to the interstices of Jim's life.

It still wasn't enough. Blair could strip himself down to nothing, but he couldn't touch Jim's grief. Nothing Blair did could take away the moment the world ended. It was always with Jim, sometimes pale as a ghost, just raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Other times, like when Blair was near, it raged like burning coals. And the ridiculous thing, Jim had to admit, even as the heat consumed him, was that he had always known this moment would come. Right from the beginning. Blair had been honest, back then.

I wanna write about you! You're my thesis!

Just a matter of time, that's all it had ever been. Even without Naomi Sandburg's intervention, someday someone would have stuck a microphone in Jim's face and asked him what it felt like to be a Sentinel. That would be the end of his life as he knew it. Blair would get those extra letters after his name and leave him, and it would be the end of everything.

Three and a half years Jim had been waiting for it. The only grace he'd asked was that Blair allow him to read the dissertation first. Give him a little lead time, a chance to get his affairs in order, because that was the Mephistophelean bargain they had made. At the time it must have seemed worth it. Given the choice between ending up dead under a city truck the next time a shiny object caught his eye, and the far-away prospect of allowing himself to be the subject of a pitiless academic study, Jim had chosen life and Blair.

It had become an increasingly difficult choice as the years rolled away, though, and Jim had snapped first. Stolen the first chapter of Blair's dissertation in the hope of assuring himself that it wouldn't be as bad as he feared. Jim supposed it served him right that instead he'd discovered it was infinitely worse.

Aw, Christ, this was no good. He was making himself crazy running things around and around in his head. Like he'd told Blair at the time, it was over. There was no going back. So Jim needed to just let it go and try to enjoy these few minutes of peace and quiet before Blair got back from his run.

Blair had made sure the remote was within easy reach before he left. Jim clicked on the television, but the cable was bad today. The sportscasters on ESPN all had a slightly fuzzy look to them, and the air in the studio seemed to be solid, filled with tiny dots. Jim clicked off the set again without looking at any of the other channels. Trying to watch that would only have made his headache worse. He reached for the glass of tea Blair had left him, but when he lifted it to his mouth he smelled, under the aroma of fermented tea leaves and blackberry extract, more than a hint of the seasoning from last night's stew. Garlic and onion, bay leaf, black pepper and sage. Jim hadn't realized there were leftovers, but obviously there were. Sitting in the fridge and perfuming the tea and everything else with eau de beef stew. Even the ice cubes probably reeked by now.

He put the glass down and heaved himself to his feet. His leg still ached. The sobering reality was he was getting older, and his body didn't recover from these massive shocks to the system so quickly anymore. Like when that reporter had leaned in the window of his truck and asked him how the publication of Mister Sandburg's manuscript would affect his work with the police department. Jim had known, in an instant of pure hopeless horror, that the end he'd been waiting for had finally come.

He'd looked at Blair and seen horror on his friend's face too. But along with it had been that damning, frantic look of guilt. "Jim, I can explain," Blair had said, which could only mean that no explanation would ever be adequate. It was over. Done with. Jim's heart had broken in two, and the jagged shards were still hurting him weeks later, as slow to heal as the wound Zeller's bullet had left.

Dammit.

Jim stopped at the kitchen island, leaning his hip hard against it, and roughly rubbed the tears from his eyes. Then he made it the rest of the way to the refrigerator and pulled out the plastic quart container of leftover stew from the second shelf. There was the problem. Sandburg had used wrong sized lid, and it hadn't sealed. Sloppy. Not really like Blair to make a mistake like that. The one time he'd put an open bowl of leftover chili in the refrigerator three years ago, they had ended up throwing out everything from the frozen peas to a gallon of milk.

Blair was tired, though. Preoccupied. Probably because his heart was broken, too. Jim had watched it happen, as shocked by what Blair had done as he was horrified by the futility of it. Blair had tried to give Jim his life back by sacrificing his own, and it had been such a bitter, skewed calculus. It had gotten the reporters out of Jim's face, but it had left the two of them in a pallid limbo of frustration and grief.

Jim wondered, deliberately imagining the worst thing he could, if it was this bad for Blair too. If he could hardly stand to be in the same room with Jim anymore. If the air seemed thin and the pressure on his chest too tight when they were in the loft together. Because if it did, detective's shield or no detective's shield, Blair would be crazy to stay. Jim couldn't let him.

Knowing it was a mistake and going right on and doing it anyway, Jim lowered himself to one knee so he could look in the lower cabinet where the Tupperware was stacked. At one time in his life, the time before Blair Sandburg, every container had had its own lid, and they had all been stacked together. Now Jim was confronted with wobbling towers of odd-sized containers and sloping fields of plastic lids, any or none of which might fit. The muscles in his calf were burning as he sorted through the lids one at a time. He gathered up a collection of likely candidates, breathing shallowly through gritted teeth at the pain. When he forced himself to stand again, a gray fog hazed the edges of his vision, and he braced himself with both elbows on the counter, letting the cane fall, dropping his head because he was afraid he was about to faint. When the dizziness finally passed, he lashed out at his weakness. The open container of stew spilled across the countertop, and down on the street three flights below, Jim heard the sound of Blair's footsteps on the pavement.

Blair walked three blocks from the Seven Eleven back to the loft to cool down after his run, swinging the plastic bag that carried his exorbitantly expensive roll of toilet paper. He could've bought half a dozen rolls at the supermarket for the price of one at the convenience store. Might as well be wiping his butt with gold leaf.

Maybe next time he'd remember the goddamned list.

At least he wasn't angry anymore, and that was a relief. The dusk was cool and smelled like rain before morning, and although his legs were rubbery and his stomach very empty, his lungs felt clean. His whole body did, as though he'd sweated and panted the accumulated toxins right out. The things Rick Feldman had said, and the heartbreaking expression on his face while he'd said them. Gone. The way Blair had snapped at Jim when he got home -- banished like it had never happened. The way Jim had gone rigid in Blair's impulsive embrace --

All right. So that wasn't entirely gone yet. Neither was the look in Jim's eyes, so closed and resigned, as though he never expected to have any reason to smile again. Blair hadn't managed to run that particular toxin out of his system either.

For chrisssakes, Jim, he thought, his grief welling up darkly. I gave up my life for you. You said it yourself. So how much more is it gonna take?

He stopped dead on the sidewalk, his face burning as though he really had said those shameful words out loud. He didn't mean them. It was just that sometimes the weight of Jim's disappointment became too much to bear anymore. Blair had screwed up before, made mistakes, sometimes bad ones. He had even hurt Jim, but always before Jim had forgiven him, and they had gone on. Blair was beginning to think that this time would be too much. That even if Jim wanted to forgive him, he couldn't manage to look at him anymore without seeing a friend who had betrayed his secret to the world.

All at once, Blair desperately wanted to be home again. Looking up the block, he could see the lighted windows of the loft where Jim was waiting for him. Blair hoped he was resting his leg, but knowing Jim, he'd probably been stomping around since Blair left, taking advantage of Blair's absence to hurt himself in peace and quiet, the hardheaded idiot.

He jogged the last block, having to wait before he crossed the street for a new Volkswagen in a shade of green that looked black under the streetlights to pull up and park almost directly in front of him. A woman with amazing cheekbones and an even more amazing magenta flattop was driving, but he didn't look back when he heard her heels hit the pavement and the car door slam behind her. He had almost reached the outside door when she called, "Blair Sandburg! Blair, hold up a minute."

He recognized the voice though he hadn't recognized the woman herself. He stopped, his hand on the door, the bag with the toilet paper in it swinging against his thigh. Feeling a little sick, he was more than tempted to just run away from her. Jim was trapped upstairs, though, and Jim couldn't run. He might shoot Wendy Hawthorne if he was cornered, though. He'd threatened to before.

Blair turned to face her, his back to the door. "Wendy," he said, and didn't even try for a smile. "Please. Nothing personal, but I'm not talking to any reporters. Not me, and not Jim either."

She held out her hands as though to show she wasn't carrying a weapon, and her own smile was blinding. The last time Blair had seen Wendy she'd been working as the weekend news anchor on one of the local Cascade channels, as pretty and vapid as she'd ever been. Her hair had still been long and blonde then, and Blair had assumed she was well on her way to becoming head anchor. She'd certainly had the looks and personality for it.

She wasn't anchoring any local news shows with hair like that, though. Much less with the little jeweled hoop through her left nostril. "That sounds more like Detective Ellison than the Blair Sandburg I remember." She tilted her head as though she still had a curtain of blonde hair to sweep around. "How have you been? How's Jim?"

"Pretty shitty, actually."

"It's been rough for you, hasn't it? Actually, that's what I'd like to talk to you about. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"No. Thanks, but no." Blair gestured vaguely to himself with his free hand, thinking his sweat-soaked tee shirt was surely excuse enough. "It's really not a good time."

"Then just hear me out. I'll make it quick."

Blair shook his head and felt behind himself for the door handle. "Look, it's late, I'm hungry, I'm tired, and all I want to do right now is get upstairs and get a shower. If you wanna leave me your number or something, I'll call you when things settle down."

"Five minutes," she pleaded. "You and Jim saved my life, not to mention my professional reputation. I finally see a way to make it up to you, so won't you please give me that chance?"

Shit. She still could make her voice quaver like a little girl's on the verge of tears. Jim had never fallen for it, but Blair guessed it worked on him all right, because he heard himself saying, "You don't owe us anything."

She recognized the capitulation. "Listen," she said immediately, "You know I'm working for the Free Press now, right?"

Cascade's weekly alternative rag. So that explained the hair and the nose ring. "I didn't know. Hey, uh, congratulations. It's not really where I would've pictured you."

"Are you kidding? Investigative journalism is dead on TV. That wasn't for me anymore, stuck behind a desk with that camera in my face like a hairsprayed mannequin."

So she'd gotten herself fired, Blair thought. He couldn't imagine Wendy Hawthorne ever actually objecting to being on camera. "I think I know where you're going with this, and I promise you, Jim doesn't have any interest in being the subject of an expose in the Free Press."

"Not Jim. You."

"No. Absolutely not." Blair turned and pulled open the door, but Wendy was there first, squeezing into the entry hall ahead of him.

"You said you'd listen to me, now come on, give me a chance."

"I don't mean to be rude, but would you please knock it off? I don't want anything to do with this." He could smell himself in the close quarters, and he switched the bag of toilet paper to his other hand, feeling self-conscious and faintly ridiculous, not wanting to start upstairs with her on his heels.

"I'm in a position to do you a whole lot of good if you'll just give me a chance. You remember in your news conference, how you said the thing you regretted most was the hurt you'd caused your friends and colleagues?"

He just couldn't deal with this now. He was exhausted and hungry and sweaty and gross and Jim was right upstairs, probably listening in, for god's sake. That thought made him push the door open again and step out into the night air. She followed him.

"See, that's what I want to write about. I've been there too, you know? I've had to start my life again after a public humiliation. That makes me the person to tell your story, Blair, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. My editors are really excited about this. It could be the lead article."

Blair heard himself give a bitter laugh. "Only on a really slow news week. C'mon, nobody's going to be interested in a story like that."

"Don't be so sure. The only thing that sells better than success is a story about self delusion and failure."

"And this is what you call doing a favor for someone? I hope I never end up on your shit list."

"I understand why you did it, Blair. I did the very same thing. I saw a way to make a story better, and I took it, just like you did. Maybe you even halfway believed it. Army ranger, cop of the year, not to mention that bod of his." She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Who can blame you for wanting to make Jim into some kind of a superhero? When the story broke I almost believed it myself. So that's the article I want to write, how a decent guy like you let himself get a little carried away and ended up having to pay for it with his career. See? I'm on your side, Blair. A story like this could generate a lot of sympathy."

"I don't want sympathy," he ground out.

"You may not want it, but you could sure use some. I've been where you are now, and it's not an easy road back. You'd be a fool to pass this up."

"I've been called worse. Thanks anyway, but I can't help you. Good night, Wendy."

She moved in front of him, and suddenly her voice wasn't nearly so accommodating. "I'm trying to give you a chance because I feel like I owe it to you and Jim. But there's another story I could write."

"Great, then write that one," Blair said wearily. "Excuse me. Like I told you, there's a hot shower upstairs with my name on it."

"Do you have the right to make that decision for Jim, too? This affects him just as much as it does you." Her voice shook a little.

"This has nothing to do with Jim," Blair said, but he felt an icicle chill of foreboding.

"I'm afraid it does. If you won't help me tell your story, then I'll have to tell the story of you and Jim together, and I don't think it's one either of you will like very much."

"There is no story of me and Jim together," Blair snapped. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Only the obvious one. You're still living in his place, Blair. Anyone would think you'd be out on your ass after you made him a laughing stock. The Sentinel of Cascade? Give me a break. Whatever else he is, Jim Ellison isn't a man who tolerates ridicule. Yet here you are, going upstairs to shower and dinner in his home just like nothing happened."

"Stop. Just stop it right there."

"This is how I figure you two were working it. See, Jim pretends to participate in this bogus 'sentinel' research so the police department will okay ride-along status for his grad student lover. The university even pays you for conducting this so-called research. I don't think that's quite what the sponsors of your fellowships had in mind, do you?"

"You're insane," Blair whispered. He was so weak at the knees he had to lean against the side of the building for support. "You can't publish that. It's not true."

"I can be a little naive, you know, but even I noticed Jim couldn't stop talking about you long enough to get it up for me."

"Would you shut the hell up?" He glanced up at the lighted window three floors overhead. His head was so light and hot he felt like it might just come floating off his shoulders, and the way his heart was thundering away in his chest he more than half expected Jim to hear that even if he didn't hear their conversation.

Wendy's face wasn't entirely unsympathetic, but she didn't give an inch. "I've even got the pictures. I'll use them if I have to."

"Pictures?" Blair squeaked, his mind reeling. "There aren't any pictures."

"The video, Blair. When the two of you came to the door that morning, you'd just gotten out of bed. You could hardly keep your hands off each other, even with the camera rolling."

"But we hadn't gotten out of the same bed! You've got to stop this. The whole thing is nuts. Jim's been through enough, and I can't let you publish some crazy ass speculation about his personal life, especially not accusing him of fraud. I'm the one who screwed up here, not Jim. Jim didn't do anything except try to be the best cop he knows how to be. Jesus, Wendy, that's all he's ever done." Blair felt like crying. "The man saved your life, you told me that yourself. Please don't do this to him."

"Then give me another story to write."

Blair rubbed his hand over his eyes. He could feel himself shaking. "Whatever you want," he whispered. "Just leave Jim out of it."

"I thought you'd see it my way. Come on, Blair, it won't be so bad. Now how about that cup of coffee? You look like you could use it."

"Maybe a stiff drink would be better," he said as her taloned fingers closed above her elbow.

"Whatever loosens that sweet tongue." She laughed, almost giddy, and Blair was afraid she was about to kiss him. He remembered her giving him a kiss on the cheek once long ago. Blair had felt like some kind of Galahad then, being thanked for slaying a dragon. Now it turned out the princess and the dragon had been in cahoots all along, and he was so weary he didn't even pull his arm away from her. "We're two of a kind," she was saying happily just as the door behind them crashed open.

Oh, Jim, Blair thought miserably, before he even turned his head. When he did, he saw it was as bad as he'd feared. Jim's face was gray in the streetlight, his jaw set with anger. He must have heard everything.

"Sandburg is nothing like you." Jim's voice was soft and furious. "This interview is over."

"Jim!" Wendy cried with a bright, angry laugh. "What a way to say hello."

Jim made his way onto the sidewalk, leaning too heavily on his cane, the way he did when he'd stressed his leg. Blair pried himself free of Wendy and went to him, trying to give him an arm of support, but Jim ignored it. "You've got ten seconds. Then I'm arresting you for criminal harassment and attempted extortion."

"Are you threatening me, detective?" she demanded, her voice rising in outrage, and Blair saw the whole mess playing itself out again. Jim's face on the cover of the Free Press, the phone calls at all hours, to the loft, to the station, to Jim's father and brother, and through it all Jim withdrawing further and further, until Blair was never able to reach him again.

"It's all right," he broke in, babbling in something close to panic. "Jim, Wendy, it's all right. Just a little misunderstanding here. Look, Jim, just let me help you back upstairs, man, and Wendy, then you and I can talk. Okay? Everything's cool?"

"Five seconds," Jim said. "Then we're going downtown."

"You don't want to do this," Wendy said furiously, but she backed up a step. "Blair, tell him."

Blair looked at Jim's face in profile, and what he saw there suddenly calmed him. "There won't be any interview. You'd better go, Wendy."

"You're making a serious mistake."

"C'mon, Jim. Let's get you upstairs."

This time, Jim nodded a little. He put his arm around Blair's shoulders as Blair wrapped his around Jim's waist, allowing Blair to support some of his weight. "I tried to give you a chance!" Wendy called after them. "Just remember that, Blair. I tried."

The door shut behind them, and they made their way across the tiny foyer to the elevator. Jim punched the button and the doors opened at once, the cage still on the ground floor from Jim's trip down. As they got in, Jim said only, "What happened to her hair?"

Blair looked up at him, wonderingly. Then he ventured a tiny smile. "Maybe she's starting the Academy in six weeks too."

"Heh," Jim almost chuckled. The arm around Blair's shoulders tightened for a long moment as the elevator ascended. "Were you planning to warm up that beef stew for dinner tonight, Chief?"

"What?" It took him a minute to figure out what Jim was talking about. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"

The elevator door opened on their floor. Jim moved slowly, trying not to limp. Trying not to lean on Blair too hard. "Because I just dumped it all over the counter."

Blair shook his head. The door to the loft was standing wide open. "If you don't like my cooking you could just tell me, man."

"Did you know that ribs place over on Market Street delivers?"

"No, Jim," he said, and almost let himself grin for real. "I guess I didn't know that."

"Well, they do."

"Uh huh." Blair swung the door shut behind them and tried to guide Jim to the couch, but he pulled away.

"I'll clean up the mess on the counter," he told Blair. "You can call for ribs. I like the Jamaican sauce on mine. Get extra."

"Has it occurred to you that it would make a lot more sense for me to clean up, and for you to go park your ass on the sofa and call for delivery?"

Jim continued to make his way carefully to the sink. "I spilled it," he said. "I'll clean it up."

It was aggravating, but Blair found he didn't have the strength to argue anymore. He leaned against the wall by the phone. "You know the number?"

"Call information."

"What's the name of this joint?"

Jim wrung out a sponge and began carefully sweeping the spilled stew into the sink. "It's that rib place on Market. You know."

Blair didn't know. He couldn't remember ever having seen a rib place on Market. He picked up the phone and put it down again. "How much of that did you hear?"

Jim didn't look up. "Enough. Most of it, I think. She's a piece of work."

"If she writes that article, it could really cause a lot of headache. You know that, Jim. For you, for Simon and the department, everybody. It might be better if I try and talk to her."

Jim shook his head. "We'll deal with it when and if it happens."

"I'm just saying, if I give her the interview she wants, let her write a story about a guy so obsessed with his research topic that he started inventing sentinels out of thin air, at least that would keep you out of it."

A long silence. Then Jim turned slowly to face him, leaning his hip against the counter to brace himself. "Sandburg, stop. No more. Just -- stop."

So Blair stopped. He didn't cross the half dozen steps to Jim. He just stopped and waited.

"You can't keep doing it," Jim explained, sounding a little impatient. "Making these decisions about both our lives."

Blair hung his head, suddenly on the verge of tears. "It's my mess," he whispered. "I'm trying to clean it up."

Jim snorted. "Chief, I love you, but everything you've done lately in that line has been an unqualified fucking disaster."

"Jim, c'mon," Blair protested, a little shocked.

"Just let me help, okay? That's all I'm asking. You're not alone here."

Blair swallowed hard, nodding. "Okay. I hear you."

"All right, then." Jim turned his attention back to spilled stew, but after one more pass with the broth-laden sponge, he dropped it in the sink, rinsed his hands and said quietly. "Actually, if you don't mind finishing up here, I'll call in the order."

"All right," Blair said, trying to keep his tone just as nonchalant. "Want some help getting to the sofa?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Blair slid his arm around Jim's waist, and as he did, he saw and felt Jim take a long, deep breath, a profound sigh. It was on the tip of Blair's tongue to apologize for the way he smelled, but Jim was practically smiling as he sighed again, breathing like a man who'd been shut in a small room for a very long time and has suddenly been let out into the open air.

When Blair opened his eyes the next morning, the loft was filling with water. He could hear the slow shush and susurration of it pouring across the floorboards, lifting the stacks of files and notes which had been piled up beside the sofa since the night he finished his dissertation, then flopping them up against the walls. They made a wet, slapping sound, like waves beating against a pier. He lay motionless on his bed and listened. There was something soothing about the sound of water. Comforting and inevitable. He need do nothing but lie here while the waves rose. He heard little splashes as rivulets dashed against the outside walls of his room and fell back upon themselves, the sound changing timber as living room slowly filled with water. After a time there were heavier sounds. The furniture was floating, thumping up against the walls and the staircase. If he could turn his head, he would be able to see the love seat or maybe one of the bookshelves serenely floating past his bedroom window.

He imagined how the sunlight must look in the living room, shining in the windows and through the depths of the water. Filtered and refracted, green gold and heavy. Light was reflected across the ceiling of his room too, moving with the waves outside.

Then something bumped against the wall, hard enough to shake the glass in the window and make the watery light on his bedroom ceiling shiver. Another thump. Thinking about the kinds of things that bobbed and sank in floodwaters, Blair's drowsy lassitude was replaced by a sense of slow dread. It bumped a third time, and now it seemed to Blair that there was something purposeful in those fumbling, blind thumps. The ripples of light on his ceiling flowed around a shape he almost recognized.

It bumped against the wall once more, then hit his windowpane. The patterns of light and shadow on his ceiling shattered, then slowly came back together again. The violent shaking of the glass subsided into a regular lap and splash, as though the floating object had been caught in a little eddy that swept it back again and again to Blair's window.

Blair wondered how long the glass would hold, and what would be swept into the room when it finally broke. If he turned his head, he would see it, but he wasn't sure he could bring himself to do that.

He wondered if it would still be floating at his window when he finally forced himself to wake up.

When Jim walked out of the bathroom that morning, still damp from the shower where he'd lingered too long because the hot water felt so good on his sore muscles, he found Blair sitting hunched on the sofa, apparently just out of bed. He was still in the sleeveless tee and boxers he'd slept in, and he hadn't started coffee, or even turned on NPR. He didn't raise his head until Jim said, "Hey."

"Hey," Blair said then, his voice scratchy. His hair was still a tangled mess, half-hiding his eyes.

"Sleep okay?"

"Yeah," Blair said, and Jim knew he was lying. He sat down on the couch opposite him, the bath robe damp under his thighs. "Don't get too used to that bed. Soon as I can make it up those stairs in under half an hour, you're back on the futon."

"I hear you," Blair said, baring his teeth in something that couldn't quite manage to be a smile. His muscles were tense, body folded in on itself, head resting on his hands and knees. Jim looked at him more closely, felt more closely, heart rate and respiration, perspiration, and some scent, slightly off, slightly sour. Slightly sad.

Sadness washed over Jim as well. Last night had felt a little better, as though banishing Wendy had banished other demons too. Finding that nothing had changed after all was a startlingly cruel disappointment

At last Blair took a deep, shaky breath, saw that Jim was still watching him, and tried again for a smile. "Weird dream this morning," he said. "I'm having a hard time shaking it."

"If it was about Wendy --"

"Nah." Blair shook his head. "I don't think so, anyway. It was just one of those funny things. I dreamed I was in my own bedroom, and the loft was filling with water. I didn't even know it was a dream at first."

Jim waited for Blair to say something more, hoping his next words would give Jim a clue, somehow let him know what he could say or do to make things better. He couldn't go on like this, simply waiting for the life they'd both loved to somehow miraculously return. But when Blair spoke again it was only to say, "I think I could use some coffee. Do you mind espresso roast? The stronger the better today."

Jim reached out and slid a curl off his forehead. "Blair."

Blair started at his touch. Or perhaps it was at the use of his first name.

"A few weeks ago, before all this started, you told me about some library back east." Jim could hardly believe what he was saying. Once he'd begun, though, the words came so easily he had to wonder if he hadn't been rehearsing this suggestion for a long time now, at least in some private corner of their shared misery. "You were gonna check it out, see if they had some new stuff on sentinels."

"Yeah. Notre Dame." Blair smiled grimly. "Can't very well go now."

"Why not?"

"Why not? 'Cause, uh, 'cause, why not? What kind of question is that?" He glared at Jim, suspicious.

"Have you started believing your own press releases? Why can't we go? I'm still a sentinel, and you still need information to help me, right? And there might be information there, right? So, as I see it, you kinda owe me."

Blair stared at him, trembling a little. "Why can't we go? You wanna go, too?"

Jim looked at Blair, really looked at him, cataloging the circles beneath his eyes, the skin there fragile and translucently blue, the lines bracketing his generous mouth, lips now thinned in concentration, and the few strands of gray gleaming among the chestnut tangles. How long since he'd slept without nightmares? How long since he'd truly been happy?

Jim already knew the answer to that, yet as he watched, Blair's face relaxed and he rubbed his eyes. He took another deep breath and said, "You're still on medical leave."

"So? They got doctors in Indiana, don't they?"

"Just go. Just pick up and go."

"Just pick up and go."

The two men watched each other carefully from across the coffee table. At last, Blair nodded. "Let's go," he said, as if calling Jim's bluff.

"Well, all right. " Jim smiled, and found the expression came easily to him. "Pack. I'll call Simon and the airline. We'll leave tonight."

Blair's eyes widened. "You're serious? But, where'll we stay? What'll you do while I'm at the archives?"

Jim shrugged. He felt oddly light, untethered. "Does it matter? We'll find some place. I'll find something to do." He grinned. "If nothing else, I'll help you in the archives." Blair rolled his eyes, but he was only pretending. Jim could smell his pleasure and surprise, his relief. "Let's get the hell outta Dodge, little buddy."

"Okay, Marshall Tucker."

Now Jim rolled his eyes. "You mean Marshall Dillon. Or Chester," he added ruefully.

Blair waved a hand. "Whatever. I'll start packing. You stay off the leg and on the phone."

Jim listened to Blair as he pulled his duffel bag out from the tiny closet in his room; his breathing was more regular, and he was humming under his breath. Some minor key song Jim thought he remembered from a tape he'd found in the truck's player a few day's ago, when he'd hobbled out to check on the gas level. While he recovered, Blair had to do all the driving, but he didn't want him paying for the truck's gas. Actually, he didn't want Blair to pay for anything; he'd already paid too much.

"Call United first," Blair called from his room, his voice muffled. Jim surmised he had his head in his closet. "I think they have the most flights to Chicago from Cascade."

"Chicago?"

"Yeah." He appeared in his doorway, hair tousled, but his color better and his eyes brighter, though still rimmed with red. "We'll have to fly into Chicago and rent a car, drive to South Bend. It's a couple hours away."

"How do you know this? Have you been there before?" Jim asked, scooting carefully over to the end table where the phone book was stored.

"Yeah, but also the archivist -- his name is Robert -- told me. Either fly into Indianapolis or Chicago, and Chicago's closer. But you can check Indianapolis."

"Jesus," Jim muttered, but happily, or as happily he could under the circumstances. They were really going to do this. They were really going to leave. He caught sight of Blair's round backside as he bent over digging through a pile of laundry. "Jesus," he said again, and picked up the phone.

"Tonight?" Simon asked thirty minutes later, disbelief coloring his voice.

"Yeah. The flight leaves at eight, so we need to be there by seven. We can take the truck and leave it in long-term parking --"

"No, no, I'm happy to take you. Just a little surprised. Something happen?"

Jim glanced at Blair, who had moved upstairs and was packing for him. He could hear him rustling around in his chest of drawers, the slip and slide of cotton over cotton, the chink of buttons and the clink of jean rivets. "Just some stuff," he murmured, and Simon sighed heavily.

"You can't talk in front of the kid, huh."

"Not really."

Simon sighed again. "My god, what a mess, Jim. No one at works believes it, you know. They've seen too much; they know Blair too well; they're good detectives."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe it's okay. They're all pulling for you guys. But, hell. I can see where you might need to get away. I assume you'll tell me the full story eventually?"

"Eventually," Jim agreed mildly, still watching Blair above him.

"I guess that'll have to do. Yeah, I'll take you. I'll pick you up at six; that should give us plenty of time to get to the airport no matter how clogged the roads."

"Six," Jim shouted up to his partner, then, "Oh, sorry, Simon."

"Cover the phone next time you scream," he said sourly. "I'll see you tonight."

Blair leaned over the railing and looked down at him as he pressed off and tossed the little phone aside. "We all set?"

Jim nodded. "Am I packed yet?"

"Not your bathroom stuff. I'm taking enough clothes for a week; I figure we can always hit a laundromat and drugstore if we stay longer."

"Sounds good. I'm gonna pay Darryl a few bucks to check on the loft, bring in the mail. I canceled the paper. Can you think of anything else?"

After a few seconds, Blair said, "You might want to unplug the answering machine."

Jim thought about some of the messages they'd received and nodded. "Yeah. I'll do that."

That afternoon, Jim took the opportunity of Blair's inattention while he did last minute packing to sneak out onto the balcony. He stared out over Cascade, the late afternoon's light popping like solar flares against his sensitive retinas, worsening his headache, worsening his pain.

What choice did he have, he asked himself, and swallowed. He'd never been to Indiana before, although he'd been through Chicago several times. Hot and humid, he remembered. So different from Cascade. So different from home.

Noises behind him reminded him that Blair was still frantically tossing things together. He wondered what he'd end up with, with Blair packing for him. He wondered where he'd end up, after everything that happened.

But getting away never sounded better. Like when he'd left home to go to school, and when he'd left school to join the military. Sandburg might notice a pattern in his behavior, he supposed, but it was too well-entrenched for him to change now. He couldn't breathe in Cascade, in the loft. He couldn't be here anymore.

The flight was long but at least not delayed. Jim had never really cared for flying, and since his senses had grown so acute, liked it even less. The noise, the vibrations, the crowds, the stale air, all combined into one enormous sensory overload. He found himself leaning on Blair, grounding himself in his friend's presence, and Blair responded like a phototropic plant, turning always toward Jim just as Jim turned toward him. As they sailed further east, into the darkness and away from the fading light of Cascade and the gleam of the Pacific Ocean, Jim felt as though he were going toward something as much as he was leaving behind him the mess of Wendy and the dissertation and Blair's and his public humiliations.

He stood by the plane's lavatories for a while, stretching his aching leg, and let his gaze rest on the back of Blair's head. He was asleep, pillow squashed between the window and his temple, his long hair tangled. No one on board had recognized either of them, all too busy getting to or from someplace else, all too self-absorbed to notice others. For once he was grateful for the general obliviousness of people, letting his friend rest undisturbed, happy to be away from their ringing phone and the pounding on their door. Grateful he had a moment in which to stand, sentinel-like, and simply watch over Blair.

When at last he limped his way back to his seat, he was careful not to wake Blair, but tucked his jacket closer around him. Blair turned in his sleep and murmured softly, nothing even Jim's hearing could catch, and then slept again. Jim rested his head near his friend's, letting Blair's breath warm his face, and he thought it hadn't been Blair's presence that had been suffocating him during these endless weeks after the press conference at all, but the terrible distance which had opened up between them. Then he slept, too.

It was two in the morning, Chicago time, when they landed at O'Hare. Blair was groggy but managed to guide Jim off the plane, blinded as he was by the sudden fluorescent lights, their hum, the clatter of people hauling bags and baggage from overhead compartments and from under their seats. His leg ached even more and he knew Blair was observing him closely. "Sit down," Blair instructed him when they finally reached the baggage claim area, and for once he obeyed without complaint. Wiping sleep from his eyes, he watched as Blair efficiently snagged their duffels from the belt and brought them back to leave at Jim's feet before standing in line for their reserved rental.

"You stay here and I'll bring the car around," Blair said, checking in with him, and Jim caught his arm. They stared at each other for several seconds.

"Help me outside," he said at last, reluctantly releasing Blair. After a brief hesitation, Blair agreed. He carried all the bags, refusing even to let Jim wear his old backpack, and kept one arm around Jim's waist, moving slowly over the ugly tile and out the sliding glass doors.

"My god," he said, and Jim agreed. After the chill of a Cascade evening, he felt overwhelmed by the heavy wet heat pressing down on him. It was like being back in the jungle: a dense fragrant atmosphere weighing him down, only this smelled like exhaust and asphalt and jet fuel. He quickly tugged off his jacket and took Blair's to hold. "Lean up against this wall," Blair suggested. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Jim tracked Blair's hike to the shuttle bus for rental cars. "Wait," he called, and again Blair paused. When Jim didn't speak again, he slowly came back toward Jim, obviously puzzled. "I just, it's -- let me go with you, Chief." He suddenly felt that he couldn't risk losing Blair in the crowd; it was too dark, too far from home. Too alien. To his surprised pleasure, Blair smiled, and picked up the bags again. "We'll take this nice and slow," he told Jim firmly, and again Jim relaxed into his support.

"No other way to take it," he grumbled, but he was sure Blair knew how he really felt.

He permitted himself to be navigated through O'Hare's late night heat and crowds, and later through the vicissitudes of Chicago's torn-up streets, relaxing the further they got from Cascade. By the time Blair found I-80 and headed east, Jim was fully reclined in the passenger seat, a little groggy from lack of sleep. They could've, he realized belatedly, taken a room in Chicago and driven in the morning, but somehow he didn't feel like suggesting it and, if Blair had thought of it, he didn't seem inclined to act on the idea, either. So east they drove, stopping periodically to feed toll booths various amounts, Blair muttering to himself as he came to confusing exits, until finally they escaped the city and found themselves driving through the heavy humidity of a midwestern spring night.

It was with surprise that Jim found himself roused a couple hours later by Blair pulling into a parking lot and shutting off the rental's engine. He fiddled awkwardly with the seat until it permitted him to sit upright and then looked around. The Inn at Saint Mary's, a large sign informed him, and he looked questioningly at Blair.

"Across the street from Notre Dame," he explained, and Jim nodded. "Stay here. I'll get us a room. You've been on your leg too much these last couple days."

As he watched Blair head into the lobby, Jim wondered that fewer than twenty-four hours ago he'd had no idea he'd be sitting in a parking lot in a rental car in South Bend, Indiana, at -- he checked his watch -- nearly four in the morning. There should be something profound in the realization, but he was too tired and a little afraid to examine it further. Instead, he waited patiently, imagining a cool bed in a cool room, room service, and Blair to wait on him. He smiled. A vacation.

He refused to remember why he was on vacation just then.

By the time Blair had half-carried him into their third-floor room, with two double beds and a small sofa and desk, he was bleary from exhaustion. "They have what they call a 'complimentary deluxe breakfast,'" Blair told him, but he just fell onto the nearest bed, mindful of his leg, and put his face into a pillow. He felt Blair pull off his shoes and wrap the spread around him like a burrito, but then he remembered no more.

Blair sat heavily on the other bed, feeling grubby and hungry and weird. How the hell had they ended up more than half a continent away in just a few hours? What Looking Glass world had he stumbled into when Naomi had emailed his dissertation? And would he ever return?

Well, he admitted ruefully, right now he didn't much want to return. He was happy sitting in his travel-stained clothes listening to Jim snore here in this nice new hotel room. Food first, he decided, and leaving Jim a note, headed downstairs. Then a bath, then bed, then blessed oblivion. Or so he hoped.

For once, his small wish was granted, because he woke up clean and cool, lying under smooth sheets, watching Jim stare out the window as he sipped steaming coffee. When he sighed and cleared his throat, Jim glanced at him.

"Sit down," he croaked, and Jim smiled and obediently sat in the chair he'd pulled to the window. He cleared his throat again and asked, "What's so interesting out there?"

"Gonna be a hot day," Jim answered, and then held his hand a few inches from the window glass, fingers outspread and slightly cupped, as if touching something invisible. Blair understood this was a gift: Jim was illustrating how he knew what the temperature would be today, by capturing the molecules bouncing off the window, warmed into agitation by the morning sun. He felt a sudden relaxation, as if he'd been tensing his muscles unconsciously.

"Come here, Sandburg," Jim said suddenly, sitting up straighter. Blair dropped his head back into the pillow, groaning audibly, but climbed out of his comfortable bed and stood next to Jim, idly tugging at his boxers, then scratching his scalp.

"Wha'?"

Jim nodded toward the window and he stepped to it, not touching because he knew his handprints on the glass would bother Jim, but as close as he could get. He was looking east; the sun was high in the whitened sky. Rooftops gleamed in the light, sparking behind a dense tree cover. Nothing else. "So?"

"So you're looking at the flattest landscape I've ever seen in my life."

"Glaciers," Blair told him, continuing to stare out the window. "Glaciers scrubbed the land down to its bone, left nothing behind."

After nearly a minute, Blair became aware that Jim was staring at him. "What?" he asked again. Jim looked away, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip.

"What's up for today?" he finally asked.

"You stay off your feet, that's what up. We've got cable, I'll buy some newspapers, and there's room service. Oh, hey, I brought some apples and bananas and muffins up earlier."

"Yeah, thanks. I found them. Where'd you get them? The muffins were fresh."

"I went down last night. This morning. Whenever. The restaurant was closed but the cooks took pity on me and gave me some muffins just out of the oven, and some fruit. You found the coffee." He paused, and said, "You really need a shower, Jim."

He grimaced. "I noticed. Didn't want to wake you, though."

Blair nodded, and started polishing an apple. "So, listen, we'll just stay in today, okay?"

Jim awkwardly started to rise from the chair; Blair caught his arm and helped pull him up, then handed him the cane. "Okay. I guess." They staggered a bit, and then Jim caught his balance. "I'm okay. Just need that shower, and then more food."

"Eggs this morning?"

Over his shoulder, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, Jim said, "Eggs? This isn't some bait-and-switch, where you offer me eggs and then insist on muesli." The tone of his voice implied that Blair might suggest mainlining wheat germ for breakfast. Blair shook his head, smiling slightly.

"Shout if you need help."

Jim didn't answer, which surprised Blair a little. He expected a little more snap this time of day, after everything that had happened. But Jim was tired, he reminded himself, and not nearly recovered from being shot by Zeller. Blair went back to the window Jim had been staring out of and took a long look himself.

It was flat, flat as far as his myopic eyes could see, and apparently flat as far as sentinel vision could see as well. Lots of trees; more than Cascade, he thought, or maybe it was that Cascade was hilly and had the Sound. But South Bend looked like a city of shady walks, which pleased Blair.

There was a river, too, he thought, and found a map of the city in a desk drawer. Yes, the Saint Joseph. Coming down from Michigan and then turning north again to empty into Lake Michigan. It seemed to run right through the center of town and, if his internal compass wasn't completely off, which it might well be, the river also ran behind their hotel. Maybe he'd walk out and look at it, if he could persuade Jim to stay behind.

Well, probably not. Another time, then, when Jim was recovered.

He sat in the chair Jim had vacated and rested his head back. He was still tired, too tired. Certainly too tired to think about why they'd dropped everything and fled Cascade. Too tired to consider what he'd do next. What Jim and he would do if Wendy followed through with her threat to publish. He just needed to make it through the next meal and then take a nap. Keep doing that, one small task at a time.

He must've dozed a bit, because he woke while Jim was dressing, awkwardly pulling up a pair of jeans. "Hey," he protested, getting up quickly. "Look, you had to wear trousers all day yesterday. Give yourself a break; wear sweatpants today."

"Can I go down to breakfast here in sweats?"

Blair nodded, not really sure if it was appropriate at this hotel, but Jim was injured and needed to take care of himself. Wrestling into a tight pair of blue jeans, no matter how good they looked on him, wasn't going to help. He pulled one of the several pairs of sweat pants he'd packed for Jim from his duffel and handed them to him along with a white tee shirt. Then he headed into the bathroom to take care of his own needs.

Jim rolled carefully onto his side and watched Blair sleep in the next bed. He was abandoned when sleeping, arms outflung, hair wildly curling, mouth open and, Jim could see when he focused, slightly drooling. He smiled.

Yet there wasn't a whole lot to smile at right now. Not really. They both were exhausted, more exhausted than Jim had permitted himself to realize until this morning. A few days in a nice hotel, being cooked for and cleaned up afterwards, was exactly what they needed. He was sorry that Wendy's threats and Blair's misery had been the impetus to get them the hell of out of Cascade, but he couldn't regret being here just now.

But what were they going to do next? They'd had a quiet day, napping and snacking and watching baseball. Blair had bought a South Bend Tribune, which Jim had read thoroughly, happy to discover no mention of them in the paper. They'd read aloud to each other snippets from the books they'd brought, and had found a movie on cable to watch.

Tomorrow, Jim decided, would be a repeat of today. His leg still hurt, not that he'd admit it to Blair, and both men still wore their exhaustion like tattered clothes. Another day and they'd feel better. Then they'd contact this Robert person at the library and set up a schedule to review the Burton material.

Beyond that, Jim couldn't see. For the first time in his life, he didn't have his week planned out for him. First by his father and school, later by the military, most recently by his superiors at the police department. He could do what he wanted when he wanted. It felt good. Better than good. He felt a weight off his back. No one -- no boss, not even Simon, no journalist, not even Wendy, could touch him or Blair right now.

Another day of this and he'd start thinking about their futures. But for now, this was good. Lying on clean-smelling sheets in a darkened room, the brilliant sun glowing behind the heavy blinds and the scent of fresh fruit filling the air, he could pretend this was just a much-needed vacation.

He turned his head to study Blair again. He noticed, as he had earlier this morning, how thin he'd become. As if glaciers had scrubbed him down to the bone, too. The gray in his hair frightened Jim; Blair simply couldn't age, couldn't grow old or change. Blair was the stability that made Jim's life possible. He felt as if the bed were shaking for a moment at the thought of Blair leaving him behind, going off to do something else, something not so damaging to his health and his career. Something his mother might really approve of, might really have brought him up to do.

He wiped his hand over his forehead. It hurt too much to think of Blair leaving. He needed to rest now. Just rest. And so he did.

By Monday, they were ready to leave their hotel, no matter how nice it was, and see more than the gift shop and restaurants it offered. Jim's leg still ached more than he'd admit to Blair, but it was better, not nearly as red and puffy as it had been when they'd first arrived. He was still taking the ibuprofen and pain meds and using the cane, though, and could tell he would have to for a while longer. He promised himself to take better of the leg and to let Blair help more; he was anxious to do so, and obviously needed the distraction. Still. It went against Jim's grain to have someone wait on him; he found thanking Blair difficult, an admission of his own need and disability. But Blair's self-abnegation since the dissertation made Jim more determined to proffer the gratitude Blair no longer seemed to expect.

Monday morning, Blair phoned Robert James, the archivist at Hesburgh Library with whom he'd corresponded. The collection of material had arrived a couple weeks ago, but had been given only a cursory examination. Robert was, Blair explained on the short drive to the library, either unaware or uncaring of what had transpired in Cascade. Jim sent a prayer of thanks out for that.

So they had a meeting with Robert at ten. After a good-sized breakfast, they left a bit early, to drive through the campus and get a feel for it, as well as find the library and parking. Blair had tried to persuade Jim to be dropped off at the library, then let him park and walk back, but a single glance from Jim had stopped that argument cold.

It was a long walk on a hot day. Blair had insisted Jim wear a hat, and he was reluctantly grateful he'd done so. Both men wore loose shirts, baggy shorts, and flip-flops; it was just too hot for clothes. By the time they'd reached the enormous glass doors to the library, they were sweating, and Jim was beginning to regret his mulishness. Once inside, they were immediately chilled by the sharp air conditioning, though Jim refused to complain.

"Jesus," he muttered, looking around at the high ceiling and long marbled hallways.

"Touchdown Jesus," Blair replied somewhat cryptically as he herded Jim through the turnstiles into the library proper. Jim could hear or feel the magnetic field surround him as they passed through the security system; it made the hair on his arms rise. Once inside, they wandered around until they found a map, and from there made their way to the fifth floor, where Robert's archives were.

Robert James turned out to be a shortish white man, gay to Jim's practiced eye, with dark hair and eyes and a soft southern drawl. "From New Orleans," he answered when Jim asked where he was from. "My family's lived there for over a hundred years." Hunnert years, Jim thought, smiling to himself. "You know the city?"

"No," Jim started, but Blair instantly said, "Oh, yeah, I lived there in, uh, seventy nine and eighty, I think," and that started an intense discussion of neighborhoods and mutual friends. Jim permitted himself to list slightly into Blair, jolting him into the present. "Listen, Robert, Jim is injured; could we sit down somewhere?"

"Oh, forgive me." Robert looked genuinely pained. "You all just come with me. It's time for coffee, don't you think?" He led them to a corner room with a view into the football stadium. There were comfortable chairs, a battered couch, and a coffee maker scenting the air. "I make a mean pot of coffee, if I do say so myself," he said, looking pleased, and Jim collapsed onto the sofa, smiling up at him.

"With chicory?" Jim asked, anxious to show off the small bit of Southern trivia he possessed.

"Lord, not that bitter stuff. No, just good Arabica beans."

And the coffee was good, he thought, sipping at it in a few minutes, staring out at the stadium and the impossibly green grass captured in its oval. He sat quietly, listening to Robert and Blair discuss New Orleans politics, mardi gras, jazz, and finally Richard Burton. "I'm really not any kind of expert," Robert said. "I just got stuck with the assignment because I have a specialty in nineteenth century missionaries, especially muscular Christianity. Since Burton lived around the same time as Livingstone, I guess it was assumed I was the right person.

"But I don't have much time to spare, so the only ones who can inventory the material are student assistants. I'm delighted you volunteered to help. I've assigned a student to work with you, although he won't be here for another week or so."

"Jim will help," Blair announced, and Jim heard a tiny bit of malicious pleasure in the words, but he nodded.

"Can't do much right now with this leg," he explained. "But I can sit and look at book titles as well as the next person."

"This is so generous of you both. Uh," Robert looked a little shy. "May I ask how you were injured?"

Blair looked at Jim, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Jim's a police officer. He was injured in the line of duty."

"Oh, my! I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh." Robert appeared to believe he had committed some horrible social gaffe by asking.

"It's okay," Jim assured him. "I'm better, but I need to keep weight off my leg. Since Sandburg had already made arrangements to come out here, I kind of invited myself along. I hope that's okay."

"Yes, of course. Oh my gosh," he repeated, looking stunned. Jim wondered what on earth he was imagining had happened. "Well, you see where the coffee room is, and when we've finished, I'll take you down the hall to the storage rooms."

"What exactly will we be doing?" Blair asked curiously.

"Really, it's embarrassing. Nobody has had a minute to look through the cartons we were sent. I have a preliminary inventory that came from the attorneys for the estate -- the gentleman who left this material to us died without issue -- but it looks to me mighty incomplete. I'm hopin' you'll find something wonderful," he added, smiling conspiratorially, and Jim had to smile back. "But probably it's nothing but old family bibles and tax returns."

"Oh, now that sounds exciting, Chief." Blair made a face at him, but Robert looked worried. "No, Robert, it's okay. The job sounds perfect for me right now. I'm happy to help."

"Well, no use puttin' off the inevitable," Robert announced, setting down his coffee cup. "Let's take a look at the damage."

Damage was the word, Jim thought a few minutes later, leaning against the door frame and watching Blair and Robert peer into and over the boxes stacked haphazardly in the windowless storeroom. The estate's executor had had a moving company box up the library, and clearly they'd simply stuck every last thing in a box and sealed it. Already Blair had found two candlesticks, a half dozen used candles, a pencil, and a crumpled piece of paper with the word "ham" on it.

"I'll have some trash cans brought in," Robert said upon viewing the useless note. "Also a desk and a couple chairs."

Jim counted sixty-seven cartons, all labeled "library" and smelling of mildew. The summer looked as far from exciting as South Bend was from Cascade. He felt a moment's regret for what they'd left behind, but squelched it immediately, reminding himself that what they'd left behind was notoriety, publicity, and humiliation. This looked like a fine job for an injured cop and an injured anthropologist. Best job in the world.

"Listen, Robert," Jim interrupted their pokings through the cartons. "Do you have any suggestions about how we can find a place to stay while we do this? We're staying at the Inn at Saint Mary's."

"Lord, lord, that's too expensive to stay long. Hmm." He gazed into space, his kind face creased into thought. "Let me call Off-Campus Housing, ask around a bit. Oh, the men's room is just down the hall here, and there's a drinkin' fountain, too. Why don't you look around a spell and I'll come right back."

When he'd gone, Blair asked, "You really wanna do this?"

Jim studied him carefully, calling all his senses into play. Blair's heart was a little fast and he was sweating, but that might've been the heat. His eyes were clearer than they'd been since the press conference, and the lines around his mouth a little less evident.

"You?"

Blair nodded, smiling ruefully. "Sorry, man, but I'm in heaven. A real treasure hunt. I feel like a little kid."

"Sandburg, you are a little kid," Jim told him, but smiled back at him. "Yeah, I wanna do it. If we can find a place to live, I can think of worse ways to spend my medical leave."

"Uh, Jim." Blair stopped smiling and stared at the marble floor. "I, uh, don't have any income." He laughed, a gasping sound. "I don't have anything but a shitload of student loans coming due."

"Fuck that, Chief," Jim told him earnestly, feeling himself blush. "I'm on medical, I got my full salary. And the cost of living is supposed to be a lot lower here than on the west coast, right? So we can manage for a while. We'll figure, figure things out later."

Blair nodded, and Jim heard his heart slow again. He sighed deeply. "Thanks, man." He turned back to the carton he was investigating and stuck his head inside it.

Robert came back, carrying a chair for Jim. "You just sit right down," he told him. "I called Cheryl over at Off-Campus Housing and she's looking around for something for you. A lotta faculty don't live in South Bend during the summer; in case you hadn't noticed, it gets pretty hot and humid here. So she may find something for you. And I'll ask around for you, too. There's a staff meetin' tomorrow, so somebody may know something.

"So. Not that it matters, but what hours do you wanna work?"

Blair looked at Jim, who shrugged. "Up to you, Chief. You're the expert."

"I think this kind of work gets tedious pretty quickly," he said to Robert. "How about we work nine to noon, break for lunch, and then one to three? We can get a lot done in five hours, and still have time for a vacation ourselves."

Robert nodded. "That's great. I really appreciate this, Blair. I can't believe you wanna spend your vacation here in the archives, but I sure am grateful. And you, especially, Jim; it isn't even your area."

"I've lived with Sandburg long enough that I think it is my area," he joked, but to his surprise, Blair nodded.

"Yeah, he's picked up a lot. He knows Rainier's library almost as well as I do now."

"Only because I've had to hunt for you in it so often," Jim defended himself weakly.

Robert patted his arm. "I'm sorry you were hurt," he said seriously, "but I'm glad you came out with Blair." And Jim was glad, too.

That night, over dinner at a deli Robert had recommended, Jim laid the South Bend Tribune's want ads down in front of Blair. Several ads were circled. "What?" Blair asked, nibbling on a carrot stick.

"I'm gonna buy an old beater. Cheaper than the rental car."

Blair stared at him, carrot forgotten. "You're going to buy a car."

Jim shrugged. "Yeah. It makes sense. Who knows how long we'll be out here. That's a lotta boxes to get through, and I'm not in a big hurry to get home to Cascade."

Blair nodded, his eyes moving past Jim to the long windows into the deli's bakery section. He nodded again. "Okay. I can understand. It's just -- Jim." To his embarrassment, he had to blink away his emotions.

Jim rustled the paper and cleared his throat. "Here, look at this. It's a 1969 Ford F-150. You think that's a good omen?"

Blair nodded yet again, focusing back on Jim's worried face. "Yeah," he finally said, his voice rusty. "It's blue, right?"

"Uh, well, red, actually. But there's a blue Suburban for sale."

"Nuh-huh. I'm not driving anything called a 'suburban.' My mom would kill me."

"I don't think they make a car called 'alternate lifestyles,'" Jim said wryly.

"Sure they do. They're called Volkswagens."

Jim groaned. "Get outta the sixties, Sandburg."

"Actually, if you're gonna do this, you should get a big car, like an old Buick. Something you can get your leg in."

Jim stared at him and for a moment, Blair wondered if he'd said something rude or stupid. But then Jim's eyes flickered away and he said, "Yeah. Maybe you're right." He rustled the paper again and disappeared behind it.

So, thought Blair, later that night as he brushed his teeth, we're gonna buy a car. Maybe rent a house. I think this is called running away from home.

He spat and rinsed his mouth, then turned his head and peered out of the bathroom at Jim, sitting propped against the headboard watching a baseball game. He looked tired, and Blair could tell by the way his left leg was stretched out at an angle that it hurt, but he looked better than he had in a while. Well, god knew Blair was a big believer in running away. He'd been brought up to it, and it was something he was good at. Maybe it was time to try it again.

He looked back into the mirror. He hadn't meant to take Jim with him this time, was all. And then a thought that had been hovering at the back of his mind ever since they'd taken this crazy road trip finally crystallized, or maybe he simply let it come into focus: in six weeks, the next class at the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission would start. Six weeks. For a moment he froze, toothbrush still in hand. Then he heard Jim sigh and move restlessly on his bed, and he focused on Jim's needs instead. They were easier to deal with: more concrete, more immediate.

Instead of a big car, Jim bought an old Toyota pickup. White with black smudges and a long scratch over the right rear bumper. "My wife backed into the mailbox," the seller explained, and indeed, the mailbox looked backed into. By the time the transaction was completed and the rental returned to the airport, Blair was exhausted and Jim was clearly not well.

"You're running a fever," Blair accused him on the ride back to the Inn.

"Fuck off," Jim said, his eyes closed against the late afternoon sunlight. It had been another broiling day and both men were sweat-stained and dirty. The Toyota didn't have air conditioning so the windows were open, and Blair's curls were mashed into a ponytail that was coming down. It would take him a half hour to comb it out, he knew from experience, and then Jim would yell at him for shedding.

But Jim went straight to bed, sweaty and dirty as he was. Blair persuaded him to take two ibuprofen and drink a glass of water, but nothing more. He also put ice in the shower cap he'd found in a tiny package in the bathroom, wrapped it in a damp towel, and laid it on top of Jim's wound, which was warm. Jim lay on top of the covers, eyes closed, skin drawn into tiny goosebumps from the air conditioning and ice pack. "You dialed down?" Blair whispered, and he nodded minutely. "Then go to sleep," Blair instructed him, and Jim sighed deeply. As if given permission, he fell into a deep sleep, snoring slightly. Blair turned on the white noise generator and shut himself in the bathroom to take a cool shower and drink a gallon of water.

They stayed in again the next day; Blair called Robert to explain that Jim wasn't quite well yet. Robert was effusively worried and wanted to run errands for them. It was with difficulty that Blair persuaded him that Jim only needed rest and quiet. They had room service wait on them, and Jim napped several hours, then read quietly, while Blair wrote another email to his mother, saving it to his harddrive but not sending it. He hadn't sent a single one yet.

Around seven that night, the phone in the room rang. "Hello?" Blair asked curiously.

"Hi," a young woman's voice said, sounding uncertain. "This is Tina Watson. I'm a music major at Notre Dame. My friend's cousin is Robert James, and he suggested I give you a call. He says you're looking for a place to stay this summer."

Blair caught Jim's eye; he sat up straighter in bed, obviously listening in. "Yeah, we are. Do you have a place?"

"Well, I don't, but I'm staying in one you might be interested in. It's way out in the country, about ten miles west of South Bend. It's a real nice place," she hastened, "but it's too big and too isolated for me by myself. A girlfriend is gonna let me stay with her, but I need to find someone to take care of this place. Professor Wilde from Notre Dame lends it to his students in the summer. Do you think you'd be interested?"

"You say it's a big place? More than one bedroom?"

"Oh, yeah. Five bedrooms, and a big study the professor uses, and a great kitchen. He's a wonderful cook. Um, a two-car garage. A big screened-in porch so you can sit out at night and not get eaten by mosquitoes."

"It sounds great," Blair told her, and Jim nodded, looking better than he had in two days. "When can we see it?"

"Well, I'm spending the night with my girlfriend here in town. I could come by tomorrow and take you there."

"That'd be great. What time?"

She laughed, still sounding shy and now a little embarrassed. "Well, I was going to a party tonight, so I'd like to sleep in. Would noon be okay?"

Blair had to smile; it wasn't that long ago he'd been partying all night and sleeping till noon. "Noon would be fine. We'll meet you in the lobby."

"Great," she enthused. "What a relief. I really couldn't stay out there much longer. See you tomorrow."

"Have a good time at the party," Blair told her, and hung up. He looked at Jim, whose eyebrows were raised.

"Why do you suppose she can't stay there?" he asked Blair, who shrugged.

"To far from town to party and get home?" he suggested, only partially facetiously. "You can ask her tomorrow."

He went to bed feeling happier than he had in a long time. A house, a car, and a job, although a non-paying one. And Jim, he added as he drifted into a contented sleep. And Jim. For six weeks, he reminded himself, but he fell asleep deciding how to approach the task of inventorying all those cartons.

Aside from the slight smell of manure and a slow oil leak, the Toyota seemed to be working out fine, Blair thought, as he followed Tina along a narrow, pot-holed road to the house in the country the next day. Jim was leaning half out the window like a dog trying to cool off in the breeze. The land was as flat as if ironed, covered by tall gold grasses that stood motionless in the early afternoon sun. It was over ninety degrees, with ninety percent humidity.

At last they pulled into a graveled driveway. "I saw that house from miles back," Jim told Blair, sounding a bit awed. "I couldn't figure out what it was -- the light and flatness must distort my vision somehow."

"We'll have to test that," Blair said promptly. "What else do you see?"

"Nothing. Really, not a damn thing. Just the house, the grass, and those trees over there. It must be miles to the nearest neighbor."

The driveway was long sweep of gravel, leading to a two-story brick home that looked like something out of Life magazine in the fifties: red brick, wide front porch, two enormous elms on either side. Blair pulled into the open garage, which stood separate from the house and slightly to its rear, with a lightning rod and a tiny satellite dish on the roof; the shade was a blessing. He staggered from the truck, and hurried to the passenger side to help Jim out. The truck really was too small for someone Jim's size, but the price had been right and it was an automatic, which meant Jim could drive it in an emergency, something Blair sincerely hoped did not occur.

Tina climbed out of her Taurus. She was a pretty girl, tall with long dark hair, Blair had noticed, and had also noticed that he'd started flirting with her right away, almost on auto-pilot. He didn't even know why; she was too young for him, and it wasn't as though he were looking for a relationship right now. Right now, his relationship with Jim was all he could handle, and some days, even it was too much.

"Well, let's go inside," she said, and Blair thought she sounded a bit hesitant. However, she strode off toward the steps up to the veranda, leaving Blair to follow with Jim at his side.

"I don't know," he murmured as he helped Jim up the steps. "This is awfully isolated. And it's two stories. How are you going to manage stairs? This is nuts."

"Chill out, Sandburg," was all Jim said. "Let's just take a look first before we panic."

Well, I wasn't exactly panicking, Blair thought, but kept silent. Instead, once they'd made it to the top of the steps, he said, "This place is huge."

Jim didn't answer; Blair looked up at him, so near that he could feel the aura of sweat escaping from Jim's shirt. He was looking away from the house, into the sea of grass and, beyond that, fields of tall crinkly corn lined up row on row for as far as Blair could see. He watched Jim for nearly a minute, ignoring Tina's chatter as she unlocked the door, until he grew concerned that his friend had fallen into a zone. "Jim?" he murmured, and gently squeezed his waist. Jim sighed heavily, almost a gasp, and then dropped his eyes to look back at him.

"It's hypnotic," he said hesitantly, but Blair understood. The flatness distorted his own mundane vision, and the heat made the gold and green fields shimmer seductively. The quiet, the heat, the humidity, the isolation -- it was as though they'd stepped into another century, one in which electric motors and gas engines hadn't yet been invented to foul the air and disturb the peace.

"Guys?" Tina asked, sounding a little annoyed, and Jim and Blair turned toward her. She stood in the doorway, the interior of the house dark to invisibility behind her. A smell of camphor and citronella and eucalyptus rolled out, strong enough that Blair could sense them. "Home, sweet home," Jim whispered, and it was his whisper, not the words, that made Blair laugh as they followed Tina across the threshold into what might become their summer home.

Six weeks, a small voice reminded him. Only for six weeks. But Blair ignored it and concentrated on his surroundings.

The house was huge, Blair rapidly discovered. The ground floor consisted of a long glassed-in foyer leading into a living room with a handsome baby grand piano and a massive fireplace. Not something they'd probably use this summer. Beyond it was a formal dining room, with an elaborately looped design of leaves molded into the ceiling. Then the kitchen, which, as Tina had told them, was like something from the Starship Enterprise, the gleaming black stove claiming center stage. Above it hung a cluster of copper-bottomed pots and pans. The double-door fridge and the dishwasher were also black. And beyond the kitchen was what could only be called a breakfast nook, an extrusion of the building into a bay window with padded seats built in and an octagonal table. Through the windows, Blair could see an unkempt lawn with a swing set and a, a glider, he thought it was called: a free-standing swing under its own canopy.

On the other side, the kitchen let out onto a utility porch with old-fashioned glass shutters over the window screens. A washer and dryer sat side by side under the windows, and there was a large enameled sink with an expanse of counter space on one side. Jim made his way to the back door and looked out through the curtained window. "Is that a lake?" he asked.

Tina laughed. "Yeah. A pond, I'd call it. There's a beat up old pier, half falling into the water, and a little rowboat tied to it."

"Any fishing?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't know, but it couldn't hurt to try."

"You are not climbing into a boat with that leg," Blair said sotto voce, not wanting to embarrass Jim, but already envisioning arguments about this.

To his surprise, Jim nodded. "Probably not," he agreed sadly. "But I could fish from the shore. Maybe take a lawn chair down there."

"Over here's the tv room," Tina called, and Blair realized they still hadn't seen all of the first floor. There was a hallway running from the main living room behind the dining room; off it branched several more rooms, including a large bathroom with an old-fashioned tub, the tv room, and what Tina referred to as the Professor's Study.

He liked that room immediately. It had a friendly, homey feeling to it, he thought, helping Jim sit on the deep maroon leather couch that ran the length of the room under the windows. There was a big desk, its surface clear except for a banker's lamp, and built-in bookcases, crammed with music dictionaries and reference books and bound sheet music.

"This sofa folds out into a bed," Tina explained, lifting a back cushion to show them the strap that pulled the bed out. "I started sleeping down here because it's cooler. You get a good cross breeze when you open these windows and the ones in the kitchen." These windows were shuttered against the brilliant heat of the day; Blair flicked a louver and saw the driveway leading to the garage and, beyond that, more fields leading into a forest. Gingkos and black walnut trees, he thought, squinting against the light.

"Can you get upstairs?" Tina asked Jim solicitously.

"No, he can't." The two men glared at each other, but Jim obviously knew Blair was right. He settled back into the sofa and took a sip from the bottle of water they'd started carrying with them everywhere in defense against the heat.

"Okay," she said, and turned to Blair.

"Before we go, Tina. How much is the rent?"

"Oh, Professor Wilde doesn't charge rent. You just have to pay the utilities. Doesn't come to too awful much. It's mostly electricity; the water is from a well. He just doesn't want the house sitting empty for three months. It's so isolated, no telling what might happen."

"I think we can afford that, Chief."

Blair nodded. Well, it didn't matter if they liked the house or not, which he did; if he was going to sponge off Jim, he wanted to do so as cheaply as possible. Free rent would help.

"Why aren't you staying?" Jim asked her.

She blushed. "Well. Like I said, it's awful isolated. And to be honest, I get a little scared at night. You know how houses settle? And creak. Sometimes I wake up --" she laughed nervously. "It's ridiculous, really. I'm embarrassed to talk about it."

"It can be hard to live alone," Blair assured her, remembering the warehouse and its rats scuttling in the night, and how much happier he'd been once he'd moved into the loft. How much safer he felt knowing Jim was just a few feet overhead when he'd awaken from his own nightmares.

Then for the first time since they had left Cascade, he remembered the dream he'd had the morning of their departure. It bothered him to think of that odd little nightmare hanging around in his head, all but forgotten. As though it could have gotten up to mischief while Blair's attention was elsewhere.

Ridiculous, he thought, and followed Tina out of the Professor's Study, leaving Jim behind.

The stairwell was a narrow, old-fashioned one set off the kitchen. As Tina set foot on the first step, Blair noticed the door next to it. "Where's this go?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, backing down and turning around. "To the basement." She hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and they peered down. "There's nothing much down there. You can go down if you like."

He shook his head. "Later. Let's see upstairs first."

"Good." She shut the door firmly behind her; he noticed that she locked it, too.

Upstairs were four large bedrooms and one bath, this one a bit more modern. "This is the best bedroom, I think," she told him, letting him enter the bedroom at the rear of the house. There were windows on two walls, low wide ones with gauzy drapes floating over them, dimming the luminous day beyond them. A king bed was set kitty-corner between the windows, with tables on either side and a matching chest of drawers against an interior wall.

"It is nice," he agreed, looking around. The walls were white, the ceiling a very pale pink. The bed was an island of white: white bedspread mounded with different shapes and sizes of white pillows. There were small lamps on both tables, and full bookcases under the windows. He could picture himself sleeping here, drifting off as a breeze riffled the pages of his book.

"Yeah. I used to sleep here. It just gets so hot some nights, though, and downstairs stays cooler."

"Yeah," he said idly, staring out one of the windows, the one away from the road they'd driven in on. It looked out over endless fields of corn standing nearly motionless in the heat, the broad, identical corrugated leaves flashing in the sunlight. The air smelled rich and thick; he wondered, as he had so often, what it smelled like to Jim.

He dropped his gaze lower and realized there was a small vegetable garden in the side yard. "Hey, are those tomato plants?"

"Yeah." Tina stood next to him and pointed. "And summer squash and eggplant and sweet peppers and some cucumbers and see the posts? Those'll be string beans. I was raised on a farm in Michigan and miss having fresh veggies in the house. My dad still comes to the farmer's market every Saturday."

Blair turned, one hand on the warm window sash. It was a lot warmer up here than downstairs, and he could feel sweat trickling down his side, pooling at the elastic waist of his shorts. "Farmer's market?"

"Yeah. Every Saturday. You haven't been?" He shook his head. "Oh, I'll draw you a map. It's great this time of year. Wait till you try the blueberries."

Blair was sure he heard Jim moan downstairs, and smiled. "Yeah, please, draw us a map." He followed her down, happy to escape to the cooler parts of the house.

"So," Tina asked a few minutes later, sitting in the Professor's Study, "do you think you want to stay here?"

Blair turned to look at Jim, who was sprawled on the couch, empty water bottle lying next to him. Thin bars of sunlight fell over him through the louvered blinds. As he had for the last few weeks, Blair focused his attention on Jim's left upper calf, where Zeller had shot him. The wound was healing well, but the damaged muscle would take a while to regenerate. The scars weren't terrible; Jim wasn't frightening children in the streets, but the skin was still red and shiny. When he was on his leg too long, it would swell a bit and grow warm.

But right now, he looked well and comfortable. After a few seconds had passed, Blair murmured, "Jim?"

He nodded, and sat up straighter. "Yeah, Tina. Are you sure it'll be okay, though? I mean, this professor left you here, not two strangers from across the country."

"I can write him -- he's in England for the summer -- but I think it'll be okay. I mean, yeah, you're strangers, but you're grown-ups," and she blushed a little when she said that, "plus you're cops, plus you're working at Notre Dame."

Well, it wasn't entirely correct, Blair thought, but close enough. He liked the house, its size and location, but it was isolated, and there were all those stairs. Unless Jim came to school with him each day, he'd be pretty much stuck here.

"I checked out the tv," Jim finally said, looking a little sheepish. "They must get a couple hundred channels."

"Yeah, and there's a vegetable garden out back," Blair told him. "Plus that pond. Maybe some fresh fish for dinner one night."

Jim looked at Blair, really studying him. Blair was accustomed to these investigations by now; hell, he'd trained Jim to do them. So he sat patiently, letting Jim check his heart and lungs and, he had a suspicion, his synaptic firings. At last Blair said, "Tina, the thing is, we're only here for a few weeks, so we can't take it off your hands for the summer. But we do need to get out of the hotel --"

"That's okay. That would give me time to find someone else. It's just -- I just would like to get out, you know?"

The two men stared at each other again, gauging each other's feelings. Finally, Jim said, "Yeah. Yeah, if you're comfortable leaving things to us, we'll take good care of the place till you can find someone else."

"Oh, that's great," Tina said, bouncing up. "What a relief! Normally I go home for the summers, but I'm taking a couple classes and needed a place to stay. I thought this would be perfect -- I can practice piano here all day and nobody can hear a thing -- but it's just too lonely for me, you know?"

Blair nodded, looking at her. She looked so relieved and pleased; he was glad Jim had agreed. Already she was pulling the keys off a ring, handing them to Jim, explaining what went where. "The water's on a well," she told him, "so when the power goes out, you need to be careful. I keep bottled water in the kitchen; you'll wanna replace it regularly. It goes kinda flat after it's sat in the heat for a while."

"How often does the power go out?"

"Well, pretty often, but not for long. Sometimes after a storm, and sometimes for no reason. Oh, the candles and matches are here." She babbled on. Blair let Jim handle the arrangements. He wandered into the kitchen and looked around. They'd be cooking here, and eating. Jim sitting at that table, reading the paper, talking over their day. He smiled at the image. The kitchen was on the north side of the house and a tall cottonwood stood just outside the windows, its shade falling on the house that early afternoon. Its leaves made a cool rustling sound, a lot like rain pattering on dry ground.

He caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye and turned to look out the breakfast nook's windows. Nothing there but the tomato plants, shivering in the heat.

"Chief?" He hurried back to the study. "I think we're ready to go." Blair understood this as an embarrassed plea to help Jim out of the couch, so he stood next to him and put his hands on Jim's upper arm.

"One, two, three," he whispered, and pulled. Using the cane as leverage, Jim pushed his good leg into the floor and stood, then stretched.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and Blair patted his arm before letting him go.

"You wanna spend the night here?"

Jim nodded. "Tomorrow, if you don't mind."

"Sounds like a plan," Blair agreed, and they started back toward the front door.

"Um," Tina said in a hesitant voice, standing near the piano in the front room. Jim planted the cane and stood nearly at attention. She lightly touched the piano's keys, a ghostly melody welling up from its body. "Just. This is really silly," she said in a rush. "But one reason I'm leaving is I. Well. Sometimes I think -- it's like someone's trying to get into the house."

"Someone's tried to break in?" Blair asked, concerned. "Have you reported it?"

"No one ever really broke in. It's just a feeling. Being all alone out here, you know." She looked at them, pink in her face. "Like I said, it's silly."

Blair glanced back at Jim, who nodded. "It's okay," he finally said, and Jim nodded at that, too.

"Yeah, it's okay, Tina. We'll be fine."

"Good. Yeah. Of course." She turned and practically ran out the door and down the steps. Jim looked at Blair, one eyebrow raised. Blair shrugged.

"Maybe it's haunted," he suggested lightly, Jim rolled his eyes. "Been there, done that?"

"Come on, Sandburg," was all he said, and they got themselves back to the car, the interior baking hot even hidden in the garage from the sun.

They agreed to move out the next day, after working at least a few hours in the library, "Since that's ostensibly why we're here, man." Jim agreed, smiling sadly at him from across the cab of their new pickup. Blair was tired, and feeling a little anxious, as though something were pressing against his heart. He knew it was the dissertation mess, and Wendy's threat. "Jim," he started, but then he pulled into the hotel's parking lot and found he couldn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say.

Robert was happy to see them the next day, and fussed over Jim, getting him settled in a comfortable chair next to a desk he'd dragged in from somewhere in the library, making them coffee, asking about the house. "You're sure you're up for this?" he asked.

Blair watched them, mildly irritated with Robert's attentions but equally grateful for them. A little case of hero worship, he diagnosed; he suffered from that himself. Jim looked like the hero he was, and with the cane and limp, he was even more affecting. It would do Jim good to be fussed over by someone other than Blair, he supposed. Still.

"Look, I've been worried about your, about your injury," Robert said shyly, and held out a small square of plastic to Jim.

"What is this?" he asked, taking it and turning it over in his hand. "Oh, wait, Robert."

"No, please. It's just a temporary one. Just till you feel better."

"What is it?" Blair asked.

Jim flushed, and Blair saw he was a little annoyed. "Handicapped parking pass."

"Hey, Robert, great! Thank you."

"I just didn't want Jim to have to walk too far in this heat. You can park right outside the front doors on the east side of the library."

"You didn't have to do this," Jim told him, his voice rough.

"I know. But you're helping me by doing all this. It's the least I could do."

Jim nodded his head; Blair could tell he was trying to be grateful. Or at least appear to be grateful. He knew he'd be hearing about this later.

When Robert finally returned to his own work, Blair leaned against the boxes and said, a little maliciously, "Robert likes you."

"Well, I like Robert," Jim said primly, sipping Robert's coffee.

"Not like he likes you."

"How do you know?" Jim raised his eyebrows.

"How do I -- you goof." They grinned at each other, for a moment, back to their usual selves. One of the best surprises about Jim, in Blair's mind, was his dry sense of humor and his deadpan delivery. It made him a great cop and poker player; it also made Blair laugh. But then, as always, the weight of everything that had happened crashed down on Blair and he turned back to the boxes. "Listen, I've been thinking. We need to do a straight inventory -- just find out what's in here. How about I call out to you the book title and author and you enter it into my laptop?"

Jim nodded. "I can do that. Just get me all set up." So Blair booted up the laptop and arranged some boxes as a table for Jim, then launched Excel.

"Just type in the author in this column and the title next to it. That way I can do an alpha sort. Oh, and what box it's in. Once we know what's here, we can figure out how to organize it, and then what it's worth."

"Why would that change what a book is worth?"

"Well, some of them might be part of complete sets, and they'd be more valuable than books from incomplete sets. Or there might be several editions of the same book. Won't really know until we see it all."

Jim nodded. "Gotcha, Chief. Just remember you'll have to spell out some of the names. And get yourself something to drink; you'll be doing the thirsty work, and you shouldn't get dehydrated in this heat."

"It's cold in here," he said, even as he pulled quarters out of his pocket. "You want anything?" Jim shook his head. Blair kept his own head down as he left the room to buy a bottle of water from the vending machines on the next floor down. He was genuinely touched by Jim's simple observation, but told himself that Jim was a decent man who by his very nature took care of those around him. Even Robert. It was just who he was.

He'd calmed somewhat by the time he'd returned, water bottle slippery with condensation in his hand. Jim had organized a template, labeling the columns and giving the document a header, he saw. Thorough. Jim was always thorough.

So they started the actual work that had brought Blair all this way. Jim insisted he start with the box labeled "1," which took some time to find and then had to be disinterred from beneath three other heavy boxes. "Jesus," he grunted, trying to rearrange the cartons, "this'll be my new work out."

Once Blair finally opened the box and started unpacking it, Jim had to create a second document to list the stuff the movers had packed away. Little knickknacks, mostly, and tchotchkes. Some might be valuable, but Blair had no way to judge. Candlesticks, ashtrays, vases, little containers made of wood or papier-mache, a bottle of eau de lavender, still half full. On and on that list grew, annoying both men. "What kind of library was this," Jim growled when Blair had pulled from the box a bouquet of faded plastic flowers. Blair stuck a phony poinsettia in his curls and struck a pose.

"Is it me?" he asked, and Jim grinned and shook his head.

"Oh, it's you all right. You just need a rose between your teeth and we'll be set."

By noon, Blair was getting hoarse. "Enough," Jim decided. "Let's take the rest of the day off, get moved in." They'd checked out of the hotel that morning, so all their luggage was in the Toyota. They needed to do some grocery shopping, but Tina had assured them they wouldn't need anything else. "Get some lunch, head on out there. Start fresh tomorrow."

Blair was easily persuaded.

Their first night in the house, Jim sat in the kitchen reading the local paper while Blair steamed rice and veggies on the supersonic stove. It was gas, which he was used to from the loft, but the flames had digital controls and temperature gauges. Blair was a little concerned about the Mauviel copper-bottomed pots; he wasn't sure how to clean them, but figured Jim would know.

After dinner, they sat quietly together at the table. Blair thought Jim looked tired and promised himself to take a good look at the gunshot wound in his calf. He was tired himself; it had been a big day. Starting the new job, moving into the house. Everything felt surreal. He couldn't figure out how he'd gotten here, how his life had turned upside down so quickly. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to rest. Slowly he became aware of how quiet it was. No neighbors, no passing cars, no television noises seeping into the house. It was just Jim and Blair and several hundred acres of corn.

When he opened his eyes, Jim was studying him thoughtfully. For a moment, he thought they'd talk, but then Jim was pushing himself away and up from the table, using the table and the chair back to help himself up. "No, wait, Jim," Blair protested, jumping to his feet. "I'll clean up. Just sit there and keep me company."

"You can't do everything, Sandburg," he growled, but sat obediently, and Blair thought again how tired he seemed.

"Look. I'll just rinse these and stick them in the dishwasher. Then you can shower and get to bed. Oh, hell," he added. "I'll have to get you upstairs to a shower, or else you'll have to use the bathtub. Do you think you can get in and out of it?"

"I've been bathing myself since I was two." But behind the irritation, Blair heard concern.

"Yeah, yeah," he said lightly, flipping the dishtowel over his shoulder and ferrying their dishes to the counter. "I'll help you in and out, but beyond that, you're on your own." He would have sworn that Jim blushed as he turned to rinse the dishes.

"Shit," Jim muttered, "shit, shit, shit, shit," as Blair had to steady him while he lifted his bad leg into the filling tub. "I can't believe this."

"Well, we could've waited for another place . . ."

"No, I wanted to get settled." He was standing nude in the tub, flushed from exertion and embarrassment, Blair assumed.

"Uh, call me when you need to get out," he said and turned.

"Chief." When he looked back, Jim was fire-engine red. "I can't sit down."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Blair started babbling, and grabbed Jim's arm to act as a counterweight as he slowly bent his knees. "Does it hurt much?"

"No," Jim grunted, his tone belying his words. "Oh, fuck." Blair shook his head but held on until Jim was finally seated and had stretched out his legs in the tub. "Christ, Sandburg. I'm sorry."

"No, no. Man, you're a hero, you saved Megan and Simon, don't be stupid, it's an honor to help you, I'm just so sorry --"

"Chief. Sandburg. Blair." At last Blair released Jim's arm and stood up. "Thanks."

"Yeah. Call me."

He went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. It still needed wiping, but he was so tired. For a moment, he thought he might cry; the pressure in his throat made it hard to swallow, and his eyes burned. He put his hands over his face and sighed heavily. Shit. How had everything gone so wrong so fast? What the hell was he doing in Indiana?

And he was worried about Jim's leg. They needed to find a doctor, get it looked at. It looked okay to Blair, and Jim had been trained as a medic, so presumably he'd recognize a problem, but frankly, taking care of himself wasn't one of Jim's strong points. Blair would feel a lot better if someone with the letters MD after their name reassured him.

At last he rubbed his face and looked around the strange kitchen. His home for the next five and a half weeks. Just until the academy starts, he whispered to himself, and felt his stomach turn over. He shut his eyes again and started counting his breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. It's okay, it's okay, he chanted. He suddenly wanted to call his mom, hear her sweet voice. Tomorrow, maybe. Right now he needed to tidy up, haul Jim's ass out of that tub, take his own shower, oh, shit, he had to make up Jim's bed in the Professor's Study. He pushed himself up from the table, as wearily as Jim had, and started to work.

Jim sat in the tepid water, staring into space, and wondered how the hell he'd gotten to Indiana. He splashed his face and rubbed it, then tried to relax back against the tub. Now that he was actually in the water, it felt pretty good, although getting in had been mortifying. Thank god Sandburg was so calm and accepting about these things.

His leg hurt. He wouldn't admit it to Blair, but it just fucking hurt. And he was pretty sure that limping on it was pulling on the muscles in his calf and in his back. Even his neck ached. Well, he'd have a good soak, take some aspirin, and sleep until he woke up tomorrow. At least the wound itself looked good and seemed to be healing well.

He cast his thoughts back over the day. Their first day at the new job, if it could be called a job; their first day in the new house. The work they were doing in the library wasn't bad; he'd enjoyed playing on Sandburg's laptop, watching Blair stare in amazement at some of the shit he was pulling out of those boxes. The plastic flowers, in particular, had amused Jim, and he smiled, remembering them in Blair's hair.

He was a little embarrassed at Robert's attention, but also flattered, he admitted. The way Robert looked at him -- as if he really were the hero Blair called him. Although he was a little annoyed about the handicapped parking permit. He wasn't handicapped. Just not entirely well at the moment. But if it meant not traipsing miles across campus in the heat, he supposed it'd be worth it, to save Blair the effort.

He could hear Blair out in the kitchen, putzing around. Making tea, it sounded like, and then walking back and forth through the house. He listened carefully, trying to decipher the sounds. The floor creaking. Fabric over fabric. A soft metallic sound. Coming from the study, he thought. Making up the bed, that's what he was doing; Jim could hear the sheets being shaken out and settling onto the mattress.

He splashed around a bit, washing himself, trying to get the residue of the day off his body before crawling into bed. He was so tired. He couldn't imagine how Blair was doing it, working so hard to take care of him. It was embarrassing; that was the only word for it. And he'd never been a gracious patient. But Blair deserved better, right now. His whole life discarded like an empty candy wrapper, left in the gutters of Cascade.

Goddammit.

Perhaps it was the ache of his leg and or just the frustration of still being so dependent that brought back emotions he'd tried to leave behind in Cascade. More probably, though, it was thinking about Blair in the library today. So happy, doing the work he'd been trained for. How could Blair have been so careless about work he loved so much? It still made Jim a little crazy to realize that apparently Blair had never thought any of it through. Not once in four years. He'd spent all that time writing a dissertation about one man -- one freak, Jim thought, embracing every ugliness his psyche suggested -- with no idea what would happen when he finished. Apparently he really had believed he'd be able to protect Jim's identity. How could he have thought that? Jim had known better all along. He was no anthropologist, but he knew damn well that if you told the world you had the holy grail buried in your backyard, then you'd better be prepared to dig it up when the photographers came around.

Jim had even taken a perverse sort of pleasure in imagining the laboratory tests and experiments which would be sure to follow the publication of Blair's thesis. As excruciating as they would have been, the process would have delayed the inevitable for just a little while longer. Blair would have stayed by his side through it all, Jim knew that. He wouldn't have left Jim for that tenure-track job. At least not until his dissertation had been validated.

It had been a bigger shock even than that first microphone stuck through the window of the truck to discover Blair had never seen their future that way at all. He really had imagined that he could come up with a way to publish without compromising Jim's identity. Without impacting Jim's life at all. Just assumed that somehow things would turn out okay, both he and Jim perfectly happy. Nothing had ever shaken that blithe optimism. Not Lee Brackett, not Jim's reaction to the introductory chapter of his thesis, not even Alex Barnes. Through everything, Blair had never stopped believing the world was saving a place for him in the sun.

Jim felt a dull pain somewhere in the region of his solar plexus, and his eyes and nose prickled, as though he were on the verge of tears. Blair's naivete had infuriated him. In the first hours and days after the dissertation had been made public, the realization of just how foolish and innocent Blair had really been all along had made him so angry he'd barely been able to stand being in the same room with his partner. But now, sitting in a bathtub full of rapidly cooling water somewhere in the wilds of Indiana, Jim realized that if it had lain in his power to return any one thing of all that Blair had lost, he would give Blair back not his career or his academic standing or even his reputation, but that infuriating, childlike optimism.

He was ready to climb out, his fingers pruning from the water. He grabbed one edge of the tub with both hands and pulled his legs under him. Then, using his good leg, he tried to stand up, but the tub was slippery and his body was twisted awkwardly; he couldn't get any leverage. He sat down heavily, splashing water onto the tile floor. Sighing, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor tonight, and shouted, "Chief!"

The door flew open and Blair was there, hair falling out of his ponytail and sticking to his sweaty face. "Yeah, you okay? Ready to get out?"

Jim nodded. Blair came up behind him and slid his hands under Jim's arms. "Get your good leg ready to push off, okay? Now, one, two, and three," and Blair pulled Jim upright. For a little guy, he had a lot of power, and Jim rose like Neptune from the rolling bath water. "Towel," Blair said, handing him one, and then slipped back out the door. The process hadn't taken a minute, and Jim hadn't had time to be embarrassed. Well, any more embarrassed than he already was.

The study was made up for him, the couch opened into a bed and pale green sheets neatly tucked in. A glass of water stood on the end table and one light gleamed. The windows were open and the louvers raised a bit so a warm breeze could float through the room.

"Hey, look," Blair said, coming into the study behind him. "I found a stash of candles. I'm putting a couple in here in case we lose power like Tina said. Some in the bathroom and kitchen, and a couple up where I'm sleeping."

"Where are you sleeping, anyway?"

"Master bedroom. It's warm, but there are lots of windows plus a fan, so I should be okay. If not, I'll come down here and sleep in the living room."

"Does that couch make out into a bed, too?"

"Naw, but it's long enough for me to sleep on. Don't worry about it."

"Leave a light on, would ya, Chief? In the hallway or bathroom or something? I don't want you to break your neck the first night here."

"You got it." Blair looked up from the end table where he'd sat two candles in glass votives and a box of Diamond matches. "I'm gonna go up now, take a shower and go to bed. You need anything before I go?"

"No." Blair started to leave; before he reached the door, Jim said shyly, "Thanks, Chief."

Blair looked back at him. In the dim light, he looked tired, with circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth. "Not a problem. You call if you need anything."

Jim nodded, and watched Blair go. He lay down in the strange bed, trying to get comfortable. It was queen size, so he had some room, but the mattress was a little thin. Still, the sheets were cool and smelled faintly of lavender, and the breeze coming through the windows above him was nice. He listened to Blair climb the stairs and then, a few minutes later, the water start up. He turned up his hearing and followed Blair into the shower, making sure he was okay. Blair was sighing deeply and repeatedly. The sighs of a man who had found out the hard way that things didn't always turn out for the best, no matter how smart you were or how hard you worked. A few minutes more and the water was silenced until Blair brushed his teeth, and then Jim heard him climb into his own bed, the mattress springs creaking like a honeymoon joke.

"Good night, Chief," Jim whispered, sorry that Blair couldn't hear him.

Blair was awake at dawn, and he lay in bed staring up at the pale pink ceiling that seemed to glow a little with the yellow light of the sunrise. It was going to be another scorcher. The air was still and cool, but it smelled of yesterday's hot earth and humidity. Blair had the impression that a sound had awakened him, perhaps Jim moving around downstairs, but as he lay quietly and listened, he heard nothing but bird calls floating in his open windows. He'd slept well, dreamlessly and hard. He hoped Jim had, too.

He got up and went to the windows to look out at the world that would be their home for the next five and a half weeks. The morning light softened the edges of the landscape, and there was a faint mist clinging to the ground, too faint for him to really see except for the way it made the fields of corn look like a vast body of water stretching out on all sides. As though this house were a ship, the gauzy curtains its sails, hanging windlessly now, marooned upon a green Sargasso Sea.

Blair headed downstairs in search of coffee. It occurred to him that they had come a hell of a long way for just a good night's sleep, but he wasn't about to say it hadn't been worth it.

He found that Tina had left them a handful of coffee beans sealed in a plastic baggie and tucked on a shelf in the freezer door. Sending his silent but heart-felt gratitude out to her, he dumped them into the electric grinder before it occurred to him that if Jim were still asleep, the noise of a coffee mill would certainly wake him up. Back at the loft, Blair had long since settled into the routine of grinding their coffee the night before, but set adrift as they were now, he was losing track of their habits.

He walked as quietly as he could to the door of Jim's room. Every floorboard seemed to betray him, but when Blair peeked in at Jim, he was still asleep after all. He lay sprawled on his back, his face pale and unlined in the morning light that made it through the shuttered windows.

Coffee could wait.

He went back to the kitchen and out through the utility porch. The washer and dryer reminded him that he and Jim only had clean clothes through Thursday. He'd better run a load of laundry when they got back from the library this afternoon. He looked out the windows over the machines. The shaggy lawn and geometric vegetable garden were lush and inviting in the morning light. The rising sun shone on the surface of the pond. He swung open the back door, and freed from the mediation of the glass shutters and the fine wire mesh of the window screens, the colors of the back yard were overwhelming, green and gold shimmering as the last of the fog burned away.

Blair took a deep, grateful breath and then went down the back stairs, his flip-flops slapping against the wooden steps. A cement walk led around the house to the front, but Blair set off across the lawn to the garden. The grass was wet with dew, and after the first few steps his feet were just as wet. The grass hadn't gone to seed yet, but it was getting pretty long. They'd have to see if there was a lawnmower around here this weekend. The thought tickled him. Mowing the lawn. How suburban. How domestic.

Far more tidy than the lawn, the garden was laid out in a neat grid of raised beds, deeply mulched pathways in between. Little wooden stakes like popsicle sticks bore the names of the crops and a date -- the date it was planted, Blair supposed. The names weren't enlightening. Purple Peacock? Sweet Million? Patty-pan? Okay, that last one he recognized, once he caught sight of the flattened, round vegetables sheltering among the lush vines. White summer squash. Good when steamed, exquisite if stewed slowly in a little herbed butter. He wondered if there were herbs as well, and was happy to find one of the raised beds was planted with chives and tarragon and basil, sage and a creeping thyme that spilled over the weathered boards at the end of the bed.

Blair ran his finger along the stalk of a tomato plan that bore tiny green tomatoes in clusters like grapes. The distinctive smell of the plant made him smile, and he wondered who had planted all these vegetables. It must have been Tina, since it wouldn't have made sense for Professor Wilde to do it before leaving for the summer. Now that he thought about it, he did remember Tina saying she had planted the garden because she missed home grown vegetables. It made him a bit melancholy to think of her having gone to so much trouble only to abandon her little garden.

And not only the garden, but the piano and her peace and quiet as well. Everything she said she'd wanted out of a summer house. Yet she'd been so eager -- happy, even -- to leave it all behind when he and Jim had agreed to stay here.

Blair looked back toward the house. The rising sun reflected blindingly on the windowpanes. It was getting warmer, and the glare of the sun on the glass made it seem hotter still. The garden would need water. Already some of the plants were looking a little limp. He pushed aside the lower leaves and found narrow black hoses laid in a zig-zag pattern across the beds. That simplified matters. He walked around the garden looking for a spigot, and found one at last hidden in a little hinged metal box set flush with the ground and almost invisible under the overgrown grass. Excellent. He crouched down and gave the knob a cautious half-turn. For a moment nothing happened, then he heard a hissing sound, and he smelled water before he saw it, tiny rivulets spilling from the irrigation lines.

Blair straightened up with a pleased sense of accomplishment. He understood why Tina hadn't been able to resist setting out vegetable plants with such nice beds already in place, though he did wonder who had constructed the garden and laid the irrigation lines in the first place, if Professor Wilde spent every summer in Europe. The previous owners, perhaps. Maybe the same people who had built the swing set at the end of the lawn. It was no pre-fab model from Toys-R-Us. Instead, a substantial length of pipe had been affixed high up between two black walnut trees, and three swings with wooden seats were suspended from rusting chains. It must have been built years ago, for the tree trunks had grown bulging knots over the bolts through the pipe.

Blair walked over, the soles of his feet sticking wetly now to the rubber of his flip flops. He was tempted to kick them off and run barefoot through the grass, which grew as thickly under the swings as everywhere else. Obviously no one had played here for a long, long time. He tested one seat with his hand, leaning to put some weight on it. The wood was worn smooth and weathered, but aside from a little shower of rust from the chains, it seemed sturdy enough. Unable to resist, he turned and sat down. The chain groaned as he pushed himself off. Forward and back, having to stretch his legs out straight to keep from hitting the ground at the nadir of his careful arc. The wind in his face was cooler than the warming morning air, and he imagined some child's long afternoons here. Swinging in the heat of the summer sun, hour after hour flying by as the world rose and fell, and everything seemed possible, and everything was good.

He dropped his feet and stopped himself hard, half-stumbling up out of the swing. Maybe he should go wake up Jim, be sure they had time to fix some breakfast and unpack what few belongings they'd brought with them in their hasty departure.

And what a dumb idea that was. If Jim wanted to sleep all day long today, then that was just fine too. Better than fine. Jim was here to rest, and he'd done precious little of it so far. Those boxes in the library would still be there on Monday. Probably a year from now. They were just things. Nothing like fragile, changeable human lives. Those could fall apart in the blink of an eye, and nothing you did could ever put them back together again.

Blair took off fast, walking for the lake. Five and a half weeks, he thought as he reached the edge of the lawn. He had exactly that much time to pretend that his whole life consisted of this house in the middle of a cornfield, vegetables ripening under the summer sun and Jim inside, sleeping late and without nightmares. So he'd better make the most of it.

A narrow path led down through the meadow. Tall grasses brushed his legs high up on either side, and thoughts of chiggers and ticks made him feel itchy and determined to take a hot shower before getting dressed. The sun was warm on his shoulders, even through the fabric of the tee shirt he'd slept in, and the air was very still.

The pond which had looked golden from the house turned stagnant brown once he reached it. It had been a dry summer evidently, for the pond had shrunk within its banks, leaving a wide shoreline of dried mud. Blair followed the muddy beach around to the little pier of weathered gray wood. The rowboat Tina had told him about was moored at the end. It floated nearly five feet below the pier, which rose from the flat surface of the dying pond like the skeleton of some great, drowned beast. A gingko grew at the edge of the meadow, but cast no shade on the dock in the slanting dawn light.

Blair walked out and sat down at the end of the pier, his legs dangling high above the water. The wooden planks were already hot under his thighs. He could smell the water, which seemed as choked and thick as the motionless air above it. He didn't think Jim would want to fish here, which was a shame -- he'd looked so wistful at the possibility. Blair remembered the flashing clear rivers where Jim had taught him to cast a fly, and couldn't imagine wanting to eat anything that emerged from these unwholesome waters. He wasn't even sure there was anything alive in this pond. It looked muddy and dead, so different from the golden shine he'd glimpsed from the kitchen windows.

A lot of things which seemed promising from a distance looked very different when you got up close, he thought, and this shit-brown pond suddenly seemed a fitting symbol for his life. One aspect of his life, anyway. The one that had risen up in a dirty, frothing tide and washed everything away.

He'd fantasized about finishing his dissertation from the day he met Jim. He'd found a Sentinel, and Burton was right. He, Blair Sandburg, was right too, and he was gonna get the chance to show the whole world. In the early days he would lie awake at night in the loft, Jim sleeping overhead, and imagine the future shining like the sun ahead of him. Publication, the accolades of his peers, grant money to search for other sentinels -- actually, just landing a teaching job after he got his degree was a bright enough dream for a new anthro Ph.D., and he'd enjoyed that fantasy just as much as the more elaborate ones.

But as he began to write, the golden gleam started to fade and tarnish. The sun had gone behind the clouds after he finished the introductory chapter, and after that, with every word, practically, the future had grown darker. He hadn't been able to understand it. He was doing good work, he knew it. So why had every period he typed felt like another nail in his coffin? There were still some problems to work out, sure, but everything else had always come around sooner or later in his life. He'd never stopped believing that eventually a way to protect Jim's confidentiality would suggest itself, too.

But god, when Naomi had suddenly appeared behind him after he'd finally typed, 'the end', he'd nearly jumped out of his skin. And it hadn't been just the surprise of her sudden presence. You know, it was no wonder his mom had thought he was having self-esteem issues. He sure hadn't been acting like a man who'd just reached the culmination of the last six years of his life that evening. More like a murderer caught red-handed, trying to hide the corpse.

Something splashed, very quietly.

Blair started back violently, scraping the back of his knee on the rough wooden planking and losing his left sandal. It hit the surface of the lake with a splat and disappeared for an instant before slowly bobbing back up again.

Ah, great, just great. No way was he going in after it. Especially now that he knew the pond wasn't so dead after all. He scanned the surface, looking for some sign of what had disturbed the tranquility of the morning. He couldn't even see bubbles, but as he looked out across the pond, he realized the mist had returned. It covered the surface in a drifting white cloud, obscuring the far shoreline.

All at once, Blair decided he'd had enough. He got up and walked back quickly, watching where he placed his bare foot and hoping Jim was awake by now. The meadow had come alive during the short time he'd been out on the pier, and the insect song on both sides of him was brassy and loud enough to cover any other splashes that might have come from out on the muddy little lake. He looked up toward the house, and the reflection of the sun on the windows blinded him for an instant. He shaded his eyes, blinking, and saw that Jim was sitting on the back steps, still in a tee shirt and boxers, one cup of coffee in his hand, and a second on the step beside him.

Blair thought he'd never seen such a beautiful sight in his life. He grinned and waved at Jim, who raised his coffee cup in return, smiling back. When Blair was close enough from them to converse without shouting Jim said, predictably, "Lost a shoe?"

Blair mounted the stairs and picked up the coffee cup so he could sit down beside Jim. "Is that how you made detective?" he answered, being just as predictable and delighting in it. "The coffee smells great. Thanks."

Jim shrugged. "Beans were a little stale. Maybe we can do some grocery shopping this afternoon."

"Sounds like a plan. We need to get some laundry detergent too." Blair slurped happily at his own mug, which tasted pretty good to him. Of course by this point, even Maxwell House would have been welcome. "Did you sleep all right?"

"Like a log." Jim swung his good leg out, bumping his thigh against Blair's. "How about you? You were up pretty early."

"I slept good, too," Blair said, and then was content to sit in silence beside Jim, listening to the rattling, sonorous clamor of insects and birdsong. He raised his eyes at last to look out toward the lake, and saw it shining golden hot in the sun. "I think this is going to work out all right," he blurted out, half-panicked, and turned to look at Jim's face in profile.

Jim nodded and pointed out into the yard. "One of the swings is moving," he said, sounding faintly puzzled. "Do you feel a breeze?"

He was right. The middle swing was swaying gently. "Oh, that. I tried it out this morning."

"Ah." Jim didn't quite grin at him, but as he turned to Blair his eyes were happy. "So that's why you wanted this place. It has a playground."

"You bet, man." He stood up and stretched, then offered a hand to Jim. "You up for some breakfast?"

Instead of taking his hand, Jim touched the back of Blair's thigh. "You're bleeding."

Blair craned around, trying to see the back of his own leg. "It must have happened out on the dock. I'll wash it out when I get a shower. Does it look like I got any splinters?"

"Not that I can see," Jim pronounced after a moment.

"You can't see it, then there aren't any." He offered his hand again, and this time Jim allowed Blair to help him to his feet. He looked to Blair like his wound wasn't troubling him so much this morning, and that made Blair happy, too. "Let's see what Tina left us for breakfast," Blair said, and Jim slung his arm companionably around his shoulders as they went up the stairs together.

Later that morning, Blair went out back again to turn off the irrigation hose in the garden, and he saw, as the water oozing from the lines slowed to less than a trickle, that the middle swing was still moving ever so slightly in the windless morning air.

By the end of the next week, Jim realized he was trying to carve a routine for himself. He liked routine; he found it comforting, especially after their hasty flight from Cascade. Occasionally he would wonder about Simon or his co-workers in Major Crime, about the loft; even more rarely, he wondered what would happen if Wendy carried out her threat. But he argued the possibility away. She'd seemed sincere enough when she told Blair that she owed her life and career to them. Despite her threats, he couldn't believe she'd really write a story that would damage his and Blair's own lives and careers so irreparably. She was ambitious and thoughtless, Jim knew, but not cruel. Surely she could see that Blair had been through enough.

So he was up early, before the heat, to fix breakfast and watch the tomatoes and peppers grow. He told Blair he thought he could hear the corn growing, especially at night, a shivery groaning that trembled through the air and earth. He'd remind Blair to turn off the irrigation hose in the vegetable garden before they left -- Blair forgot, every morning -- and then Blair would drive them to the library. They would spend the morning cataloging the contents of the boxes, all kinds of books and papers, but stranger things too, even metal frogs and salamanders and a collection of stones and chipped seashells.

Wednesday Jim packed them a lunch, and they sat in the basement of the library where there were vending machines and booths padded with patched, fake leather seats and an entire wall of old-fashioned phone booths. Thursday Robert took them to the South Dining Hall, an enormous room with bizarre murals Jim thought he would zone on if he looked too closely, so he concentrated on his food instead, having no desire to risk becoming lost, even momentarily, in the strange two-dimensional world depicted there on the walls.

Robert also got them swimming passes so Jim could exercise his injured leg. They went for the first time on Friday. The pool was in an air-conditioned room and had music playing underwater; neither man had ever seen anything like it. Jim took the first two laps slowly, getting used to the sensation of exercising his leg without the drag and pain of gravity. It felt good. Better than good; it was wonderful to move with something like his old freedom, even if it was only through water. He stood up at the end of his third lap, wanting to tell Blair, but Blair turned and pushed off again, swimming half a dozen strokes more before he realized Jim was no longer beside him. When he did he stopped and stood up, looking back with concern.

"I'm fine," Jim called to him. "It feels good." His voice echoed strangely in the room, and the sounds of other swimmers seemed louder than his own voice, as though the water swallowed up everything else.

Blair's face lit up, and he swam back to Jim, talking before he even had his head all the way out of the water. "That's great," he said, beaming. Hair had escaped from his ponytail and drizzled over his face. "Be careful you don't overdo it, but this is great, just what you need." He bent his knees and dropped his head backwards into the water to wash the hair back off his face, and when he stood up again, Jim had a sudden, terrible memory of Blair emerging from water on another occasion, bedraggled hair streaming, his sodden clothes weighing him down, his eyes closed peacefully, as though he hadn't struggled at all.

"Jim?" Blair asked in concern.

"Nothing," Jim lied. He wanted to pull Blair into his arms at that moment, feel Blair's naked chest against his own, reassure himself that the wet skin was warmed by a strong heart beating underneath. Instead he took off on another lap and then swam half a dozen more, pushing himself so hard that when he finally heaved himself up out of the pool, the muscles in his injured leg were singing with strain and he had to lean heavily on Blair to make it back to the showers.

That evening they ate at dusk, slices of cold roast chicken Blair had cooked the night before and a simple green salad. It was too hot for a regular meal. Afterwards, Blair found a blender and ice crusher in the kitchen and made them margaritas, which they carried out to the screened in porch to sip as they watched the fireflies glow, dim, and glow again. The oscillating fan turned from one to the other, and the cicadas whirred in the meadow.

"I'm going to get up early tomorrow morning and mow the lawn," Blair announced. "I figure if I start right at dawn I should be able to finish up before it gets too hot."

Jim nodded. "Good plan. Is there any gasoline in the garage?"

"I'm not going to use the gas mower. There's an old reel mower back there too. I'm gonna use that one instead. No gas fumes, no racket."

Jim snorted. "Have you ever tried mowing a lawn with a reel mower? It'll take you all day."

"I've never mowed grass with anything."

"Never?"

"Nope. Naomi didn't usually stay in places with front lawns, you know?"

"I can't believe you've never pushed a lawnmower before. Sandburg, that's so un-American it's practically communist. Of course, I don't know what else I'd expect from you."

Blair snorted. "Two weeks, Jim. I've told you before, it was precisely two weeks that I lived on a commune, and the only reason I was there was because Naomi was helping friends network with some of the restaurants in San Francisco. Get higher prices for their organic produce than they ever could selling at a cheesy little roadside stand."

"People living on communes 'network'?"

"Well, yeah." Blair rolled his eyes. "It's sort of the whole point."

"Right, Chief. Whatever you say."

Blair made an exasperated noise. "There's no hope for you, man," he said, but he sounded happy, and Jim realized he was happy, too, or very close to it. Contented. Glad to be sitting out here in the still of the evening with Blair at his side. He took another sip of his drink, savoring it. Ice, salt, lime, and the mellow woodiness of unexpectedly good tequila.

"What do fireflies look like to you?" Blair asked suddenly.

Jim shrugged, then focused his attention on one. "It's weird," he said after a while. "Like -- trails."

Blair chucked softly. "I see trails, man," he slurred, and mimed puffing on a joint. Jim sat up straight, a little stung, but Blair's expression was gentle, and he reached out and laid his hand, cold from the margarita glass, on Jim's forehead as if in apology. The coolness felt so good that Jim closed his eyes. A tiny drop of condensation rolled down his cheek. Blair caught it and wiped it away with the side of his crooked finger, then dropped his hand.

"Don't know how else to describe it," Jim said, and finally opened his eyes again. "As though they're leaving part of themselves behind as they fly."

Blair didn't laugh again. He peered avidly into the night, and Jim knew he was trying to capture what Jim saw. At last, he leaned back in his chair and turned his eyes to Jim, who saw that the happiness he'd glimpsed on Blair's face and heard in his voice was only transitory. He seemed a little tired and sad as he shrugged. "Can't see it," Blair said, and that made Jim a little sad, too.

In his dream that night, Jim was sitting in the Professor's Study and listening to Blair play the piano. He'd had no idea that Blair played, but there he was, out in the living room, caressing the keys of the baby grand that had tempted Tina to move into this isolated white elephant of a house. One of the Gymnopedies of Erik Satie, Jim knew, though he didn't know which one, and wasn't sure how he knew.

The music was as slow moving as their life these days. Jim sat on the pulled-out sofa bed, dressed only in boxers and a light-weight tee, his elbows on his knees, head dropped. It was as though the sounds were heavy, weighting him down, slowing his heart and breath. He knew he was dreaming, but it was mixed up with memories that felt real, like seeing Blair sit down at the piano for the first time

"Do you play?" he had asked, not really curious, not really believing he did, but Blair had smiled a bit and said, "A little," and then played an arpeggio to illustrate. "Not much," he'd added, and tapped lightly at a single key, the A, Jim saw, above middle C. And then he'd begun to play.

Not concert hall quality, of course, but competent. Jim had stood next to him for a few minutes, feeling surprisingly shy and intrusive, and then had retreated to his bedroom to listen.

But he couldn't stay away. This was Blair, after all, slowing filling the house with the delicate sound, and Jim stood again, then moved down the hall to the living room. In his dream, his leg didn't hurt him, and his stride was comfortable and easy. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms and shut his eyes.

The piece came to a close, pianissimo, molto pianissimo, the final note floating in the air. Jim could almost see it hovering, the vibrations stirring currents. Then Blair sighed and the vibrations dissipated.

"Play it again, Sam," Jim said, but he was serious and Blair knew it, so he did, and this time Jim stayed, soaking in the sounds, the lesson, the knowledge. When for a second time the music ended, he focused intently on the vibrato of the final note, tracing its movement from the body of the piano into the air as it filled the room and floated to the ceiling, brushing against Jim's body. He should tell Blair that, he knew, but not right now. Everything felt so tenuous, as tenuous as the music through the atmosphere.

"I had a piano in the warehouse," Blair said shyly. "But you know . . ." And Jim had known. Destroyed along with so much else of Blair's in the explosion. "It's funny, isn't it?" Blair went on, his voice thoughtful. "Sometimes we lose things in fire, and sometime we lose them in water."

Jim saw suddenly that Blair's hair was streaming wet, and he could not stand to remember what he had lost in the water, not anymore, so this time he gave in to the impulse he had resisted in the swimming pool, and he pulled Blair up off the piano bench and held him clasped to his breast to reassure himself that Blair was alive. One hand cradled the back of Blair's head, and both of them were getting soaked now, rivulets of water running down the back of Jim's arm and dripping on that beautiful piano. But Blair was alive, so nothing else mattered. He wrapped his arms around Jim's back and snuggled in closer, his heart beating strongly against Jim's chest. Jim tilted his head and Blair looked up at him, heavy-lidded, an exquisite smile just touching the edges of his lips.

Is this part of my dream? Jim wondered. Or is this real? And hoping it was real, he dropped his head and kissed Blair's mouth.

He awoke to yellow sunlight heating the room through the shutters, and a snick-snick-snick that he didn't recognize until he smelled cut grass, and realized Blair was pushing the reel mower across the lawn. Jim touched his lips, imagining that he could still feel the warmth of Blair's mouth against his own. In his dream, Blair had been kissing him back, straining up on tiptoe, his arms wrapped around the back of Jim's neck, his body pressed hard to Jim's.

You're getting too old for this, Ellison, he thought, and curled over slowly on his side, running one hand across his chest, slipping the other under the waistband of his boxers. His own touch made him shiver despite the warmth of the room, and it wouldn't have taken much. The thought of jerking off in this sun hot room while Blair doggedly pushed the lawnmower past his window seemed funny instead of erotic, though, and just a little sad. The regular snickety-snick of the reel mower stopped with a sudden chunk, and Blair cursed wearily. Jim imagined him bending over to pick out whatever tiny stick or extra-thick clump of grass had jammed the blades, and he decided he should get up and convince Blair to just use the gas mower already before he gave himself heat stroke.

Jim sat up slowly, giving a rueful look down at his still-tented boxers. He could smell coffee in the kitchen, just on the verge of going stale from sitting on the burner too long. He wished he could take a shower, but getting up the stairs alone felt like too much work. Instead he made his way to the first floor bathroom, walking carefully and slowly, not using the cane. The muscles in his injured leg were sore from yesterday's swim, but it was a good kind of soreness, the ache of honest exertion, not the frustrating, grating pain of muscles strained by limping. He splashed cold water on his face and then relieved himself, the dream becoming no less vivid in his mind, but somehow less urgent. Then he went to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee before it became undrinkable. He fixed a glass of ice water for Blair, and carried both out the back door, just in time to meet Blair as he came around the house, still manfully pushing the mower. Three steps forward, then two steps back to catch the blades of grass missed on the first pass.

Jim wondered how long he'd been at it. Blair's white tank was translucent with sweat and glued to his back. The few strands of hair that escaped his tight ponytail were stuck to his face, and sweat darkened the red bandana he had tied around his brow. His face lit up when he saw Jim. "Hey, I hope I didn't wake you up. I was afraid if I waited too much longer it would be too hot to get this done."

"Already getting there," Jim observed. He held out the glass of water to Blair who abandoned the mower and came to take it gratefully. He gulped the water down, then fished an ice cube out of the glass and rubbed it over his face.

"God, thank you. That's great."

"How much you do you still have to go?"

Blair grinned faintly, ice water and sweat dripping from his face. "You mean you didn't even go out front to check on my progress? I'm hurt, man. Uh, I've got half the front yard, the small half beside the drive, and the side yard, and just about to start this. What does that add up to? Little less than a third, I guess."

"Uh huh," Jim said, noncommittally.

"You think I should just go power up the other mower, don't you?"

Jim set his coffee cup down on the step so that he could spread his hands innocently "I'm not saying a word here."

"You don't have to," Blair pretended to scowl. "Actually, I tried it a little while ago when I realized I was going to spend the whole weekend mowing the grass at this rate, but I couldn't get the starter to catch. If I push it around here, you think you could give it try?"

"I can do that," Jim said, rather idiotically pleased to be asked. He was tired of feeling helpless. He was even more pleased when the problem turned out to be a simple one -- Blair hadn't primed the engine first. When Jim yanked on the starter cord, the motor roared satisfyingly into life. Blair raised a fist of triumph and took off.

Jim finished his coffee as Blair mowed the back yard in decreasing concentric circles, then he went back inside and fixed himself a bowl of cereal with a banana sliced on top of it. He remembered Tina's mention of blueberries at the Farmer's Market, and made a mental note that he and Blair should go there some time soon. After he finished his breakfast he rinsed the bowl out in the sink, and following the sounds of the lawnmower, he walked out the front door this time, carrying another glass of water. The smell of gasoline and cut grass made him nostalgic for things he didn't even know he had missed. Blair was just finishing up, a few more long passes beside the front walk before letting the engine die at the steps and bounding up to take the glass of water from Jim. He drained it in a long gulp and Jim found himself watching his Adam's apple bob with every swallow.

"I still think it's a smelly, polluting, massively inefficient use of fossil fuels," Blair announced when he put the glass down, sitting heavily next to Jim on the steps. "Sure is faster, though."

"Thanks for doing it."

"No problem. My first time, like I told you. Hey," he raised his eyebrows at Jim. "Does this make me a real man now?"

"Little late for that, Sandburg." Jim grinned back at him.

"Yeah, well." Blair leaned back on his elbows and sighed in exhaustion, or perhaps it was satisfaction. He was dripping with sweat, and he smelled like gasoline and perspiration and cut grass. Fire and water and earth, Jim thought, and without thinking anything else, he leaned over Blair and kissed his lips, which were still wet and a little cold from the ice water.

It was better than the dream. Blair trembled and pressed back against Jim's mouth at once, making a quiet, ecstatic sound deep in his throat. Jim slipped his hand around the back of Blair's neck to support his head, and he knew by the way Blair's lips parted under his own how much power he had in that instant. He supposed he'd already known that he loved Blair. What he hadn't known was that he could give Blair such happiness. Even now, when they had fled half way across the country, leaving Blair's life in tatters behind them, Blair still yielded everything to him so easily, without a single question.

Jim broke the kiss in the next instant. This wasn't fair and it couldn't be right, not when Blair was dependent on him for everything from his future in the PD to the check for next weeks' groceries. Jim knew from a lifetime of bitter experience that making love never solved anything, not in the long run. Usually not even in the short term. Blair deserved so much more than temporary solutions and distractions, no matter how sweet.

"I'm sorry," Jim heard himself mumbling as he released Blair and sat up. "I'm sorry."

Blair straightened more slowly, shaking his head. "No, man. Jim. It's all right. It's okay." Blair even managed a tiny smile. "It was nice," he said softly, and looked away from Jim, across the newly mown lawn to the fields of corn beyond. The two of them sat in silence for a moment more, their breathing becoming regular again, and then Blair knocked his elbow gently against Jim's and said, "Just gonna put the lawnmower away and get a shower. I'm feeling pretty ripe about now."

Jim let him go without another word.

Late Sunday afternoon, and Blair was sitting on the glider in the backyard with a paperback Terry Pratchett novel. His friend Dorothy from the department had given it to him, telling him he really ought to relax and read a book just for fun every once in a while before he ran himself into an early grave.

That had been nearly two years ago, and this was the first chance he'd had to pick it up. Apparently he should have listened to her. Not that he would call this summer in Northern Indiana an early grave, exactly. But as stupid and melodramatic as the conceit was, he couldn't help but think of the press conference and the renunciation of his work as a kind of dying.

No, that wasn't right, he decided at once. He wasn't dead. He'd seen death up close and personal, and this wasn't even in the same neighborhood. The press conference had been more like chewing off his own leg to escape a trap. To help someone else escape a trap. One that he'd lent an unwitting hand in setting.

He dropped the book onto the lawn and turned on the glider so he could stretch out on his back. A cicada's empty shell clutched at the underside of the canopy overhead. There was no wind, and the heat and humidity were so oppressive Blair imagined he could feel the entire weight of the atmosphere bearing down on him, pressing him flat down on the inadequate foam cushions beneath him. Might be more comfortable on the porch with the fans blowing, or even inside. Until the sun set, it was always a few degrees cooler inside the big house than it was out in the yard.

Jim was inside right now. The last time Blair had seen him, maybe an hour and a half ago, he'd been in the Professor's Study, sitting at the huge empty desk with a volume of Melville he'd checked out of the library and a pitcher of ice water on a breakfast tray at his side. He'd told Blair he'd always wanted to read Typee.

That would be the same Jim Ellison who had bent over Blair yesterday with an expression of ineffable tenderness on his face. The same Jim Ellison who had held his head and kissed him on the mouth. Then let him go and apologized, and now seemed intent on never saying another word about it.

So, okay. They wouldn't talk. The rest of the day yesterday and all day today, Blair hadn't said a word about it. He hadn't even thought about it, much. Not when Jim was so close, and could read Blair's every expression so easily. Besides, compared to some of the things he and Jim had faced together, a stolen kiss on the front steps of someone else's house didn't even rate a footnote. And Blair understood, he did. Jim was a long way from home -- they both were -- and they had both been pretty damned unhappy for a long time. And now all at once, Jim wasn't quite so unhappy anymore. And Blair was close, and Blair was his friend, and it must have been such a relief not to be hurting anymore, that kiss must have simply seemed like the right thing to do.

Maybe it wasn't much of an explanation, but Blair clung to it because it had felt like the right thing to him, too. Thinking about it now, he couldn't remember even having been surprised. What he did remember was how it had felt to have Jim look at him that way. Then to touch him like that. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for a kiss from this big, vulnerable man with bristles on his face and coffee on his breath.

Blair closed his eyes and just for a moment allowed himself to truly remember what it had been like to have Jim's hand supporting the back of his head and Jim's lips open over his own. His heart did a lazy barrel roll in his chest, and he had a sudden moment of vertigo so profound it felt as though the glider were violently rocking. His eyes flew open, and he saw the canopy overhead motionless against the hazy blue sky, and the cicada's exoskeleton still clinging, as it probably would all summer unless Blair reached up and knocked it off. The colors all seemed a little off, though, the sky too bright and newly mown grass too vividly green, and he wondered if he'd fallen asleep for a few moments. He was horribly thirsty, his back was sweaty, pressed against the canvas-covered foam cushions, and the mosquitoes were eating him alive. He should go in.

Lying out here in the heat seemed to have sapped all his resolve, though, and instead of getting up, he rolled over on his side so he could reach the ground with one hand and push off to start the glider rocking. He'd thought moving might generate a little breeze, but the hot, still air moved over his body without bringing any relief.

Jim had been happy yesterday morning. Must have been a strange sensation for him, because it had been such a long time. Not since before the dissertation fiasco, maybe. Before Alex, before Jim had even read that damning first chapter. Before even then, and Blair should have known, but he just hadn't wanted to see it. He remembered Jim's tight, frustrated words when he and Simon had finally caught up to him in Clayton Falls.

"You've made this sentinel thing work, and I appreciate that. I wouldn't change a minute of it," Jim had told him, and Blair wondered if that's what he had sounded like talking to Carolyn as they signed the divorce papers. "But you're always there in my face. Observing."

Blair hadn't heard him. Or rather, he had heard him, and had gotten it all wrong. The next time Jim had complained about needing his space, Blair had given it to him, and that decision had nearly destroyed them both.

Nearly, but not quite, because here they were. It was almost funny when you thought about it. The two of them had gotten more second chances than anybody had any right to expect. Jim should have died in the fiery crash of his unit's copter, and Blair should have died in two feet of water in that fountain in front of Hargrove. There was an odd kind of symmetry to their survival, and he had to wonder how many chances any one person was allowed in a single lifetime. Much less two lives, intertwined. Did that double the odds or halve them?

It was too hot for thinking. Blair groped under the glider for the dropped book. He was looking toward the house in that position, and the sun was shining all the way through the glass shutters on the laundry porch, but the other windows on this side of the house were all dark squares in the brick. The dimness looked cool and inviting, except for one basement window, where a face like a waning moon in a starless sky was staring back at him.

Blair froze. Despite the heat, he could feel his scalp prickling with ice. What in the name of -- "Jim?" he whispered, speaking to the only person who could possibly be inside looking out at him. Blair sat up too fast and his head spun, and when he blinked and looked again, the face was gone. He put his hand on his chest, his tee shirt wet with sweat. What the hell was Jim doing going down the basement stairs?

He got up and ran clumsily past the garden and up to the back of the house, crouching down to peer through the small window. He had to shield his eyes with the sides of his hands curled against the glass to see the dark interior. Even then he couldn't see much. Smooth cement floors, unfinished plaster walls. No sign of Jim or anyone else, but there was a doorway off to one side. Apparently the basement was divided into more than one room. The thought of going from window to window trying to catch sight of Jim illicitly prowling the basement should have been funny, but instead Blair felt vaguely horrified at the idea. He forced himself to walk around to the outside basement door on the far side of the house. It was down half a dozen concrete doors, and locked up tight, as Blair discovered when he tried the knob. What else had he expected?

It must have been an optical illusion, he decided as he made his way up the back steps and into the house. A flash of sunlight reflected from somewhere else. After all, it wasn't as though he'd been able to make out any features. Just a pale, smooth shadow of a face, watching him.

Jesus.

"Hey Jim," he called as the back door slammed behind him. "You around?"

A grumble answered him. Blair followed the sound back to the Study, where he found a very sleepy looking Jim propped sideways on the couch, Typee upside down on his lap.

"Hey, sorry to wake you up."

Jim yawned hugely. "Wasn't asleep."

"I thought I'd go explore the basement," Blair said, instead of asking Jim if he could hear anyone or anything downstairs. "You want some more water or anything first?" The pitcher beside the desk was almost empty.

Jim raised both arms above his head, grasping one wrist with his opposite hand to stretch his shoulder, then the other. "Nah. What I really need now is to take a leak."

"Right." Without being asked Blair scooted to the side of the couch and helped Jim to his feet. It was a sign of how drowsy Jim was that he leaned hard on Blair as he got up, making no effort to pretend he really didn't need the help. When Blair handed him his cane, Jim actually smiled and said ruefully, "This is getting old, isn't it?"

"No," Blair said, releasing Jim as he took the first step with the cane, obviously still stiff from his nap. "Besides, you're getting stronger every day. I can tell."

"Yeah." Jim sounded unconvinced. "Just keep telling me that."

"Not a problem. It's true, man," Blair said honestly.

Jim grumbled, but Blair thought he seemed pleased, and the problem of the face in the window receded even further. Was there any real need to go look for nonexistent people in the basement? Yes, he thought immediately, a little ashamed. They'd been living in the house more than a week without checking out the basement. Regardless of what he had imagined in a heat-dazzled moment of vertigo, it really was way past time to take a look at the rest of the house they were living in. Hell, afterwards maybe he'd even tackle the attic.

Standing at the basement door, though, he remembered Tina carefully locking it up tight during their first tour of the house. How relieved she had been that she didn't have to show him the basement. Or had that just been his imagination?

Definitely his imagination, he thought, and turned the deadbolt and opened the basement door.

Sturdy wooden steps led down into the shadows under the house. The air that rushed up was noticeably cooler and smelled of earth. He found a switch on the wall just inside the door and flipped it on, and reassuringly bland incandescent light banished the shadows. Blair took the stairs quickly, one hand on the banister.

Though the basement wasn't finished, it was evidently dry. Propped against one wall were a set of cabinets, probably left over from the last time the kitchen had been remodeled; on the wall behind the stairs was the circuit box. Good to know where that was, Blair thought. See? Already his little expedition was paying off. A hot water heater stood in the corner, and copper pipes crossed the underside of the floorboards over his head.

There was a door in the wall across from the stairs. That must be the room he had looked into from outside. He walked over, his feet dragging a little, and stuck his head in.

The second basement room was much smaller than the first, long and narrow under the back of the house. There were rusty shelves along one wall, stacked with yellowing magazines and a row of sadly deflated basketballs. Blair let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and stepped into the room. There was the window he'd looked into from outside. He stretched up on tiptoe and looked out, getting a grass-height view of his newly mown lawn, the vegetable garden, and the glider he'd spent half the afternoon on.

He turned around, and the lights went out.

Aw, shit.

He stood stock still, refusing to let himself panic. For chrissakes, it wasn't even dark. Sunlight was pouring though the basement windows. There were just a few more shadows down here now, that was all. He held his breath, listening hard, then yelled, "Hey, Jim, I'm still down here, man. You wanna turn the lights back on?"

If anyone would know he was still downstairs, it was Jim, of course. Jim hadn't turned off the lights, and Blair knew it. Power went off a lot in this old place, Tina had told them. That's why they kept bottled water in the kitchen. At any rate, there was nothing and no one down here. That's all he had come down here to establish. Case closed. He should go check on Jim anyway.

As he was leaving the little back basement room, though, he saw the stain on the wall for the first time. He stopped with a sense of foreboding that annoyed the hell out of him because it was so inexplicable, then crouched down to look at the stain more closely. It was on the plaster near one of the outside brick walls, an irregular patch of rusty red with a feathering of dark green along one edge. A foot across, maybe, and just a few inches above the floor. He held his hand out in front of it. The wall under the stain seemed soft, as though it would yield to his touch. He couldn't bring himself to actually touch it, though.

Mildew, he thought with a sinking heart, or some kind of fungus. The house hadn't smelled musty to him, but the spores could play hell with Jim's allergies, maybe even make him really sick. He'd have to see if Jim had noticed anything, watch him more closely for the next few days.

Maybe think about trying to find another place to live.

In the sharp bite of disappointment, he thought suddenly of old, old words, read laboriously when he'd been just a boy.

Behold, if the plague be in the walls of the house with hollow strakes, greenish or reddish, then the priest shall go out of the house to the door of the house, and shut up the house seven days.

Upstairs, he heard the toilet flush, then the rush of water in the pipes overhead. More proof, as if it had been needed, that Jim hadn't been the one who had turned off the lights.

And if the plague come again, and break out in the house, after that he hath taken away the stones, and after he hath scraped the house, and after it is plaistered; Then the priest shall come and look, and, behold, if the plague be spread in the house, it is a fretting leprosy in the house: it is unclean.

A fretting leprosy, Blair thought. Hell of a way to describe water stains and mildew. It gave him the creeps all the same. On his way back through the basement, he stopped and examined the basement door he'd tried from the outside. It was locked up tight with a lock that Blair didn't think they had the key to, as well as a deadbolt. Grey cobwebs misted the corner between the door and frame. Clearly no one was in the habit of going in and out that way.

*And he shall break down the house, the stones of it, and the timber thereof, and all the mortar of the house; and he shall carry them forth out of the city into an unclean place. *

Well, they weren't quite ready for that yet. It was just a patch of damp on a basement wall. Professor Wilde's problem anyway. Blair bounded up the stairs. He supposed it was no problem at all during the winter months when the heat would be on all the time. Too hot and too dry for spreading damp, then

He checked the light switch at the head of the stairs. It was flipped down. He couldn't remember if he had pushed the switch up or down to turn on the lights the first time. He pushed it up and nothing happened, flipped it down again, and the lights came on once more.

Blair turned off the lights for the last time and locked the basement door behind him. He found Jim in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator and examining the contents thoughtfully.

"What were you yelling about?" Jim asked when Blair came in behind him. "I didn't turn off the lights."

"I know." Blair stood behind Jim and surveyed the contents of the contents of the refrigerator with him. "Power must have blinked for a minute."

"Not up here, it didn't."

"Huh. That's weird."

"Anything in the basement?"

"Not really. I found a bad water stain or something on one wall."

"It's a basement," Jim said, disposing of the issue. "What's for dinner?"

"The thing is, I was thinking you might be sensitive to the spores from mildew. Have you noticed anything? You'd probably be aware of it first just like a kind of musty smell."

Jim swung the refrigerator door shut. "Sandburg, come on, please. All I'm interested in smelling right now is dinner."

"Sorry, okay. We can talk about it later. I was thinking while I was outside this afternoon that some of the stuff in the garden looks almost ready to eat. I could stir-fry the pole beans with summer squash and green tomatoes and onions, season them with herbs from the garden, too. I think it'd be good."

"Hm," Jim said, noncommittal. "That's a side dish, not dinner."

"Right. Well, we've got leftover chicken."

Jim looked faintly pained, but he shrugged and said, "All right," and started back toward the living room, leaning heavily on his cane. "Let me know if I can help." Blair was fairly certain Jim was exaggerating his limp ever so slightly.

"Or I guess we could drag that charcoal grill out of the garage like you've been wanting to and have burgers tonight."

Jim turned with remarkable spryness for a pitiful injured guy who could barely walk. "If we started the charcoal now, we could be eating in an hour," he said eagerly.

Blair had to laugh, and he felt a wave of emotion sweep over him. He really was in love with this man, no matter what that meant, regardless of whether they ever kissed again, no matter what happened next. "Sure, okay," was all he answered. "Hamburgers sound pretty good to me, too."

The last time Jim had seen a sunrise on a Monday morning, he'd been on a stakeout with Taggart in the warehouse district right off the docks. It had been toward the end of those gray months after Alex, when Blair had been so consumed with his academic life that he was seldom at the station. The only times Jim seemed to see him at all was early in the morning or late at night, hunched over the laptop on the dining room table, his hair wet from the shower, maybe, or the remains of a sandwich beside him.

He was on the home stretch now, he'd told Jim. Time to quit screwing around and write this damned thing already.

It wasn't the beginning of the end. It was the end itself. And even though the inevitability of this moment had been implicit in their friendship ever since Blair had walked into Jim's examining room wearing a purloined lab coat, that didn't make it any easier to take now that it was really happening.

That morning at the docks Jim had found himself trying to explain -- as much as he could, anyway. It had started with Taggart remarking innocently that he hadn't seen much of the kid lately, and before Jim could stop himself, everything was spilling out of him. Blair was finishing up his dissertation and that was the only reason he'd been riding around with Jim all these years. Didn't Joel understand that? As soon as it was done Blair would be up and out of here, no reason to hang with a bunch of cops anymore. He had his own life to lead.

Taggart just watched, and when Jim finally wound down, he simply asked, "You really think he'd leave you, Jimbo?"

The ocean had been gray and cold that morning, the air foul with diesel and seaweed rotting under the docks, the sun a colorless white disk through the clouds, dim as the moon. Had it been anyone but Joel Taggart, Jim probably would have gotten out and walked away. But since it was Joel, Jim tightened his fists around the steering wheel and managed to get out between gritted teeth, "What the hell else have I been talking about all morning?"

Jim couldn't remember now if Taggart had even answered him, but something must have stuck, because the next time he saw Blair, almost a day later, he had pushed and bullied and nagged and threatened until Blair had finally agreed that yeah, maybe he had been spending a little too much time over the computer lately, and it might be nice to get out and see a movie together. He'd never seen The Seven Samurai.

Jim could hardly believe it. Sandburg could talk about the cultural antecedents and cinematic impact of that movie until the cows came home -- or at least he could for the amount of time they spent standing in line, first for tickets, then for burnt, greasy popcorn and flat sodas, then all through the previews as well -- and had never taken an evening off to actually see the movie itself. Wasn't that just like Sandburg?

It had been a good night, though. The best Jim could remember in a long, long time, and just before Naomi arrived, he knew he'd been thinking that maybe Joel had been right after all.

And now it was another Monday morning, another ugly dawn, weeks later and a world away from Cascade. The sun was an angry red glow through the morning mists, and it was already hot. Blair had left twenty minutes ago for a morning run, sticking his head in the door of the Study on his way out to let Jim know he was going and breezily telling him to go back to sleep; they had at least a couple of hours before they needed to leave for the university.

As if Jim could have gone back to sleep then. The sheets under his back felt sticky, the pillow under his head hot and damp. Besides, he'd been having uncomfortable dreams, and now that he was awake, he felt a strange reluctance to even try and sleep alone in the house.

Instead he was on the screen porch now, the fan moving the humid morning air over him, waiting for Blair to get back. It was too early even to be hungry for breakfast. He could have handled coffee, he supposed, but it was easier to sit here and watch the sun rise over the misty cornfields and listen to the world come to noisy, croaking life all around him. Blair had turned on the sprinkler in the garden before he left, and Jim could smell the water sinking into the hot soil. Mostly, of course, it smelled of charcoal and grilled hamburger meat and burned fat out here. It smelled like that inside, too. The smell was on their clothes, in Blair's hair, on their skin. Jim didn't care. It had been worth it. Those had been some damn good burgers.

He wondered how long and far Blair intended to run this morning. He must be pretty serious about this Academy thing after all. Jim didn't think he would be so gung ho himself about running in this weather.

He almost smiled at that. Who was he trying to kid here? The old Jim Ellison would have been out before dawn and then again at four in the afternoon, nothing but silent or not-so-silent contempt for anyone who couldn't handle ninety percent humidity and ninety degree heat. You never knew when your life or someone else's might depend on your strength, your stamina. Jim would never have settled for anything less.

And neither would Blair. He had stuck with Jim through firefights, car chases, and kidnappings, jumped off cliffs and out of planes. The only time he had ever left was when Jim had told him to. He had persisted in writing that fucking dissertation no matter what, dogged and absolutely unshakeable. That's the kind of cop he would be, too. Jim felt a stab of pride, but it was twisted with an almost unbearable ache of sorrow, and he opened his senses to find Blair, trying to follow the heat and smell of the asphalt road to avoid getting lost in the endless fields of corn. Last thing he wanted was for Blair to come back from his run and find Jim zoned on a cornfield.

It became more difficult the harder he pushed. He tried to relax, to allow the smells and sounds, the very texture of the air to form a picture of the road in his mind's eye, the way Blair had taught him to do. It seemed to be working. He felt vibrations in the asphalt, the rhythm of running feet, and he knew he was close to finding Blair. Another moment, and he'd be able to scent him.

Then a crack of sound exploded behind Jim, and he doubled over in his chair, hands clamped over his ears, gasping in shock. He staggered to his feet as soon as he could, ears still ringing. In the first concussive shock he thought maybe the house had blown up behind him, but once he got over the first, most painful impact, he was able to process the sound waves still vibrating through his skull. Wood on wood. A door had slammed violently somewhere inside the house, and his senses had been so wide open it had hit him like a bomb blast.

His moment of relief didn't last long. Who the fuck had slammed a door? Had Blair somehow come back unnoticed while Jim was following his senses over hill and dale looking for him? He didn't believe that for a second. Blair wasn't in the house. Nobody was in the house, and there wasn't enough of a breeze to slam doors. The mystery made Jim furious. He grabbed his cane and stomped angrily inside, trying to figure out which door it had been. Maybe Blair had left the back door open when he watered the garden this morning. Wouldn't have taken much, maybe just a faint wind from off the pond that Jim couldn't feel on the other side of the house.

The back door was unlocked, all right, but when Jim pushed it open to see if could have been hanging open on its hinges, it immediately swung quietly closed again. Okay, so it hadn't been that one. He made his way through the rest of the downstairs. There weren't any closed doors anywhere. Had it been upstairs he wondered, standing at the foot of the stairs and looking up. A pale shaft of morning light illuminated the head of the stairs. Somehow he didn't think so. It had felt closer than that.

Oh, he realized with a sinking heart. There was another door. The one that led down to the basement.

When Blair had awakened him this morning, Jim had been dreaming about this house, about the basement. In his dream, he and Blair had been eating last night's hamburgers in the formal dining room, on fine linen and china, sipping good wine from crystal goblets that felt like silk against Jim's lips. Blair had been in dress blues, every inch the new graduate. His hair had been shorn, buzzcut to a quarter of an inch, and his face seemed so bare, eyes as large and innocent as a baby's. "Zeller's downstairs," Blair had said suddenly. "In the basement. I can hear him."

Jim tried to stand up, but in the dream he was paralyzed, helpless to do anything but watch as Blair pushed back from the table and stood up, drawing his weapon as he did. He turned, gun held up, forearm against his chest, and the naked curve of his throat and jaw were so vulnerable that Jim had whispered, "Don't go. Sandburg. Wait for backup."

Blair hadn't heard, or paid no attention if he did hear, and although Jim had no sense of having moved, he had somehow been at the basement door with Blair, watching as he eased the door open and Jim heard for the first time the slow lap and splash of water around the foundations of the house far below.

That had been all. Not even enough to qualify as a nightmare, and you didn't have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out where all the elements of that little dream had come from. Nevertheless, standing at the basement door now, the memory made him shudder as he stretched out his hand, fingers spread wide, and then carefully touched the smooth, polished wood.

When Blair got back from his run fifteen minutes later, Jim was sitting in the kitchen, and half the new pot of coffee was already gone. Jim was grasping his second cup tightly, and though he didn't tell Blair, his fingertips were still tingling from having touched them to a tightly locked door. A door that still thrummed with residual vibrations, as though it had been violently slammed only moments before.

Blair stared into the shiny reflection of the vending machine as he held down the button that made the shelves turn. Strawberry yogurt, an aged apple, cottage cheese, a ham and cheese sandwich. Yuck. Serious yuck. There must be something down here. He moved to the next vending machine. This was more like it: ice cream. He popped in a couple quarters and was rewarded with a drumstick. Throwing the wrapper in the trash, he settled at a booth to enjoy a few minutes respite from all the dust and junk of his current work.

And it was work. Good work, by and large; he was pleased Jim had persuaded him to come out here. He liked the routine, and he really liked having time to do things thoroughly. Always before, he'd worked so many jobs, had so many things going on at the same time that he wasn't able to give his best to any of them. Not even to Jim.

Especially not to Jim.

But here and now, everything was different. He had time to do the work well and thoroughly. Not just a quick run-through, but a preliminary investigation, and then close and systematic examination of every document. As long as he could focus on the work, he could forget why he was here.

He licked at the ice cream, sucking his finger into his mouth to catch a stray drop. He glanced around, hoping he hadn't been observed. Jim was upstairs. He should get back to him pretty quickly, or he'd be hobbling after Blair, worried as he so often was these days. He decided to bring him back an ice cream.

Blair leaned back into the booth and relaxed, noticing for the first time how many other people were in the snack room today. Summer school must've started. A woman was speaking passionately in the booth behind him, saying, "The scandal of Freud isn't the unconscious sexual Oedipal drama; it's that a woman cannot grow into a moral agent!"

"Hey, hey," a male voice protested, but she carried on.

"No, just think, Brian. Without the fear of castration -- because it's already a fait accompli -- there's nothing left to persuade her to leave the Oedipal stage. She can never develop a strong superego."

Blair tuned them out; he'd had enough of Freud during his years minoring in psychology. Two men were leaning against the wall not far from him, also in intense conversation. "Experience is a matter of tradition," one was saying earnestly, while the other shook his head. "It's a, a convergence in memory, of accumulated and frequently unconscious data."

"That's such bullshit," the other guy interrupted. "Experience is this," and he thumped the wall next to them firmly enough to catch other people's attention. "Bull*shit* that's unconscious data."

"You are missing the fucking point," his friend responded. "There is a radical dissociation of the symbolic and the semiotic."

"Oh, puke," the second guy said, and punched the guy this time. They both laughed.

Blair looked away again. He felt nearly sick to his stomach. He got up quickly and dumped the remains of his ice cream into the trash and headed toward the elevators. But it was too late; something had happened. It was as though he had suddenly acquired sentinel hearing, and all he could hear was a type of conversation he would never have the luxury of participating in again. "How useful is a model of women's writing that in practice excludes every woman writer in history except Colette, Marguerite Duras, and uh, excuse me, Jean Genet?" someone was asking as she left the elevator.

The elevator stopped again at the second floor and three people crowded in without a break in their conversation. "If it isn't rational, it's marginalized as madness, not listened to, not recorded in history." The speaker looked confidently at Blair as though he fully expected Blair to take his side in the discussion.

Instead Blair bolted, letting the elevator door close behind him, and stalked toward the stairwell. He could not listen to this, far less participate. How could he have imagined it was possible for him to work here, to do good work here? He could never do this work again. It wasn't possible to reconstruct his past life, his intellectual life.

He wondered, despairingly, if he would always miss it this badly. Would it always hurt this much? Or would he start to forget and lose the skills he had spent a lifetime honing? Both alternatives seemed intolerable, and whichever happened, he imagined the bitterness seeping into his heart like a water stain on a plaster wall, fungus turning it black until the whole was unsound, unclean. Despoiled by the fretting leprosy of disappointment and regret.

He stopped on the stairs. He couldn't go back to Jim in this state. But if he didn't, Jim would be worried, would start hauling his decrepit knee all over the library hunting him out. Blair took a deep breath and then sat on the stairs, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He just needed to calm down a bit. He took another deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then slowly released it. Focused on his heart, pounding in his chest. "It's okay," he murmured, and wrapped his arms around himself. He was going to be a cop, he was going to be Jim's partner. He loved Jim, and that was all that mattered. Everything else would work itself out somehow. "It's okay." He found he was rocking very slightly and found it comforting. "Okay, okay, okay."

After a few minutes, he felt ready to face Jim again. He still felt a bit anxious, but not ready to bolt into the brutal heat of another summer day. One more deep breath and he stood up. Anything Jim noticed, he could attribute to climbing the stairs. "Overdid the run this morning. Just need to get back in shape," he practiced in his mind, and smiled. Jim would buy that; he was feeling out of shape himself, after so many weeks with a bad knee.

By the time he reached the fifth floor, he had locked his disappointment and fears away again, more tightly than he'd ever locked the first draft of his dissertation. He stepped into the storage room and found, as he'd expected, Jim returned to their task.

"Hey," Jim said without looking up. "What's wrong?" He carefully laid the papers out, almost as if laying out a deck of cards, and turned in his chair.

Blair shook his head slightly. "Nothing. Why?"

"Don't bullshit me."

He shrugged. "Just came up the stairs too fast." He grinned. "Guess I'm getting outta shape, not chasing after you."

But Jim didn't smile in return. He continued to stare at Blair, his face unreadable. The face he used when trying to talk to someone he knew was lying. Like a thief. Not the face he used with Blair's obfuscations.

Blair fidgeted uncomfortably, finally entering the room and crossing to the desk. "How's the work going?"

Still Jim didn't answer; just looked up at Blair. After a few seconds, he said, "It's going fine. And we'll talk later."

"Since when did you get so hot on talking shit over?" Blair demanded, a little angry, thinking of that moment on the front porch after mowing the lawn that Jim seemed so bound and determined to never talk about again.

But Jim just turned back to the documents and continued to sort them. "Since we agreed you wouldn't make any more unilateral decisions without talking to me first."

Blair bit his lip, the anger fading away, and nodded to himself. "Here," he said, gently extracting a sheet of fragile paper from the pile in Jim's hand. "I think this goes here."

"The wound is healing nicely," Doctor Sutcliffe told him, gently prodding it. Jim winced, but more out of habit than hurt. He wished Blair were with him instead of sitting impatiently in the waiting room. "Rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, with ten being unbearable."

"Um. Most days, one or two. If I push it too much, a three."

She nodded. "You're doing very well." At last she stepped back. "You should probably see a physical therapist, except the muscle tone and flexibility seem to be better than what I'd expect this soon after the shooting. What are you doing?"

"Swimming for exercise. I still use the cane," he said, nodding toward it. "Mostly try to stay off it."

She nodded again, jotting notes on her clipboard. "I think you're ready for something a bit more rigorous. I recommend you continue to swim, but also start some strengthening exercises. You look like you know your way around a gym?" He nodded. "Good. You know that machine where you sit, bent kneed, then raise your feet knee high? Try that. But just try it. Don't go all macho on me and re-injure yourself."

"I know what to do," he said a little testily, thinking that Blair would never let him hurt himself.

"I'm sure you do. Need any pain medication?"

"No. Ibuprofen seems to work. Ice if I need it."

"Okay." She straightened up and smiled at him, and he realized she was an attractive woman. He hadn't been able to see past the white coat until then. "Go hence and heal. If you feel any pain above a three, come back in right away, and I'll set you up with a physical therapist."

"I can do this."

"I'm sure you can." She shook his hand and left him to climb back into his clothes.

"Well?"

"I'm doing fine," he told Blair as they made their way back into the stifling heat toward their pickup. "She wants me to join a gym."

"Wow. You are doing better, then. That's great."

"Yeah." Blair opened the truck's passenger door for him and he settled into the seat, grateful that Blair had thought to put towels down, to keep the plastic seat covers from burning their bare legs. He watched Blair circle around the truck and climb in beside him, wondering if he should mention how long it had taken him to notice how pretty his doctor was. Wondering what, exactly, that meant.

Instead, he continued to watch Blair wrestle the little truck out into traffic and head back toward Notre Dame. Back to their work.

Blair pulled a messy handful of papers from box number twenty-two. "It's handwritten," he murmured, squinting at them, pushing his glasses up his nose with his shoulder. "Jesus, Jim. I think this is Burton's handwriting." He looked up; Jim could hear his heart rate and respiration increase.

"Let me see."

Blair obligingly walked the papers to Jim and sat next to him; together, they began trying to read them.

"The ways of doing it to women are numerous and variable. And now is the time to make known to you the different positions, which are usual. God, the magnificent, has said: 'Women are your field. Go upon your field as you like,'" Jim read, then looked at Blair. "What the hell is this? Burton wrote pornography?"

"Not pornography." He looked up at Jim, who saw he was nearly vibrating with excitement. "Oh my god. This is a translation of The Perfumed Garden. Oh my god." He turned his attention back to the papers, flipping through them.

"What's The Perfumed Garden?"

"A book. Burton translated it from the French, but it was originally Arabic. A sort of Kama Sutra. See, look: 'Let her lie down, and put her legs on your shoulders; in this position your member will just face her vulva, which must not touch the ground. And then introduce your member.'"

"Jesus Christ." Jim felt his face blushing. "This is what you've been looking for? I thought you'd find something for," he caught himself and lowered his voice, "you know, for the sentinel thing."

Blair nodded, abstracted. "Yeah, I'm sure we will. This is the first thing by Burton we've found; there's probably lots more." He continued to read the papers, sorting them as he went. Jim wondered if the sentinel stuff would be pornographic, too. He tried to imagine what he'd do or say if they found something like, "Put your sentinel's legs on your shoulders and introduce your member." His face got hotter and he shifted in his chair.

"This is definitely Burton," Blair said at last, resting the papers in his lap and looking up at Jim. "There just has to be something we can use here. I'm gonna bundle this up and find a place for it, so as we find more, we can combine it."

"How should I enter it in the spreadsheet?"

"Oh, damn, good question." So they brainstormed that for a while, settling for a long description and the number of pages. "I'll get a copy of Perfumed Garden from the library, so we can compare what we found to it, figure out what chapter this is from. Maybe the whole thing is here."

Jim shrugged. he wasn't sure what to say, in light of the book's contents. Somehow he didn't expect to find stuff like that in a Catholic university library. The next day, they found more, and then an entire box of Burton's books, including some first editions. Then another dry spell.

The laundry twice a week was one of their shared chores. Blair loaded the washer and dryer; Jim folded. They might have gotten by with doing it once a week, except in the sticky heat and humidity, neither man was willing to forgo the luxury of freshly laundered sheets. Jim probably would have been happy changing linens daily, but Blair had other things to do besides changing bedclothes every day. He hadn't voiced that defiant little idea, which was probably just as well, he thought, bent double over the side of the washing machine to dig out a pillow case which had plastered itself to the very bottom of the basin. The truth was he didn't really have anything better to do. The late afternoons when they got back from the school were long, quiet times. The two of them usually caught a nap in the fiercest heat of the late afternoon before arising groggy and dull around four and stumbling around the huge house, trying to decide whether it was too hot to cook a real dinner or not.

Usually it was, and they would read or watch television, drinking ice water and nibbling snacks for the next couple of hours, doing whatever meager chores around the house needed to be performed. Like mopping the kitchen floor, or in this case, doing the laundry.

The last pillowcase tossed into the dryer, Blair emptied the lint filter and turned on the machine, then started a load of tee shirts and underwear. The thing was, a little bit of housekeeping didn't really keep his thoughts from wandering. He just wasn't used to this kind of free time, and for everything he was enjoying about this lazy summer with Jim, he was beginning to believe too much time for introspection wasn't necessarily a good thing. Take, just for instance, this whole deal of going to the academy and becoming a cop, full time, Jim's partner for real. It was what he'd decided to do. It was what he wanted to do, and he wasn't going back on that.

But there was just too much time for thinking around here, and he kept coming up with annoying, inconvenient ideas about the academy, about police work. For instance, you'd think the idea of the firing range would be keeping him up nights, but no, he had decided early on that if he was going to be carrying a gun he wanted to know how to use the damned thing. And although he still believed that allowing every citizen and his dog to own a handgun was one of the more monumentally stupid civil liberties, that didn't mean he was opposed to an armed police force, despite the way Jim willfully persisted in misunderstanding his position whenever the issue of gun control came up.

Instead, what Blair kept thinking about were scenes he'd witnessed in interrogation rooms over the years. Watching Jim talk to suspects. Convince poor, stupid, brutal sons-of-bitches that they really didn't want to sit silently until their lawyer showed up.

He remembered watching through the one-way glass with Simon in amazement as Jim had coaxed Art Landis, a man as cruel and cold blooded as they came, to confess that he'd been with Monique Brackley when she'd shot Jack Pendergrast down like a dog. Amazing. He'd willing confessed to being an accessory to kidnapping and first degree murder, even though as far as the state of Washington was concerned, it didn't matter that Art hadn't actually pulled the trigger. He and Monique were both up for the death penalty now.

Jim hadn't told Art that, of course. Instead, for hour and after hour, Jim had harped on Monique. That bitch was selling him out right now. Making a deal with a D.A., her and her high-priced attorney, selling her lover down the river just as fast as she could. She'd probably be sleeping in her own bed tonight while Art shared a bunk with a guy named Big Daddy down in the county lockup.

It wasn't true, of course. None of it was. Maybe the part about Big Daddy was all. The truth of the matter was Monique had placed a call to her lawyer and hadn't said another word, not even to ask for a glass of water. Art had swallowed Jim's story whole and had made his confession defiantly, relieved and happy almost, as he signed the typed statement that might eventually put that lethal IV in his arm. "Yeah, of course she pulled the trigger. I was right there. I saw her do it. It was all her fucking idea in the first place."

That much Blair didn't doubt. It was pretty clear who the brains of the outfit had been.

And Blair just wasn't sure he could do it. Or actually, he was more afraid that he could do it. Probably be pretty good at it, too. Talking to people was one of his strong points. He was friendly, physically unintimidating, probably a happy sight to some terrified slob who was being questioned about the sloppy murder he'd committed a few hours ago. Blair could project I'm-your-friend vibes like nobody's business. Useful talent when you were an anthropologist trying to convince a grumpy cop to open up about weird sensory phenomena. Invaluable for a detective trying to convince a suspect to waive his Miranda rights.

Blair dropped the last tee shirt into the wash and shut the lid, leaning heavily on it for a moment as he looked out toward the lake which seemed golden red in the sunset. He wasn't ready to face Jim again just yet. He wasn't sure why the idea of using his people skills to get bad guys off the streets bothered him so much. It wasn't like he'd had any real qualms when Jim had lied to Art Landis after all. The son of a bitch had murdered Jim's partner.

So was that the problem? He didn't care if somebody else walked on shaky ethical grounds to secure a conviction; he was just unwilling to dirty his own lily white hands? What kind of a hypocrite was he?

Something moved out on the lake and Blair tensed like a bird dog, trying to see what it had been. The glare of the sunset blinded him. Probably just a bird hovering above its dead surface for a moment before realizing there was no supper to be found in those muddy waters and flying off for more promising parts.

Still feeling faintly disgusted with himself and more miserable because he had no idea how to say any of this to Jim, he wandered back to the screened porch and asked Jim if he'd really mind having salad with cold marinated beef strips for dinner tonight. It was just too hot to even consider turning on the stove, especially with the dryer already running, too.

Jim had agreed.

It turned out to be an especially hot and muggy night, and they sat up longer than they normally did, a little tipsy on tequila, the fan blowing on them on the porch. Thunder grumbled off in the distance, and Blair's curls were wilder than Jim had ever seen them. He stared at them in admiration and awe, wondering how he ever got a comb through them.

Out of the blue, Blair asked, "You ever think about Cascade?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." He took another sip of his margarita. "Miss it?"

Jim was more hesitant to answer this. "A little. I guess," he finally said. "But then I remember why we left. And then not so much.

"Yeah." Blair settled himself in the molded plastic chair, plucking at his shirt where it stuck to him. He sighed heavily and said, "The academy starts in three weeks."

Jim stared out into the darkness, dialing up his sight until he could see the shaggy lawn, the gravel drive, and the corn stalks bordering the property. The corn was starting to swell under the leaves, and he thought he could smell it, sweet in the night air.

He hadn't thought about the police academy since he'd left Cascade. Wendy's threat and everything that had happened since had pushed it out of his mind. Now Blair was saying they'd have to go back, and soon, to face it.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Blair at the academy. He'd do well, Jim knew. More than well. He'd outclass everyone there. That was a given.

But did he belong there? Watching Blair in the library, acting as Blair's assistant as he organized the material, joked with Robert, ate in the Faculty Lounge, he wondered. They'd met a few professors teaching summer school, some students working in the library under Robert's direction, and it was clear to Jim how much Blair was in his element here. He spoke this language as fluently as he spoke English. As fluently as he spoke Jim.

The silence between them stretched on. Jim continued to stare into the fields, watching as a slightly breeze rippled through the corn, eventually reaching them. He could smell rain on it. Maybe tonight the drought would break. He breathed in the slightly cooler air, and took another sip of his drink.

"What if we postponed it," he found himself asking Blair.

"Postponed what?"

He looked at his friend, who seemed genuinely puzzled. "Your going to the academy. You don't have to go now." Jim dropped his eyes, looking at Blair's bare feet on the wooden floor of the porch. "Hell, Chief. You don't have to go at all." He looked back up at Blair. "Tina would be happy to have us stay on here, and we haven't finished all those boxes yet." The quality of the silence changed, grew deeper and darker. Jim was shocked at his own suggestion, and stunned at the rightness. "Why go?" he whispered, almost trembling in an excess of some emotion he couldn't name.

Blair stared at him, then swallowed. "You don't want me as your partner?"

"No!" Jim roared, standing up too quickly. His calf cramped and the damaged nerves around the wound felt like an electric shock. He half-fell forward, grabbing at the screen, hoping he wouldn't pitch right through it. Blair jumped up and seized him, brute-forcing him into an upright position. Jim put his arm around Blair and felt him shake beneath his touch. "No, Chief. I want you as a partner. I already told you that. Just, maybe . . ."

Once Jim was balanced, Blair tried to step away, but Jim wouldn't lift his arm. "Don't hurt yourself," he said mildly, but Jim could tell he was distressed. "Sit down, okay? Did you hurt your leg?"

"No, not really. Maybe pulled a muscle, but that's all." Jim sighed. "Sorry, Chief. I guess you have to go to the academy, huh."

Blair still didn't answer, getting Jim seated again before sitting himself and draining his margarita. "I don't know. It's late. I'm a little drunk. Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow."

"Talk to Simon," Jim suggested, suddenly convinced this was the right thing to do. Call him before we leave for the library. See what he thinks."

"Jim, I love Simon, but I don't give a fuck what he thinks." Blair turned burning eyes onto Jim. "What do you want?"

And what did he want? he asked himself. The two men stared at each other. Jim was tired, too tired for this. "If you were happy, I think I'd be, too," he finally said, embarrassed by his own words. "So what do you want to do?"

Blair smiled. "Stay here for a while longer. Keep hunting for more Burton stuff."

It suddenly seemed clear to Jim. "Okay. I can call Simon. See if we can't postpone this whole thing. But, uh, Chief . . ." He felt another blush and had to look away. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but we need to talk about this."

Blair laughed, a dry sound in the moist night air. "Yeah. I hear you."

Jim rolled his head back, resting it against the top of the chair. "Time for bed."

"Shower."

"Oh, god, I'd kill for a shower. You think I could get up those stairs?"

"Not tonight, after jumping up on that leg. Rest it another day and then we'll try."

"Don't you get tired of hauling my ass in and out of that tub?"

Blair's laugh sounded significantly better to Jim this time. "Hey. I make it a policy not to discuss my partner's ass with anybody, including my partner."

Jim pulled a few grains of crushed ice from his glass and threw them at Blair. "Bed. Conversation's gotten too scintillating for me."

Jim lay on his back in the mess of hot sheets. He'd pulled them down; it was too sticky to have anything on him. He was sleeping nude these days. Even a pair of boxers was too much. The fan turned one way, paused, and then turned back, but all it did was move the hot air over him. He sighed and stirred restlessly, seeking a cool spot. His leg was aching more than it had in a week, the muscle in his upper calf twitching and pinging.

He was finally relaxing into something like sleep when he heard Blair moving through the house. Cautiously stepping, so as not to disturb him. He thought about calling out, but was too relaxed and comfortable to do so. He just listened to him move from room to room, as if searching for something.

He woke a while later, aware that someone was in the room with him. Blair, he would have thought, except he was bone-sure it was not. Blair's presence didn't carry the sense of, of . . . He tried to turn his head to see who was there, but he couldn't move. He lay quiescently in his bed, awake but unable to move. Who are you, he wondered. Blair doesn't feel like that, smell like that. Blair's presence is reassuring and calming, not . . .

The awareness of another's presence grew, swelling in his consciousness until it was all he knew. Someone was there, someone not Blair, not friendly, not loving, not caring. The air was heavy with moisture, almost liquid with humidity; his hair stuck to his head, and the sheets were sweaty beneath him. Suddenly he realized he was nude and that some evil presence was in the room with him, approaching him, coming nearer. He could hear himself gasp for breath, shallow pants, almost asthmatic. It was too hard to catch his breath, and he felt himself losing consciousness, falling into a stupor of fear and heat and finally sleep.

He woke at first light, a little after four in the morning, the noise of a hard downpour disturbing his sleep. A pale creamy light filtered through the louvers, and the slight breeze was thick with moisture. He was tired and achy; he must've slept wrong, or maybe when he'd jumped up last night, he pulled more than a leg muscle. Jesus, he was getting too old for this shit.

He shifted in bed, pulling the sheets over him. His bladder was full, but he was too tired to get up. Just sleep another minute. Just a minute.

When he woke next, he wasn't sure he could make it to the bathroom in time. He heard Blair in the kitchen humming tunelessly, and smelled fresh coffee dripping. He groaned as he sat up and carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. Shit. He used his cane to lever himself up and limped to the bathroom.

While he washed his face and brushed his teeth, the memory of someone moving in the house returned to him. Jesus, that had been a creepy nightmare. No margarita for him tonight, and a couple of extra laps in the pool. Right now, he just wanted some ibuprofen and a big mug of coffee, black.

The rain promised by the thunder in the night had finally arrived, and Blair had awaken to a steady downpour. It was cooler, too, but still too muggy for anything but shorts and a tee shirt. No running today, he decided. He'd been pushing himself pretty hard lately, and he didn't want to end up with shin splints before he even got the academy. He almost sleepwalked into the kitchen and made coffee, then sat at the kitchen table to watch the rain while it dripped.

The day was a sullen silver, the ceiling low and threatening. He could tell it would rain all day. Above the rain, he could hear frogs croaking, trying to seduce each other before the rain ended. He was still sleepy, and the steady thrumming on the roof and the gurgle of the water circling down the rain gutters half hypnotized him. He propped his head up on a fist and closed his eyes.

He jerked awake when Jim thumped into the kitchen, looking nearly as tired as Blair felt. Even though the coffee was still dripping, Jim grabbed a mug from the dishwasher and pulled the glass pitcher out of the coffee maker to fill it up. He leaned against the kitchen counter, staring out the window above the sink, and sipped the coffee, sighing happily.

"You okay?" Blair asked him, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

Jim shrugged. "Guess so. Had some bad dreams last night."

"Jesus. Me, too." They looked at each other. "You gonna be all right?"

"Sure. You?" Jim really looked at Blair now; he could tell he was getting the sentinel once-over. At last Jim nodded and took another sip of coffee. The coffee maker sighed and stopped dripping, so Blair shoved himself out of the chair and got himself a mug, too. "I was thinking about last night," Jim said after a few minutes of satisfied coffee consumption.

"What about it?"

Jim took another sip and Blair began to watch him carefully. Normally, if Jim had something to say, he just said it, a calm announcement as if stating a fact. He was more hesitant today, which caught Blair's attention and concern. Finally, Jim said, "The academy."

The silence between them grew as Blair considered all the possible permutations of "the academy" that Jim might mean. He put his face as close to the coffee mug as he could and breathed in the fumes. He took another sip and then looked at Jim, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah?"

Jim continued to stare out at the rain and steadily drank his coffee. Blair watched him silently, concerned, even a bit fearful. Then Jim put down his mug and straightened up. Looking into Blair's eyes, he said, "I don't think you want to go to the academy at all."

Blair felt his hackles rise. "You don't."

"No. And I want you to tell me what you want. Just a simple yes or no."

"It isn't simple, Jim; you know that."

Jim sighed. "No. You're right. It isn't simple. But Blair . . ." He fell silent, falling back into the laconism that so frustrated Blair. Time had taught him it was best to remain silent, so he schooled himself not to annoy Jim with encouraging noises but just to wait. When he'd finished his coffee, Jim said, "If everything were different, would you go to the academy?"

"Everything isn't different." Jim just looked at him. "Jim, don't press me."

"I'm pressing you, Sandburg." Again the silence swelled between them, filled with the sound of the rain against the house, the coffee maker sighing to itself, the refrigerator humming quietly. "Tell me, Chief," Jim said softly, and Blair sighed heavily.

"I have to go. I don't have a choice."

"Pretend you do."

"I don't."

Jim took the mug from Blair's hand and refilled it, then his own. He put his hand on Blair's elbow and gently tugged him back to his chair and pushed him into it, then sat across from him. "Pretend you do."

They stared at each other. Blair felt as if he were standing on a precipice, and the wrong word would send him hurtling down. "If I don't go," he finally whispered, "what would we -- what would I do?"

"What would we do?" Jim responded thoughtfully. "Anything. We could do anything."

"Tell me the truth. Could you be a cop without me to help with your senses? With the zones?"

Jim looked into Blair's eyes; Blair felt studied, considered. As if he were the subject of an analytical paper, instead of the author of one. Jim's eyes were pale in the grey morning, slightly red and puffy, and the fine laugh lines a bit drawn. He looked as tired as Blair felt. Jim sighed unhappily and said, "Yeah. I think so."

Hearing the unhappiness in Jim's voice, Blair found himself able to ask the next question. "Do you want to be a cop without me to help you with your senses?"

And that, Blair thought, slightly breathless, was the crux of the matter.

Jim just sat there, slowly blushing, mug forgotten in his hand. Then he shook his head. "I don't think so. Not anymore."

Blair nodded, and felt his mouth twitch into a small smile, and inside his heart swelled in relief and satisfaction. Perhaps he had succeeded after all, despite all the mistakes, all the misunderstandings. Jim could do it on his own if he had to, but he wanted Blair there at his side all the same. Blair's smile grew larger, and to his relief, Jim smiled back. "Don't let it go to your head, Sandburg."

Blair just grinned at him. "How about eggs for breakfast?" he asked happily.

"Too hot. Cereal and bananas."

"Hey, Saturday let's go to that farmer's market Tina told us about," Blair suggested, "and get some blueberries. They'd be good on cereal, too." And with that, the topic was dropped. Blair knew that Jim would take care of everything, and they would be together. Blair wasn't going to think about it. He was going to fix some breakfast, get dressed, go to work at the library, and spend the day in Jim's company. Beyond that, he couldn't, he wouldn't imagine.

Nothing had been decided, really, except to postpone the academy for a while. Just a while. If Jim didn't want to be a cop without Blair as his partner, then Blair would have to be his partner. The smile returned to him as he ate his shredded wheat and granola.

The rain continued all day, a steady drizzle, warm as a bath. Their handicapped parking spot put them right next to the library, so they didn't have far to walk in it, but they were still instantly chilled when they hit the air conditioning. After an hour of so, Blair was literally shaking.

Jim must've realized it at the same time Blair did. "Here," he said, pulling out his wallet and handing a startled Blair two twenties. "Run to the bookstore and buy us an umbrella and you a sweatshirt. You're going to catch pneumonia, and then I'll be stuck here cataloging all by myself."

"Jim, man," Blair started, but Jim gave him The Look, the one that said that this matter is non-negotiable. He sighed dramatically, but took off, leaving Jim to hobble down to the break room and Robert's excellent coffee.

He was glad to be outdoors in the fresh air. It was still muggy, but significantly cooler than the last few weeks. He ran lightly through the rain, jumping over puddles, heading toward the bookstore. Which wasn't, he thought, much of a bookstore, in that it carried a lot more merchandise than it did books. But they had enormous umbrellas, big enough for both men to share, and a grey sweatshirt with the interlocking ND on the front. He also bought Jim a blue and gold tee shirt, paying for that out of his own rapidly dwindling supply of cash. But it was worth it, he told himself, strolling back to the library under his new umbrella, enjoying the sound the rain made on the taut fabric.

"You didn't have to do that," Jim told him, frowning at his purchase, but Blair just shrugged and helped himself to the last of the coffee.

"I know. Just wanted to."

Jim smiled ruefully, and held the tee shirt up to his chest. "Looks like it'll fit."

"Hey, double-extra large? It better."

When they got back to work, the first thing he pulled from box thirty-six was a bundle wrapped in a coarse fabric, something that made Jim wrinkle his nose. He squatted and carefully set it on the floor to unwrap. "What is it?" Jim kept asking, but he ignored him to focus on his task. The material -- which he thought might be papyrus -- folded back to reveal folio-sized paper of an unusual texture. Certainly not recently made. The handwriting was, he thought, Burton's; it was in Arabic and English. He studied the first sheet, then took off his glasses and brought it up to his eyes.

"What is it?" Jim asked again, sounding almost anxious.

Blair shook his head. "More Burton, I'm pretty sure." He turned his attention to the next few pages, then delicately lifted half the pages up and read from the middle of the package. When he set the bundle back down, he looked up at Jim, smiling faintly. "I'm not sure yet, but I think this is more of The Perfumed Garden. It looks as though Burton copied out the original Arabic version and was translating from it."

Jim shrugged. "Can't you get a copy of that book anywhere? Is it valuable because it's in Burton's handwriting?"

"Well, yes, of course, that adds value to it. But there were parts of the book that Burton didn't translate. Or rather, when he translated it the first time, from the French, the original French translator hadn't translated part of it. Then Burton went back to the Arabic and made a more complete translation. My guess is that this," and he stroked the bundle, "is part of that complete translation." He looked at the remaining boxes. "My god, Jim, do you have any idea of the significance of that? What it would mean to scholars to have the complete translation by Burton? His wife was supposed to have burned it --"

"After he died, yeah, you told me the story." Jim tapped a couple of keys on Blair's laptop and then worked his way out of the chair he was using to limp to Blair's side. "Help me down," he said shyly, but Blair shooed him away and brought the manuscript to the desk, closing the laptop and moving it to the top of an already-inventoried carton.

The two men stared at the pages, Jim refusing to touch them although he did sniff them thoroughly. "Tobacco," he told Blair, who watched curiously, proudly. "Some kind I'm not familiar with. A musty smell. The smell of that wrapping. Dust, and mildew."

"Wonder if Robert would let me take this home tonight, so I could study it," Blair murmured, when he realized Jim was through cataloging scents.

"I don't think that's a good idea. But you could do it here. I could work on the boxes by myself, or with that student assistant. Or take a day off, stay home and watch TV."

Blair looked at him suspiciously, but he seemed to be serious. "Shit, Jim. You should've told me. You don't have to drag your ass in here every single day. My god, you've done so much --"

"Stop, stop." Jim glared at him, and Blair immediately felt better. "I don't have to do anything I don't want to, so if I'm dragging my ass in here, it must mean I want to." Blair nodded, smiling slightly. "I just meant that it's okay for you to do something else."

Blair took a deep breath, flashing onto the idea of the academy. It's okay for you to do something else, Jim kept telling him. What did that mean? Jim wasn't always successful at saying what he meant; Blair knew that from long experience.

"If you ask me again if I want you to be my partner, I'm going to hit you with my cane," Jim whispered fiercely, and Blair blushed at his own transparency.

"It's Friday," Blair finally said. "Let's pack all this in and get something to take home for dinner. Tomorrow I wanna go to the farmer's market; you can stay home and watch TV then."

"No way," Jim protested, but accepted the change of topic with unusual equanimity. Blair scrupulously rewrapped the manuscript and tucked it back into the box, then sealed it. He needed time to review his notes about The Perfumed Garden so he could better understand their discovery.

The deli that Robert had recommended had turned into a favorite of theirs, so even though it was a little out of their way home, they stopped by and picked up dinner, its aroma filling the little pickup. It had started to rain even harder, and Blair noticed that Jim was staring fixedly at the slanting lines ahead of them. "Hey," he said quietly, and Jim jumped. "You zoning?"

Jim started, and then shrugged. "Maybe a little," he admitted, and kept his eyes on Blair or their dinner for the rest of the drive.

Walking into the kitchen, Blair stopped so suddenly that Jim bumped into him, and they danced a moment while Blair tried to keep Jim from staggering onto his bad leg. "Shit, Sandburg," he said when fully upright again.

"Sorry, sorry. But look," and he pointed at the floor by the backdoor.

Jim immediately stood up straighter and reached for the small of his back, where for so many years he'd kept his gun. "Shit," he said again when he realized it wasn't there. "Go outside and wait in the truck."

"You big dummy," Blair said, affectionate and anxious. "Like I'm gonna leave you to face an intruder when you can't walk." He carefully stepped around the puddle of water on the floor that had caught his attention and tried the back door. "Still locked," he said absently, looking around the kitchen.

"The windows are open," Jim pointed out, and Blair checked each one.

"There's no more water here than what you'd expect on a rainy day," he said. "Just a mist that came through the screen."

"Help me down," Jim said, and with some effort, he was able to kneel next to the puddle. He stared at it intensely, Blair leaving his hand on Jim's back. Then he put his head down to the floor and sniffed thoroughly. Finally, he put his finger in the water, but Blair grabbed his hand.

"Crap, Jim. Don't taste that."

"It's just water, Sandburg," Jim growled, and pulled away. He tapped his forefinger to his tongue, eyes closed. "It's water from that pond," he said confidently. "I knew I recognized that smell."

"Not rain water?" Jim shook his head. "Forgive me for asking the obvious --"

"Yeah, I'd like to know that, too." He began to struggle to his feet; Blair grasped his forearms and pulled. "We need to look around the house." Blair dumped their dinner onto the kitchen counter and, one hand on the small of Jim's back, they prowled through the entire downstairs portion. When they returned to the kitchen, Jim started toward the stairs.

"Hey, hey," Blair protested.

"Just help me up there," Jim insisted, and grabbed the railing.

"Fuck," Blair said, but got behind him and pushed. It took them a long time to get to the second floor; any intruder with sense would've heard them and escaped long before. Jim was sweating with the effort, and Blair could tell his leg was hurting again. "You keep pulling that muscle, you're never gonna recover."

But Jim's protective instincts had kicked in, and he explored all the upstairs rooms as thoroughly as he had the first floor. No mysterious pools of water anywhere else; no unwelcome guest. Just an empty house with a puddle of pond water on the kitchen floor.

Jim had started toward the stairs again when Blair said, "Hey. Take a shower while you're up here. In fact, why don't you stay up here? You can sleep in one of the bedrooms; I'll get it fixed up. Rest your leg. I'll mop up the water, bring dinner up here, and we can watch the TV in my bedroom." He could tell by the emotions crossing Jim's face that Jim was torn. "I'll be fine," he assured him. "Just rest your leg, okay? I'll get you some ibuprofen."

They ate dinner in the pink bedroom Blair was using since it had a TV on top of the chest of drawers, Jim making rude comments about men who sleep in pink rooms with organza curtains. "And you know the word 'organza' because?" Blair asked, raising his eyebrows suspiciously.

"Because I was married," Jim said smugly, staring at the local news anchor, but Blair noticed he was coloring slightly.

The rain grew heavier as the evening progressed, thunder rumbling in the distance. "It's heading our way," Jim told him, so they hurried through their showers -- or Blair did; Jim enjoyed his too much to hurry, after days of struggling in the oversized tub downstairs. But he got out quickly when the thunder boomed loudly enough to rattle the glass shower walls. "Thank god there are lightning rods on the roof," he told Blair when they met again in Blair's bedroom to watch Jeopardy, Blair winning as usual.

"Lightning rods? Jesus. I don't think I've ever been in a house with lightning rods during a storm. They really work?"

Jim shrugged. "Double Jeopardy," he said. "What're you gonna bet?"

Jim settled in what was clearly a teenage boy's room, but it had a double bed instead of the bunkbeds in another bedroom or the single in the fourth. "I hope Meatloaf gives you good dreams," Blair said, nodding at the poster on the wall when he brought Jim a glass of water, a candle, and a book of matches.

"Wasn't he in Rocky Horror? Hey, remember who you're dealing with; I don't need no stinkin' candles."

"Oh, excuse me, you hulking neanderthal throwback." But he left them on the nightstand, just in case. "G'night, Jim."

"Night, Chief. See you in the morning."

Blair lay in his bed, feeling oddly relieved to have Jim just down the hall from him. He'd been having nightmares, probably from all the stress and weirdness in his life, and he always found Jim's presence comforting. Not that he'd ever admit it, either the nightmares or the comfort, to Jim. Nonetheless, he rolled over and stared out the window into the storm, consoled by the knowledge that a shout would bring Jim running. Or at least hobbling quickly.

Jim listened to the rain; the heart of the storm was coming nearer, its power growing by the minute. He could feel the thunder like tiny earthquakes, shaking the molecules of the air around him, seeping into the foundation of the house, rolling the mattress. He could smell ozone, a sharp blue scent, each time the lightning flashed. When he focused his hearing more sharply, he could listen to Blair's even breaths and steady heart beat, comforting grace notes to the violence of the storm.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the cottage cheese ceiling. Someone liked to jump on his bed, he surmised from the smooth dents and fine hair strands directly above him. He remembered doing that himself, with Stevie, when they were kids. They'd hold hands and jump, laughing their asses off until Sally or Dad caught them. He missed that camaraderie with Stevie so much. The free and easy laughter, the inside jokes, the shared glances that conveyed so much so silently.

Well, he had a lot of that back with Blair. Another brother, in a way. They'd shared so much these past few years; that forged a kind of brotherhood. Certainly he loved Blair, and now, here he was, in fucking northern Indiana, in a stranger's bed, listening to the kind of storm the Pacific northwest never got, with Blair just down the hall.

What were they going to do? Would Wendy really carry out her threat to publish? What would that mean to them? To him, personally? Would his dad and Stevie believe it? Would Simon? And what would it mean if they did? Would they care? Hell, Jim knew most folks assumed he and Blair were lovers. Jim had almost allowed himself to assume it, too. He let himself think about that one stolen kiss, Blair sweating in the sunshine, smelling of cut grass, and the memory made his heart ache like a glimpse of a future too sweet to ever really be his own.

But Blair had kissed him back, he thought defiantly. Despite everything, Blair had kissed him back.

Jim rolled again onto his side, careful of his leg. It didn't do any good to think about it, not with their future in pieces. Hell, he was still in pieces. He was grateful Blair had suggested he stay up here tonight, rather than take the stairs again. His leg was healing; he knew that. But it got tired easily, and when he limped, his back and neck would ache from the strain. I'm too old for this shit, he thought yet again, and that reminded him of Blair in the academy.

Was Blair too old? Certainly he'd be older than the other cadets. For a change; at the station, he'd always been one of the youngest there. And shortest. Well, that wouldn't change at the academy. The shortest, most likely, and the smartest, and one of the oldest, and the one with the tarnished reputation.

Fuck. It really wouldn't work. The more Jim tried to picture Blair going through with it, the less he could see it.

He rolled onto his back again, sighing. What would Blair do? If he couldn't be a cop, what could he do? Continue on with that crappy job at Cascade's Department of Human Services? That was only part time work. There had been other opportunities, Jim knew, but Blair hadn't mentioned them to Jim, and Jim had been too afraid to ask. Like that late-night call from an old colleague of Blair's with Physicians for Human Rights who had just returned from six months exhuming mass graves in Srebrenica. He'd telephoned Blair less than a week after the press conference, and he hadn't cared that Blair had switched from forensic to cultural anthropology after getting his MA, and he cared even less that Blair hadn't completed his degree. The work was so brutal and dehumanizing not many could stick it out for more than a few months, and they needed a constant supply good people in the field. They needed a man like Blair.

Jim had lain downstairs in Blair's bedroom in the dark during the whole conversation, his leg aching, and he imagined Blair leaving Cascade for Bosnia, leaving Jim for mass graves. Blair Sandburg, who still hung back at murder scenes, even after years as Jim's partner. Blair had said little for his part during that endless conversation, only asking his friend to email him more about the job. And the next morning at breakfast, neither he nor Jim had said a word about it.

Or the letter Jim had found on the coffee table from some San Jose dotcom once they had given up on trying to get Sandburg on the phone. They wanted to interview him for the position of market research analyst or some damn thing, and they hadn't cared about his tarnished reputation either. All they had seemed to care about was his ability to attract media attention, and incidentally, that photogenic face of his.

Blair hadn't said a word to Jim about that, either, and the next time Jim had looked, the letter had been gone like a guilty secret. Those were only the opportunities Jim knew about. There had undoubtedly been others, and Blair had still been running ten miles a day and working out at the gym, continuing to prepare for the police academy as though there was nothing else he could do with his life.

That wasn't true at all, and Jim knew it. It was simply the only job that would allow him to remain at Jim's side.

Was he really that selfish? Jim pondered the question miserably, already knowing the answer. Did he really want to keep Blair as his partner no matter what other opportunity arose? He remembered Blair asking him if he wanted to be a cop if Blair couldn't be there. No, he'd answered, and no, he answered again. That isn't a world I want to live in without his help.

And at that thought, Jim realized that there didn't exist a world he wanted to live in without Blair at his side.

Oh, god, he moaned silently, and rolled onto his stomach, carelessly, twisting his leg so the muscles started cramping. "Shit, shit," he chanted, trying to sit up so he could massage his calf. "Goddammit." He felt near tears from the sudden realization and the sharp pains pulsing through him. The lightning flashed, blinding him, and instantly the thunder crashed into the house, deafening him, and he sat alone, isolated, devastated. He pulled his right knee up to his chest and rested on it, both hands on his left knee, just above the injury, and gasped for breath, waiting impatiently for the pain to subside.

"Jim, Jim," he finally heard, and felt soft hands patting his back, rubbing his leg. "Talk to me, will ya?"

"I'm okay, Sandburg," he lied, and wiped his eyes. A flashlight sat on the floor, its beam shooting toward the ceiling. Blair crouched next to it, holding on to Jim, his face creased with worry. He smelled afraid. "It's okay," he said again more gently, and eased back some.

"Take a deep breath," Blair told him, and he obeyed, trying to relax his shoulders and leg muscles. "That's good."

"The storm wake you?"

Blair nodded, his hand now rubbing wide circles on his back. "I was worried about you."

Jesus. He was worried about Jim. "I'm okay," he said, and this time meant it. As always, Blair's presence had been enough. Jim stared down at his anxious face, the lines deepened by exhaustion and the weird lighting. "You need to get to sleep."

"Oh, like I could sleep in this storm. Besides, I've got nothing to do tomorrow. I can sleep during the day."

This is just fucked, Jim thought again. How did this happen? He couldn't take his eyes off his friend, comparing how he'd looked when they first met, cataloging the changes time and experience had wrought. Older, sadder. They both were.

The lightning flashed again and Blair instantly jumped up and put his hands over Jim's ears, bending to rest his forehead against Jim's. They stayed that way throughout the shuddering reverberations of the thunder, and having Blair right there, his scent in Jim's nose, made the explosive noise bearable. When he pulled back, Jim said, "Thanks," and saw, to his dismay, Blair's eyes widen in surprised pleasure.

"You're welcome."

"It's going," Jim told him, and it was true; he could hear the storm moving to their southeast. The worst was over.

"You sure?" Jim nodded, and Blair patted his back again. "Get some sleep," he said, and, picking up the flashlight, headed back toward his own room. He looked fragile to Jim, wandering through the big house in his boxers and tee, alone and so far from home.

But not alone, Jim thought. You're not alone. When he finally heard Blair drift into sleep, he cautiously got up and made his way to the phone sitting on a desk in his bedroom. It was nearly one; that meant it was almost eleven in Cascade. He called Simon.

"My god, Jim, I didn't think I'd ever hear from you again. What's up? Where are you? How's the kid?"

"He's fine, Simon. We're staying at a house just outside of South Bend, spending our days in Hesburgh Library at Notre Dame. It's not bad."

There was a long silence from Simon's end, and then a sigh. "You comin' back?"

Jim was taken aback by the question. He settled more comfortably into the wooden chair and adjusted the phone so it sat squarely on the desk. "Eventually," he finally said. "Dunno when."

"I can't imagine what you guys are going through," Simon said thoughtfully, and he sounded sad.

"Hey, how are you? Still in the wheelchair?"

"Still in the chair, but I've got an appointment with my doctor on Monday, so I'm hoping to be on crutches that afternoon."

"How's everybody else? Joel? Rafe? Megan?"

"They're fine. Megan's doing really well. Rafe had a little trouble, but he's back half-days now. H was paired with Joel till he came back; now that was a team." They laughed at the impression the two big men must've made on suspects and victims. "Give me your number, Jim," Simon asked.

After Jim had read off the digits, he hesitantly said, "I need your help, Simon."

"Anything."

"Well, it's about Blair going to the academy." He paused, trying to formulate his words.

"He's not gonna go, is he," Simon said.

"Well, I don't know that. Just, we were wondering if he could postpone the start. Maybe start the next session. Can you fix that?"

"Sure. Yeah, it would be better. Let more publicity die down. You guys getting out of town was a good idea; you're just a nine day wonder. A few more months and nobody will remember a damn thing."

"You think so? Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

There was an awkward silence. At last, almost shyly, Jim asked, "Do you think he should go?"

Simon sighed gustily into Jim's ear. "Ask me an easy one, would ya?"

"No, it's okay --"

"Jim. I think he's a great cop. I already think of him as a cop. But that doesn't mean he should be a cop. What does he want?"

"He doesn't know. Or he isn't telling me," he added a little bitterly.

"Well, that's typical Sandburg. Obfuscation is his middle name. Have you asked him?"

"Only a dozen times."

"Then keep asking him. He'll get pissed and tell you eventually." He sighed again. "Yeah, just stay out there for a while longer. Sounds like you're keepin' busy, keepin' him busy, and that's important. Don't let him pull a Darryl and brood about this stuff. And you don't, either. For a change, talk to your partner. Don't make anymore decisions without his input."

"Christ, Simon, you sound like you think I'm the problem here."

"Don't get me wrong, Jim. You're a great cop and a good friend. But you don't always, uh, sometimes you can be a little . . . Just talk to him, okay?"

"Okay." Jim felt himself blush in the warm dark. "You'll take care of everything? I can tell Sandburg that?"

"Yeah. Tell him I said hi, too. Hell, tell him I miss him. He won't believe you and it'll mess with his mind." The two men laughed, and then, reluctantly, Jim said goodbye.

He yawned. Time for bed. Maybe he'd sleep now.

The rain had gone when Blair woke again. He lay in bed, listening for Jim, hearing only the cottonwood tree sighing in the light morning wind. It was humid after the night's heavy rain, the air thick and slow, sodden with rich smelling moisture. He wondered idly what Jim would sense.

Today was Saturday, he remembered. Farmers' market day. He wanted blueberries, and fresh lettuce, and early tomatoes. No need to water the garden today, after the last day or so of rain. He smiled as he imagined how much the corn and tomatoes must've grown.

At last he got up and wandered downstairs, starting the coffee, rummaging through the refrigerator for breakfast. Nothing heavy today. It was just too hot, even this early.

He heard the floorboards above his head creak and realized Jim was up. "Hey," he called out softly. "Don't try those stairs without me, okay?" He heard Jim's cane rap twice.

He lifted his night tee shirt away from his body; it felt almost damp. How on earth did people live here? How did such a miserable area get settled? When the coffee stopped dripping, he poured the entire carafe into another pitcher and set it in the fridge for later that day, then started another pot for this morning. Iced coffee on a hot Indiana afternoon. Sounded pretty good. He heard Jim moving upstairs again and climbed back up.

Jim was already dressed, wearing loose-fitting shorts and the oversized tee Blair had bought him at Notre Dame. He looked cool and comfortable, a far cry from Blair's sticky morning. "How'd you sleep?" Jim nodded, eyes on the rubber handle of his cane, his fingers working it nervously. Nervously? "You okay?"

Jim nodded again. "Listen, Chief. I, uh, I called Simon last night."

After a few seconds' silence, Blair said, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I asked him about what we talked about last night, about waiting a bit before you start the academy. He said he thought that was a good idea. Give more time for, for . . ."

"For things to die down."

Jim met Blair's eyes for the first time that morning. "Yeah. To quiet down. That okay?"

Blair nodded. He was a little puzzled by his reaction; he felt both pleased and disappointed in Simon's response. There must be some part of him that wanted vindication, or maybe exculpation, he decided, swallowing. "Okay," he finally said. Jim's face was set, perhaps in pain, perhaps in concern, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper than Blair remembered them being. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Flat. Then Jim sighed. "Shit, Blair. I just wish --"

"Me, too," Blair interrupted him, not wanting to hear any more. "Let's get you downstairs for the day. Anything up here you need right now? No? Okay, buddy. Hang on to the railing and on to me. Lead with your right leg, okay? Good. Good." So they thumped their way downstairs. As soon as Jim was settled in the kitchen, a cup steaming in front of him, Blair knelt to peer at the wound in his upper calf.

"I'm okay, Sandburg," Jim said gruffly, and Blair could see he was. The wound itself seemed to be healed, although the scar was still red and the skin around it a bit puffy. Probably his muscles were tight from trying to protect the calf muscle. Blair got him two ibuprofen and a glass of water before asking what he wanted for breakfast.

When dishes were rinsed and set into the dishwasher according to Ellison's Rules of Order, Blair said, "What do you want to do today?"

"Aren't we going to the farmers' market?"

"Well, yeah, I am, but you don't want to do that."

"I don't? Why the hell not?"

"Well . . . Your leg, Jim." Jim gave him a quelling look. "No, I'm serious. It's too hot to sit in the car, and you shouldn't be walking around on it as much as you have been."

"I'm sure there are benches I can sit on."

The two men stared at each other. Blair knew he'd lost; he'd known before he'd said a word to Jim. And he had checked; the leg was looking better. He sighed heavily and shook his head. "Okay. But you sit, okay?"

"Yes, mother," Jim said smugly. "Let's go. Sooner we go, sooner we get back, sooner we can eat blueberries."

So he bundled Jim into the Toyota, making sure he had his hat and a bottle of water, checking compulsively for Tina's directions to the market. "Blueberry *short*cake, blueberry *pan*cakes, blueberry *muf*fins," Jim chanted beneath his breath, and Blair started laughing.

"So who's gonna do all this baking?"

"Hey, I'm injured. Blueberry ice cream, blueberry *cob*bler, blueberry *cust*ard, blueberry crisp, hmm."

"Run out of recipes?"

"Just thinking."

The farmers' market was organized in two large sheds, roofed but open-aired, and very crowded. Blair pulled the Toyota up next to it and looked meaningfully at Jim, who after a moment's hesitation got out to wait for him indoors. He ended up having to park a block away and was glad Jim wouldn't be using his leg more than he had to.

By the time Blair got back to the market, he was dripping with sweat and had pulled his hair back into a pony tail higher on his head than usual. It probably looked weird, he admitted to himself, wiping his face with the sleeve of his tee shirt, but the weight of his hair on his neck was too much in the insistent sultry morning air.

Jim was, surprisingly, waiting for him, seated on a battered bench along with a grey-haired woman and three kids holding a box of kittens. "Kitty, mister?" a little girl asked Blair as he walked up to them. He stared into the box. They were a mixed bunch; apparently their mother got around a bit. Two marmalade kittens, a tabby, and a splotchy black-and-white one that appealed to him. He glanced at Jim, who shook his head, and said, "No, thank you. Good luck finding homes for them."

He helped Jim up and they plunged into the crowd. There were Amish families, dressed suffocatingly in the heat, the women wearing bonnets and the men long curly sideburns. East Indians in saris and turbans. A Mexican family selling freshly made tortillas and salsa. Blair had had no idea that South Bend was so diverse, and listened happily to the polyglot of languages and accents.

They came to a stand of big clear plastic bins filled with different salad greens, and he carefully maneuvered Jim to one side, where he could lean against the counter out of the way of most of the crowd. "Whatcha got?" he asked an older man pouring a bag of baby romaine into a nearly-empty bin.

"Okay, this is romaine, and red oakleaf; here's arugula, dandelion, Reine de Glace, Boston, Bibb; this is tatsoi, radicchio, spinach, purslane, and mache. And here's baby spinach, frisee, and lamb's quarters."

"Oh my god," Blair moaned, and began scooping handsful into plastic bags. He glanced at Jim, who smiled and shook his head tolerantly. "I hope Professor Wilde has a salad spinner," he muttered.

"Professor Wilde?" the lettuce man asked.

"Yes? You know him? We're staying at his place for a few weeks."

He put out his hand, and Blair finally took a good look at him. Tall and slim, a little older than Jim, with graying dark hair worn longish. "I'm Tina Watson's dad, Ev. You must be the cops from California."

"Washington," Blair said, shaking his hand. Jim had started to move toward them, but Blair gestured for him to stay. "This is my partner, Jim Ellison."

"Jim." Ev and Blair moved to the side of his stand, and Jim and Ev shook. "I'm glad you two took that place off my little girl's hands. I didn't like her being that far from town, and then with all the stuff that happened . . ."

"What stuff?" Jim looked, Blair thought not for the first time, like a hunting dog on point.

Ev shrugged. "You know. She was sure someone was trying to break in. Even called nine-one-one, but they couldn't find anything. She didn't tell you?"

"Well, she mentioned it, but no details," Blair explained.

Ev nodded. "Yeah. She was a little embarrassed about it. Personally, I'd just as soon she'd come home, but you know how kids are." He waved his hand; Blair wondered if he'd know what the gesture meant if he were a parent. Maybe some secret sign language you had to reproduce to learn. "Anyway, she's staying with Melanie now, who's okay, I guess. But at least she's in town." He looked at Blair and then Jim with interest. "You fellows have any problems?"

Blair shook his head, and watched as Jim looked thoughtful. "Jim?"

"No. No trouble." Blair decided he'd ask Jim about his hesitation later.

"Well, for letting my little girl get out of that house, these greens are on my house."

"No, Ev, we can't," Blair tried to say, but he insisted.

"Won't take your money. Next week, now. And here," he licked his thumb and tore a printed sheet of paper off a small notepad, "here's my wife's recipe for Parmesan and Lemon Vinaigrette. Really good on the romaine. My favorite is to add pecans, but it's good with croutons, too."

"Thanks, Ev. I don't know what to say."

"Just eat up the greens before they get bruised and soggy."

"What are you gonna do with all that lettuce?" Jim asked as they sidled past folks buying corn and squash and enormous bell peppers.

"Well, salads, of course; it's so hot. But I have a recipe for lettuce soup that's really good."

Jim scrunched his face up. "Uh-huh. Can't wait." Suddenly he stopped. Blair followed his gaze.

"Cherries. Oh my god. Cold cherry soup."

"Enough with the soup, Chief. Let's buy a couple pounds."

Their fingers were sticky and red before they got much farther in the crowd, as they nibbled the cherries, dropping the pits into a small paper bag the grower had given them for that purpose. "You want fresh corn?" Blair asked after he'd spit one out.

"Too much corn," Jim said. "Smell it all night and all day out there. But let's get some lemons, for that recipe, and I smell garlic nearby."

"Any blueberries yet?"

"Oh, yeah. We're coming to them." And then stand after stand seemed to be selling nothing but blueberries, the crowds like flies buzzing around them. Some were big and fat and some tiny, but Blair sneaked tastes of each and everything was sweet. He bought five cartons, figuring they could bring them to work for lunch as well as eat them on cereal for breakfast and as dessert with dinner. He piled the bags into his arms, unwilling to let Jim try to juggle them along with his cane and the crowd.

"That's enough, Sandburg," Jim told him when he staggered back to where he was resting against a pillar. "Let's go."

So even though Blair saw lots more produce he'd've liked to try, he followed Jim to an exit and then put the bags on his lap once he'd sat, lettuce and blueberries and cherries and lemons, so much produce that it overflowed Jim's legs and spilled onto the bench on either side "You know Jim," he said, "There's a real argument to be made that the adoption of agriculture was one of humanity's worst mistakes. It makes sense when you think about it. Agriculture made permanent settlements possible and out of those came social and sexual inequalities, disease and despotism, most of the plagues of so-called civilized existence. Did you know the Kalahari Bushmen only spend twelve hours a week gathering food, while the average New Guinea rice farmer spends up to twelve hours a day in the fields? What did our species really gain by embracing agriculture but a lot of pain and a lot longer work day?"

Jim just smiled at him, and popped another blueberry in his mouth.

Blair grinned back. "Riiight. I'll get the truck. Just be a minute."

Jim was still placidly eating blueberries and cherries when he finally pulled up, wishing they'd gotten a car with air conditioning. He jumped out and opened the passenger door, then dropped most of the bags into the bed of the pickup, leaving Jim with only the cherries.

"Do we need anything else before we head back?" Jim shook his head, and Blair saw that he was tired after the hour they'd spent out. Well, shit. And here he'd promised himself that Jim would rest this weekend.

He would, Blair swore. If he had to tie Jim up to do it, he'd see that he rested this weekend.

Once they were out of town and headed back toward their summer home, he asked as casually as he could, "So what's happened?"

Jim put a cherry in his mouth, then spit out the pit. "What d'you mean?" he asked indistinctly, and popped another one in.

"You, when Ev told us about Tina, I got the idea that you knew something."

"Naw." He ate another one. "Just. Had a bad dream."

Blair sat up a bit straighter, and glanced at Jim. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jim shrugged. "Really. Nothing."

"You dream that someone was breaking in?" He ate another cherry. "Did you know that too many cherries will give you diarrhea?" Jim scowled at him. "No, really. Been there, done that."

"Way to spoil my fun, Sandburg."

"Well, I could've let you find out for yourself." After a few minutes more, Blair said again, "Did you dream that someone was breaking in?"

"Yeah."

"You sure it was a dream?"

Jim was silent. He tied off the bag of cherries and set them on the floor at his feet. At last he said, "It had to have been a dream. We'd know if someone had been in the house."

"There was that water." Both men sighed at the memory.

"Yeah. I dunno, Chief." He finally looked at Blair. "If I really thought someone had been in that house, I'd've told you, you know that. I wouldn't put you in that kind of danger."

"But."

"But, there is something. At night. I dunno." He sighed again. "I'll tell you when it happens again."

Blair nodded. He knew that was all he'd get out of Jim right now.

Jim wondered if he'd eaten too many cherries. His bowels were definitely looser than normal. All these fresh fruit and veggies; his body wasn't used to it, even after his years with Sandburg. Maybe they could grill burgers tomorrow night.

He sat in the kitchen enjoying the slight breeze that found its way in, a tall glass of iced coffee at his elbow while he listened to Blair sing under his breath as he made the topping for a blueberry crisp: sweet butter, brown sugar, flour, and oatmeal filled his nose pleasantly. Just after noon and broiling hot outside, but the kitchen was almost as cool as the front porch, and more shaded, thanks to the enormous cottonwood just outside.

He liked it here, he decided, and not simply because it wasn't Cascade. It was too hot, too humid, too far from the ocean to ever be home, but he loved the immense silence. His senses could expand and extend, permitting him to relax into them in a way he'd never experienced before. Well, maybe in Peru, but so much of that time was still fuzzy.

He sighed, feeling simultaneously guilty and happy, as he watched Blair's body move with unexpected grace while he mixed the topping. He thought again of the aborted kiss, that sweet, impossible moment. The texture of Blair's lips, his breath against Jim's face. The look in his eyes as Jim abruptly pulled away.

Someday. Someday. Perhaps.

He took another sip of coffee and smiled as Blair bent over to slide the crisp into the oven. "It's too hot to be baking," he said over his shoulder to Jim, who agreed.

"But think how good it'll taste with a big scoop of ice cream," he reminded Blair.

"Okay. Twenty minutes. Let's get out of this kitchen till then."

"Down to the pier," Jim suggested, bracing himself as he stood. "I still haven't been down there."

"Aw, Jim," Blair protested, but came immediately to help him. "You've been on your feet too much lately. Let's just sit on the porch and read, or in the Study and watch some TV. There's got to be some baseball on."

"Later, Chief. I need to get out a bit."

Even as Blair opened the door and held on to Jim's waist while they thumped down the three back steps, then across the lawn, he continued to complain. "It's really not all that nice down there," he warned. "Kinda stinky, from the mud." But Jim was in the mood to see it, and they continued on.

The sun was dazzling on the grass, and as heavy as a thick blanket on their heads when they stepped out of the shade of the cottonwood tree and walked down through the meadow. The pier was in the shade in the early afternoon, the gingko leaning over it.

"You wanna sit?"

"Yeah. Can you --"

"Yeah, I got you," and Blair levered Jim down, his bad leg stuck out in front of him, foot just touching the ground, and all his weight on his right leg. He sat with a good hard thump to his bottom, but not enough to bruise, he thought, rocking a bit to find a comfortable position. Blair sat down next to him, then scooted forward so he could dangle his feet over the end of the pier.

"Cooler down here," he said, and Blair nodded. Jim watched him lift the heavy mass of curls from his neck; it was as sensuous a gesture as he'd ever seen.

"Nice," Blair murmured, "the rains musta raised the water level a bit," and then lay back, looking up at Jim, who had to smile down at his friend. Wisps of hair tickled Jim's bare leg, but he liked it. He'd never worn his hair long, not even as a young man, not even when he was fresh out of the army. He wondered what it would be like to care for all that, and gently combed his fingers through a bit of it. Blair sighed, and Jim saw that he liked it, so he tugged again, carefully, at the tangles, working his fingers through to the very ends, and then started again at the roots.

It was so quiet. There wasn't a breath of wind, but they were in the shade of the gingko, with the dark, deep scent of the water rising around them, drawn up into the whitened sky by the heat of the day. The only sounds were Blair's even breaths, the bees drowsing in the wildflowers surrounding the pond, and the pond itself. It seemed, to Jim's ears, to sigh a milky exhalation that coiled above the water before rising in the heat. Slow bubbles rose as well, adding to his impression of movement. Almost as if the pier were a small boat, rising and sinking with the motion of the water surrounding them.

Blair was right, Jim thought, looking around. The water was an unappealing color; he doubted there were any fish. The battered rowboat was beyond his leg's ability. But it was cooler here than in the kitchen, and the shadows of the gingko's leaves were an interesting shape as they played over his legs and Blair's relaxed face.

He felt Blair fall asleep at his side, and looked down in time to see him turn his head into Jim's thigh, his breath warm and soothing. He was nearly thirty, yet still a boy in so many ways. His rash and sudden enthusiasms. His trust in Jim's abilities. His hero-worship, Jim admitted to himself, both shamed and pleased by it.

He looked out over the pond again, leaving one hand tangled in Blair's curls, the other braced behind him. So far from their home. They'd lost so much, separately and together. There didn't seem to be any way to return. Not now. He sighed and looked down at Blair again. No, not a boy. Not with that grey in his hair, those lines around his mouth and eyes, the disappointment that weighed his sturdy shoulders. Not a boy, but another man, a frail and fallen man, just like Jim in many ways. In all the ways that mattered.

The combined weight of their losses, of the afternoon's heat, of the lethargy of having nowhere to be, nothing to do, slowed Jim's movements. The air was as thick as molasses, as sweet as the honey the bees were making. Moving cautiously, careful of both his leg and Blair's sleep, Jim also lay back, staring at the webby leaves of the gingko above him. He kept his left hand in Blair's hair and closed his eyes. He heard a soft popping noise; another bubble risen to the surface, he supposed, but it was too much bother to look.

The sensation of floating grew stronger, as if he lay on the deck of a small boat rising and sinking on heaving water. He realized he was all alone, in deep water, far from any shore. The sun beat on him, heavy as a hammer, and something splashed in the water nearby, hidden and secretive, but present and aware.

"Oh, shit," he heard, minutes or hours later. "The crisp." He opened his eyes to find Blair struggling to sit up. It was cooler, now the sun sliding into the west, heading toward Cascade, but he felt parched and drained. Jesus, what a dream.

He swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth, and said, "You go check on it, Chief. I'll be up in a minute."

"No, you're too old to be sleeping on the ground. Let's get you up."

"Too old," he grumbled in mock offense, but Blair was unfortunately right. His back ached, as did his butt and his bum leg and even his head. He ignored them as he struggled to sit up. "Push," he said at one point, which for some reason set Blair off laughing.

"Pushme-pullyou," he kept saying as he chivied Jim into an upright position, and then slid his arm around Jim's waist to help him back up the hill. It was a gesture Jim was coming to treasure and, as much as he loathed his dependency, he loved the closeness his injury had forced upon them.

"Do you think the crisp is still edible?" he asked as they neared the back door. It did smell burnt to him, but not hopelessly. Just a real crisp crisp.

"You tell me." Then Blair gave up talking until they'd gotten up the three steps, not a simple task for a man who'd slept on bare boards.

"Blueberry crisp and ice cream for dinner," he decided once Blair had pulled it from the oven. Just a bit dark in spots, where the butter had burned.

Just like that, here was a new life, Blair thought, as he heaved more boxes around in the library's storeroom. A new home, a new car, a new job, a new friend. Robert was helping him organize the remaining boxes, putting them in numerical order. Only another twenty to go and the initial survey would be complete; then Blair would need time to review Jim's notes, look for patterns, ways to organize the textual material, and come up with ideas on how to dispose of the other stuff.

Robert sneezed, and Jim and Blair simultaneously said, "Bless you."

When Robert and Blair had settled the box they were carrying on top of another, he stood up and pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose lustily. "Oh, I am a martyr to my allergies this time of year," he said, sniffing. "I'm so sorry." He looked at Jim when he spoke, and Blair automatically followed his look.

Jim smiled. "It's okay, Robert. You take anything for them?" Blair watched as they discussed the various merits of Allegra and Claritin and Zyrtek and niktabi root; Jim's heightened senses had increased his sensitivity to many pollens and over their years together, he'd tried every traditional and non-traditional remedy Blair could come up with.

Robert's face just lights up when Jim pays attention to him, Blair thought for the hundredth time. He was a handsome man, although nothing like Jim in appearance. But his soft accent, his genuine interest in Jim, his intelligence and sensitivity and just plain decency was appealing, as was his sense of irony and the absurd. Martyr to his allergies, indeed; Blair had seen how the phrase had made Jim smile.

While he'd been lost in his thoughts, Jim and Robert had agreed it was time for coffee. Robert helped Jim up from the desk, leaving one hand under his arm for support. "You comin', Blair?"

"Uh, no. Not right now. Make me a cup, though; I'll be along in a minute."

"You okay, Chief?"

"Yeah. Just wanna take another look around." Jim studied him for a moment and then nodded, and then they slowly left, this time talking about the Chicago Cubs.

He sighed as their voices disappeared down the hall. So this was jealousy. Welcome to my new world, he thought again, and then opened the next box. Number forty-eight. He peeled off the clear sealing tape the moving company had used, tossed it into the nearly full trash can, and lifted the top flaps.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He couldn't move for a minute, so stunned was he. The smell that rose from the box was delicate and familiar: Burton's cigar smoke. In the last two weeks, thanks to Jim's help, he'd come to recognize it. The papers in the box had just been dumped in; he cursed the moving company's employees, then instantly blessed them for not damaging anything, and for being so thorough.

With reverence and awe, he reached in and lifted out the top page. Burton's handwriting, strong and distinctive and nearly illegible to his twentieth-century eye filled that page, and the one beneath it, and, he discovered, every page in the box. He realized he was close to hyperventilating; Jim would be pounding up the hallway in a minute if he didn't calm himself. Maybe it was just grocery lists, or lists of stuff to take on expeditions, or love letters to that wife who'd burned so much. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the incense of the past. He splayed his fingers across the page. Burton had touched this paper. His fingerprints would be here.

Burton had been a handsome man, a man of strong passions, a man with many friends who were loyal to him, who had loved him. Blair loved him, too. He had looked at pictures of Burton in the same way Robert now looked at Jim. He pictured Burton in his mind's eye: dark and a bit forbidding, but with sensuous lips and catlike eyes. For more than half his life he had loved Richard Burton and he loved him still, even now, after everything that had happened.

When he was calmer, he opened his eyes and begin gently lifting out stacks of paper, carefully keeping the sheets in the same order even though he knew they'd been disordered through many moves. He refused to permit his eyes to focus on the words until all the papers were on the floor; then he sat tailor-fashion, took a deep breath, and began to read.

When he looked up at Jim and Robert's return, Robert carrying him a mug of coffee, he felt as though they had pulled him back a hundred years and thousands of miles. His mouth was dry and he took the mug from Robert gratefully, drinking it right down. He wondered if he were in shock.

The other men realized something had happened. Robert helped Jim settle in the chair and then knelt beside Blair. No one spoke, until Blair set down the mug and looked up at them, first at Robert's kind face, and then at Jim's familiar one.

"The twenty-first chapter," was all he said, and both men smiled broadly, as if they'd won something.

"So he did translate it himself," Robert said, and leaned over Blair's shoulder to peer down at the paper in his hand. "I think you got yourself a job, Blair."

"What?" Jim asked, a bit sharply.

Robert turned to face him. "Well, he found it. He's a scholar. He'll have to transcribe the text." He looked back at Blair. "This is the kind of thing that makes men's careers."

Blair felt as if he'd fallen down an elevator shaft. He looked quickly down at the paper, letting his hair hide his face. "Blair?" Robert said gently.

Then Jim was at his side, grunting with the effort of kneeling. "No, Jim," Blair protested, instantly turning his attention from his own misery to Jim's.

"Shut up, Sandburg," he gasped, and then fell back. "My butt is never gonna recover." Once down, he turned to Blair and opened his arms. Blair's mouth fell open in shock. "You'll catch flies, Chief," he murmured, and then pulled Blair into an embrace.

Blair was embarrassed that Jim would think it was necessary to hold him in front of Robert. But he felt too numb to say anything or pull away, and in fact, it felt wonderful to breathe in Jim's scent, with undertones of Burton's. As Jim rubbed his back, he forced his muscles to relax, and leaned into the embrace. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"What is it?" Robert asked hesitantly.

Neither man answered. Blair was too ashamed; he wondered if Robert would kick them out of the library, and then they'd have even less reason to be spending the summer together, one final adventure shared one final time. He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes more tightly closed. Jim hugged him fiercely.

"You didn't hear about this, Robert?" Jim finally asked. "A few weeks ago? Big news conference?"

After a few seconds, Robert said, "I was home in New Orleans. My father just passed. I didn't see any news for weeks, takin' care of him and my family."

To Blair's shame, a small sob escaped him at that news. He clutched at Jim's shirt. Here it would come. The litany of what he'd done, how stupid he'd been, how fucking naive, and then Robert's shock. Just like Rick Feldman in the grocery store in Cascade, only worse, because Jim would see it, too, would see how the world viewed a liar and a fraud. He swallowed again and tried to push out of Jim's arms, but he wouldn't let go, and after all their years together, one thing Blair did know was that nothing could make Jim let go until he wanted to.

"Blair lied," Jim finally said, and a tear rolled down Blair's cheek to be absorbed into his shirtfront. "He lied to save my life and career. And I let him lie, Robert," and to Blair's horror, Jim's voice broke. He pushed sharply away, this time succeeding enough to look up into Jim's red and anguished face. He put a hand over Jim's lips.

"No," he whispered. "Don't. Don't make it all for nothing."

Jim froze. Then he sighed, his breath gusting into Blair's hand. After a moment, Robert said, "Oh. That."

Both Jim and Blair twisted to look at Robert. He was sitting beside Blair, still leaning toward him. He looked guilty and suddenly much younger than Blair knew he was.

"You knew?" Blair asked, his voice nearly unrecognizable to his own ears.

"Well, I don't know anything," Robert said shyly. "Obviously. Only you two know the truth. But there's been a, well, just a whole lot of speculation."

Blair felt disembodied. Speculation? "About what?" he whispered.

Robert blushed. "We've all read Burton," he finally said, and then Blair blushed.

Jim began to laugh. "So it's some kind of open secret."

Robert nodded. "Definitely don't ask, don't tell."

"But," Blair said. "But."

"You're a butt, Sandburg," Jim told him, and hugged him again, crushing him against his big chest, and then, right in front of Robert, kissed the top of his head. "Okay, my little guppy. Back to fishing through Burton's papers, okay?"

"But." Robert and Jim both laughed.

"Blair." He looked at Robert. "You're right; you can't be the one to release word about this discovery. That could cause all kinds of problems. But you write it up and I'll take care of the rest. I'm sorry," he added more seriously, "that it won't be your and Jim's name on the monograph. But you'll get a footnote, and you'll do the work. And no one can take that from you. Any more than they can take Jim from you."

With those ambiguous words, he collected Blair's now-cold coffee, rose gracefully, and said, "I'll leave you two to it." Then he left.

Jim shook him gently. "He's a good man, Blair. I'm glad we came out here."

"Yeah," he said faintly. He finally looked at Jim's face. "He's doing it for you. He loves you."

"He has a crush on me," Jim corrected him. "He doesn't know me well enough to love me." And he stared down at Blair with such significance in his pale blue eyes that Blair had to look away. "Back to work?" He nodded.

"Yeah. Back to work."

"Wow," Jim said, looking around at the expensive, shiny exercise equipment.

"I'll say," Blair agreed. "Do you know how to use all this stuff?"

"Of course, I do." He hesitated. "Most of it."

They were standing at the doorway to the Haggar Fitness Center, in Loftus Center, the enormous athletic facility on the south side of campus. An indoor football field surrounded by a track, classrooms, dressing rooms, an auditorium, and the fitness center, which Robert had helped them get permission to use while they worked for the library.

"What are you gonna do?" Blair asked, walking in and looking at what Jim thought must be a rowing machine, all gleaming aluminum and leather.

Jim hobbled after him, trying not to lean too heavily on his cane. He was aware of the extreme youth and fitness of the other men in the facility. Notre Dame football players, he decided, or football wannabes. They were enormous, like another species. He knew that he was a big guy, tall and muscular, but felt slight next to one of them. He wondered how Blair felt.

He studied the free weights stacked at one end of the room, and couldn't resist glancing at himself in the mirror behind them. Tall and fit, yeah, but losing his hair. His body softening with age and use. Strongest in his upper body; his arms looked good, even compared to the others, but despite his height, he was slender. Almost fragile looking, he thought, and turned away. Blair was watching him carefully.

"I think you should start with a bike," he said.

"I hate bikes. They're boring."

Blair made a face. "All exercise is boring, Jim. But a bike will let you isolate that leg muscle while keeping your weight off it."

"The elliptical. And then the leg extension machine."

Blair studied the elliptical. Kind of treadmill, but with almost a biking motion. He watched one of the Big Guys in the facility using one, and nodded. "Okay," he finally said. "But not for too long. Don't get all competitive and macho."

"You sound like that doctor," Jim said sourly, but he knew Blair was right. It would be easy to get caught up. He was a competitive man, but he couldn't compete here. Between his age and his injury, he'd lose, and then he'd have Blair on his case for weeks, long after he recovered. He sighed, but nodded, and hung his cane over the handlebar of a free elliptical. "How's this puppy work, anyway?" he muttered, and Blair stood next to him, both of them peering down at the instructions.

"Look, here, you turn it on, and then - "

"Whoa. Hey, fourteen programs to choose from."

"Time, man. No more than ten minutes this first time."

"Yes, mother."

"Fuck you."

Jim smiled: success. Blair finally turned his back on Jim and chose a stair-stepper, setting himself a pretty good pace. Faster than Jim would be allowed to, he knew, and smiled again. Blair prided himself on his spontaneity and flexibility, but when it came to Jim, he was as predictable as the tides.

When the timer dinged, Jim was glad he'd listened to Blair and only gone ten minutes. Using this thing was a lot different than swimming or hobbling around with that cane. He stepped off with a sigh and decided to do some upper body work and give his leg a rest. Blair was still stepping vigorously, sweat matting his curls and soaking his greying tee shirt.

He chose a large ring of weights, judged it not quite heavy enough, and added another smaller ring, then sat on a padded bench. He loved this. The repetition, the almost-meditative quality of the activity. He looked at himself in the mirror, face shiny with sweat, and corrected his form. Then he closed his eyes and centered himself in the action. Slowly up, even more slowly down. Up, and down. Again and again, until his biceps ached for the first time in weeks. The other arm. Then his triceps. Deltoids.

"Hey." He looked up to find Blair waiting for him. "You been doing that quite a while."

He racked the weight and stretched his arms, first low and behind his back, then above his head. "Yeah. Felt really good. Thanks for getting us permission to use this place, Chief."

Blair held out his hands; Jim could see the red stripes from the molded handles on the stair-stepper. "Thank Robert. I just asked if there was such a place. He did all the rest."

"Yeah, well. You asked. Thanks."

"Didn't the doctor say you needed to do leg extensions? The machine's free."

So Jim walked over there, trying not to limp, and settled himself. Not too many, and not too much weight. He shook his head. Fuck. He'd been injured before, he'd gone through rehab before, he knew how slow you had to take it. Didn't mean he had to like it.

When he looked up, he saw Blair was using the free weights, his biceps bulging impressively. He really wasn't the same guy who bullied his way into Jim's life all those years ago. Jim shook his head and focused on his bad leg. Not the same guy at all.

"I think that's enough for our first time, don't you?" Blair interrupted him.

Jim glanced longingly around. He remembered when he was in high school, how he'd lose himself in the mindlessness of physical activity. The pride he'd taken in his body, that had been important, but the solace of the repetition, the way he could absent himself from his life, had been nearly as important. More, some days. "Yeah," he finally said, and they turned to go. "Let's wait and shower at home, okay?"

"Hey, if I can stand you in that little truck, you can handle me."

Jim lightly swatted the back of Blair's head. "Bet your ass I can handle you, Shortstuff."

"So, you wanna come back?" Blair asked as they staggered under the weight of the afternoon sun. Jim shivered; the contrast in temperature between the gym and outdoors was nearly stunning him.

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"Good. Twice a week, at first," Blair decided, unlocking the passenger door of the Toyota and taking the cane from Jim so he could climb in. "Between that and swimming, you should be okay."

"I'll be okay," Jim told him, squinting as he looked up at him. Blair looked tired, but in a good way. The circles under his eyes had gone, and he was nearly glowing with good health and energy.

"I know," Blair said, and slammed the door.

It was well after five by the time they hit the road, but it was still hot as the blazes, the sun slanting sidewise and in their eyes regardless of the direction the truck was pointed. The windows were rolled down, but the hot wind blowing across his and Blair's faces was so humid it didn't even dry their sweat. Jim didn't care. It felt good to be out and on the road, his muscles pumped and still trembling a little from his workout, Blair at his side. The radio was tuned to a better-than-average oldies station, and the wah-wah guitar laughs and the hard bass riff of "Papa was a Rolling Stone" filled the truck, vibrating the sides along with the wind and their speed. Sandburg was tapping on the steering wheel in time with the claps in the song.

"An' Mama, bad talk going around town says Papa had two outside children
And another wife --"

Sandburg tried to match Otis Williams' basso profundo "-- and that ain't right!" He didn't come close to dropping his voice that low, and cracked himself up. Jim could feel himself grinning and Blair must have seen it out of the corner of his eye. He glanced sideways at Jim, his own smile getting broader. "Hey," he said suddenly. "Something I've been wanting to try. You up to it?"

"Do I have a choice?" Jim pretended to grumble, and Blair took that as a yes. He slowed the truck, then pulled it off to the side of the road. Cornfields stretched for miles on both sides. Jim was a little sorry when the music died right at "Mama I'm depending on you --"

Blair set the parking brake and opened his door. "You remember the first time we drove out to this place? You said you'd been looking at the house all along, but you couldn't make out what it was until we were pulling into the driveway, practically."

It was a dim memory, but because it was too hot to sit in the truck when it wasn't moving, Jim swung open his own door and eased himself out, his healing leg feeling a little tender, himself rather vulnerable after the exercise. Blair was around the truck fast, but Jim was standing on his own by the time he got there. "It was no big deal," Jim said. "It's so flat out here. No landmarks, no way to judge scale. That's probably why it confused me."

"Exactly!" Blair declared with an air of triumph. "See, that's what I was thinking, too. These huge wide open spaces, where the only landmark is the line of the horizon -- it's totally not what you're used to, man. Not in Cascade, not in the forest, certainly not out in the jungle."

"Uh huh." The sun was hitting the back of Jim's neck and the side of his face. "And there's a reason this is more exciting than getting home to take a shower?"

"Think of your thing about open water, Jim. Being out of the sight of land is kinda like being in the middle of a cornfield, isn't it?"

"I don't know if --"

But Blair was off and running. "Sure it is. See, your brain is used to processing sensory stimuli by the butt-load. "

"Is that metric scale or English?"

Blair waved him silent. "Like, think of all the stuff you have to take account of walking down a typical city street. All the colors and movement, all the sounds and smells from the top of skyscrapers down to the sewers, cars going by, people everywhere -- total chaos. Same deal in the jungle. Stuff is happening all around you, everywhere, and at least on some level you're trying to scan all of it all the time, looking for potential dangers."

Jim saw where he was going with this. "But out on open water --"

"Yeah, yeah, exactly!" Blair made expansive gestures with both hands, evidently miming the endless briny deep. "Visually, at least, it must be like some sort of freaky sensory deprivation experiment."

"And I know all about those." Jim was trying to scowl, but this was so much like old times he couldn't even pretend to mind.

"So your brain is primed, waiting for all this information to come flooding in via the optic nerves, and instead it gets nothing but water and sky. No wonder it's hard on you, and you experience the lack of information as anxiety, even phobia."

It made sense. Maybe. "What does all this have to do with cornfields?"

"That's what I was saying." Blair put one hand on Jim's shoulder, and with the other he pointed into the heart of the corn. "This is kind of like being at sea, isn't it? The totally monotonous landscape and everything. Nothing but corn and sky. I think it was messing with your senses the same way that first time we drove out to see the house."

"Maybe." He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or dismayed by Blair's insight into his dislike of open water. It sounded reasonable, and on the one hand, it was sort of comforting to think that his seemingly-inexplicable phobia had a rational basis. On the other hand, that "rational basis" was his sentinel senses, and once again he had to wonder whether they were worth the grief. What good did it do him to be able to read a license plate half a dozen blocks away if a flash bulb exploding in his face or a broken perfume bottle -- or for that matter, miles of cornfields -- rendered him helpless?

"I want you to try something," Blair was saying. His hand was still on Jim's shoulder, his palm hot over the ribbing of Jim's tank top, his fingers hotter still and a little sticky where they lay on Jim's bare shoulder. "I want you to look out across the corn and not think about anything at all. Just let your mind and your senses drift, and try not to focus too much on any one thing."

"Why?"

"Because if we can figure out a way for your brain to, you know, recalibrate itself so that you're not freaked out by too little sensory input, I think we'll be well on our way to making sure that too much input doesn't crash your system either. I'm talking about control, Jim."

"Okay." Jim crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a little into the pressure of Blair's hand on his shoulder. "What do I do?"

"All right." Blair seemed to keep himself from going up on tiptoe with an effort. "All right, just look out across the fields."

"The corn must be seven feet tall, Chief. I'm looking at the first row of corn, here, not any fields."

Blair laughed. "Yeah, right, okay. Let's do it this way." He coaxed Jim around to the front of the truck, his hand at the small of Jim's back. "How's your leg feel? Can you stand on it for just a few minutes more?"

"I'm good," Jim told him. Maybe only a slight exaggeration.

"Cool. So just look down the road there, and don't think about anything, and don't feel anything, just let yourself go. Professor Wilde's house is down there a few miles --"

"Along with a shower. And dinner," Jim couldn't help pointing out.

Blair even laughed a little. "Would you concentrate?

The laughter made Jim grin. "Thought you were just telling me not to concentrate."

"You are deliberately being difficult about this," Blair accused him. He looked delighted. "Just do what I tell you to do and no comments, you think you can handle that?"

Jim held up both hands in surrender, and Blair batted them down with mock disgust, then put his own hand back on Jim's shoulder. "Look down the road. Look at the corn. Don't think about anything. Got it?"

"Yessir. Looking at corn, sir."

"Fuck you," Blair said happily. He squeezed Jim's shoulder a little. "Remember, I'm right here in case anything starts to go weird," he said, and his touch was so reassuring that Jim didn't even ask what Blair expected could go weird. He stared down the road, the blacktop shimmering in the heat, a little uncomfortable to focus on even with sunglasses, so he raised his eyes and looked at the corn, golden green against the blue, blue sky. The tassels were darkening, moving faintly in the slight wind. There was nothing else for miles. The closest structure would be Professor Wilde's home, perhaps five miles away. Had Blair told him to try to see that far or not? Blair's voice was talking on quietly, just a soft rumble in his ear, his hand still squeezing his shoulder at irregular intervals as he told Jim to relax, to drift, just to let everything go, because Blair was here, Blair was right here, and would catch him if he fell.

The western sun was hot, and so was the engine of the little truck perhaps a foot behind his back, as was Blair at his side. The rocks on the shoulder of the road were sharp under his soles of his shoes, and somewhere far overhead an airplane was passing through the hot blue stillness. With concentration, Jim probably could have figured out what in-flight movie they were showing, but Blair had told him not to concentrate, just to watch the road and the corn, so he let it go.

He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, trickling down his face, down the small of his back. The top of his head felt hot, and the back of his neck. How long did Sandburg intend for them to stand out here anyway? Probably until he had counted every ear of corn in a ten mile radius. It was like coming to the end of the world. Oblivion was a cornfield under the blistering sun low in the sky.

"I'm going to take my hand away now, Jim," Blair's tone of voice didn't change in the least, continuing so level and calm that Jim didn't even register what he'd said until Blair's hand was no longer touching his shoulder. "But I'm right here. Not going anywhere, so you're all right, you're safe."

But then his voice went silent too, and in the next minute, Jim flew away as swiftly and violently as a straw plucked up by a tornado. Sight and sound were moving so rapidly the straight, tall stalks of corn seemed to bend on either side of him, then and above and below, becoming a green tunnel through which he flashed like the wind. The dry rustle of the stalks became a whine as he sped forward, and then sight was moving so rapidly he left sound behind, and in deathly silence he emerged from the cornfields in front of Professor Wilde's tidy brick house. He kept rushing forward, and when he was very close the bricks looked like glass, then like the smooth surface of a reflecting pool, and he passed through them and was inside.

He shouldn't be here. He knew it at once. The house shimmered ghostly around him, a gossamer product of his senses when his body was still five miles down the road, and though ceiling met wall and wall met floor flush and square and neat, something was desperately wrong. He spun around, wanting to flee back to Blair, but also wanting to solve the mystery if he could, and in this world without sound he heard rushing water, and it was coming from his own bathroom. His own bathtub, filled to overflowing, spilling over, and it smelled like pond water -- Jesus, like a duck pond? He pushed his way through the walls to see, and now it smelled of chlorine, like a fountain.

"Jim!"

Everything went black. He struggled briefly but was held firm, one arm around his back, someone's hand over his eyes, someone's head pressed hard to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. "Come back. You're safe. Everything's fine. Just settle down and come back now."

He put his arms around Blair and held on as tightly as Blair was holding him. Christ, it was hot. They were both drenched in sweat. Slowly, carefully, Blair walked him back around the truck, murmuring soft nonsense sounds until Jim felt the hot truck seat under his butt and realized Blair had somehow gotten him in, gotten him to sit down.

"Great. Easy. Easy. You're doing great." Blair's arms were wrapped around the back of Jim's neck, his flushed forehead resting on Jim's shoulder. Awkwardly, not entirely sure his arms would work, Jim brought his hand up and patted Blair's back.

Blair almost chuckled. He raised his head and looked at Jim. "So," he whispered. "Guess we're on to something with this cornfield business, huh?" Playing Blair the scientist, Blair the researcher, until the corner of his mouth twitched and he couldn't stop it. His whole face crumpled. "I'm sorry." He touched Jim's mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be so bad."

Jim tried to speak and nothing came out, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "What happened?"

Blair winced. "A bad zone out. I'm sorry. I thought it would be manageable, with me right here.

"You managed it," Jim said. "Everything's okay." He shook his head and drew a deep breath. He was already losing the vision in the cornfield, and was glad to let it go. "What do you say we go home now?"

"Right." Blair took one of Jim's hands in both his own and squeezed hard. "You can have the shower first, if I have to haul you up the stairs myself."

"Don't think I won't hold you to it," Jim said. All at once he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open anymore. He collapsed back against the truck seat as Blair slammed the door shut, ran around the front and climbed in the driver's side. When he turned the key in the ignition, Marvin Gaye was plaintively asking what was goin' on, but Blair didn't try to sing along.

"Excuse me, Jim? Blair?" Jim looked up from the keyboard of Blair's laptop to see Robert step into the storeroom and another man peer in at them. "Can I interrupt y'all?"

"Of course, Robert," Blair said, rising from where he sat on the floor sorting documents from box number thirty-seven. "What can we do for you?"

"Well, nothin', really. I was hopin' y'all could come to lunch with me. This is my good friend Tsend. He's read a little Burton."

Tsend smiled at them. "Hi," he said softly. "Nice to meet you."

Jim started to rise and found Robert at his elbow, helping him up. "Hi, Tsend. Jim Ellison, and this is my friend Blair Sandburg."

"Hi, Tsend," Blair said, standing next to Jim.

"So, tell me about what you've found," Tsend asked, smiling at Robert.

"Well, I haven't found a thing. But these guys have found bits of Burton's The Perfumed Garden, translated directly from the Arabic."

Tsend raised his eyebrows. "Tell me more," he requested, "and I'll treat you all to lunch." Jim's stomach rumbled at that moment. "I take it that's a 'yes,' then?"

They walked to Greenfields, which was housed in the same building as the Kroc Peace Institute where Tsend worked. "He's a faculty fellow," Robert said proudly. Jim glanced at Blair, remembering when he'd been a research fellow at Cascade. Blair's eyes flicked up to his briefly, and then focused back on Tsend.

"What's your area of specialty?"

"Government and International Studies."

"Really? What part of the world?" Jim asked, genuinely curious.

"Latin America. Especially Peru. I'm going back there in a couple months to convene a study group of multinational corporate executives, governmental officials, indigenous non-governmental organizations, and academics from a number of disciplines. We hope to examine specific issues that involve multinational corporate interaction with developing host societies."

"Wow," Jim said, and thought yet again of Incacha, adopting a white man, helping him carry out orders given thousands of miles away by what to all intents was a hostile government. He sighed.

"Jim knows Peru pretty well," Blair said, interrupting his reverie. "Especially the Chopec. He lived among them for a couple years."

Tsend looked at Jim with new interest. "We're focusing on conflict resolution in Peru. I wonder if your experiences among the Chopec wouldn't help us better understand the indigenous peoples' anger at the Peruvian government, as well as give us insight into what conflict resolution techniques they've developed in their own culture. Perhaps we could discuss this?"

"Yeah, sure." Jim hesitated a moment, glancing at Blair. "I, uh, I really grew to love the people," he admitted shyly. "I hate what my own government is doing to them, helping do to them."

Tsend nodded wisely and put his hand on Jim's elbow. "I understand. I, too, feel compelled to help these people."

They stood for a moment more, and then Tsend led the way into the dining room. "Try the Knickerbocker Soup," he suggested. "It's a house specialty. Very good."

And it was good, Jim thought, a hearty bean soup served with cornbread and honey. Sandburg had unobtrusively shoved a small salad onto his tray as they passed through the line, and Tsend had insisted on buying them all lunch, but other than those two moments, it was a pleasant break.

And he enjoyed speaking about his time in Peru, he discovered. Shyly, with Blair's smiling encouragement, he explained the little bit he knew about Chopec conflict resolution, how everyone in the tribe had participated, even small children offering their opinions and expertise.

"Sounds a bit like a communitarian anarchy," Tsend mused, and Blair had nodded.

"Bet you hated it," he murmured to Jim, and then ducked his head for a spoonful of soup.

"No, actually I didn't." Blair looked up in surprise. "Well, I wasn't in charge there, you know? I mean, I had responsibilities, but I was just one of many. I walked the perimeter of their territory," he explained to Tsend and Robert. "Sort of a, a watchman, I guess. Their shaman, Incacha, stayed with me a lot, taught me how to behave appropriately." He felt himself blush slightly, remembering some of the faux pas he'd committed early in his stay there. Ordering people around as if they were in the military, too. He tapped at the tabletop with a forefinger. "I was like a kid, you know, who had to be watched all the time at first. But as soon as I realized --" Well, now he really blushed. The other men's faces were rapt with interest, though, and so he pushed on. "As soon as I realized this was another culture and that what was appropriate at home was way outta line there, well, I, it . . ." It got easier, he remembered.

Incacha had been a father to him, despite their nearness in age. He'd taught Jim how to eat, how to clean up after himself, where to relieve himself, what hand to use to wipe himself, what leaves to use to clean himself -- the most intimate acts that even the smallest child already knew, Incacha had had to teach Jim. Fortunately, the Chopec didn't strike their children, or Jim would've been black and blue within a month, he suspected.

Instead, he'd been accepted as a wayward child, cuddled when the nightmares about his dead compatriots came, teased when he did something awkwardly, and lovingly taught how to be a man, a man of the Chopec. How to paint his face and body, to hold a spear, to fish, to run through the jungle silently. To pray. To celebrate a big kill, to mourn the loss of an elder.

He looked up from his soup. Blair was biting his lower lip, concerned, Jim could see, about his lost memories. Tsend looked knowledgeably interested. Robert was, and Jim smiled to himself, even more star-struck than he'd been before. It was a bit embarrassing, but really rewarding. He couldn't get away with shit with Sandburg, but Robert thought he walked on water.

He glanced again at Blair, who was looking at Robert and then met Jim's eyes and smiled a bit, raising his eyebrows. Shit. Blair even knew that about him. Not since Incacha had anyone known him as well as Blair did.

He ate his soup and cornbread and listened to the other men talk about Burton, muscular Christianity, nineteenth century imperialism's twenty-first century consequences, and thought about Blair knowing so much about Jim and yet so little about himself and his own motives. Blair wasn't perfect, any more than he was perfect. He knew that. He had forgiven Blair for not being perfect, really, he had. For being naive and ambitious and all-too human. He glanced up at Blair again, trying to hide his glance under his lashes. He had finished his soup and was waving an empty spoon as emphasis while he talked, eyes bright, hair wild in the humidity.

"I would love to, Tsend," he was saying, and then turned to Jim. "Tsend's gonna give us a tour of the Institute, introduce us to the folks working on the conflict resolution research in Peru."

He nodded. "Great. I'd really like that."

Tsend pulled a tiny battered calendar from his breast pocket and thumbed through it. "Next Tuesday? In the morning? And then we can have lunch again. You want to come, too, Robert?"

"If you don't mind."

Tsend nodded and jotted something down using a very thin gold pen. No, a pencil; Jim could hear the lead scritching against the paper. "Good. Tuesday at ten. We can meet in the lobby."

"What nationality is your name, Tsend?" Blair asked suddenly. Jim saw that he smiled fondly, as if in memory.

"Mongolian. My mother fled Mongolia when I was just a little boy. My father was quite abusive, I gather, although she doesn't speak much of it. The rate of alcoholism is very high, and there had been a series of severe winters. My family's cattle died, and they had no way to support themselves.

"She said there was no food, no clothing, that I had no shoes. She used to wrap my feet up in newspaper she found and then scarves. When the last of our cattle died, she decided that the sky was too high and the ground too hard to raise me there."

"The sky was too high and the ground too hard," Blair repeated softly, his eyes sad and knowing.

"As an anthropologist, Blair, you will be interested to know that Tsend's family is from the Chahar region of Mongolia."

Jim know he looked as puzzled as he felt when Blair's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "Chahar?"

"An important place for shamanism," Blair explained. "Were your family shamans?"

Tsend smiled. "We are Christians, Catholics, actually. My English name is Patrick Aloysius Tsend. My mother converted when we left Mongolia. Before that, I think she was Buddhist, but of course, not active."

"How long have you lived in this country?" Jim asked.

"Since I was four. That's thirty years ago," he added.

"How on earth did you become a specialist in Latin American conflict resolution?" Blair burst out.

"I was wondering the same thing, Tsend," Robert said, and Jim nodded.

He shrugged. "When we came to this country, we were first settled in San Diego. I learned Spanish and English at the same time. Then we moved to New Mexico."

"So just chance?" Jim asked.

He frowned a bit, and looked thoughtful. "I don't know, really. I guess. It feels like a calling, though. I can still speak Mongol, thanks to my mother, but I'm more fluent in Spanish, thanks to where we lived.

"But also the people of Latin America always interested me. Mexico, of course; I spent a lot of time as a teenager in Tijuana." He raised his eyebrows and blushed a little. "I was a typical American kid living on the border, did all the usual things."

"Oh, Tsend," Robert murmured, and nudged him.

"Sometimes I think I'd like to go back to Mongolia, to learn more about it. But I'm busy here, and I think I'm doing good work, important work."

"You do," Robert said, sincerity ringing in his voice.

"So here I am."

Jim studied him. About Blair's height, with very dark hair and eyes and a deep yellowish-brown skin tone, he could pass as Latino, especially with that mustache. A Mongol living in Indiana studying Peruvians. Well, the world really was a small place. South Bend was much nearer to Cascade than it was to Mongolia, and yet here Tsend sat, buying them lunch. Maybe becoming a friend.

"I'm looking forward to learning more about the Peace Institute," Jim finally said, and saw Blair nod his head vigorously. "In the meantime, I have my eye on that bowl of blueberry cobbler. Anybody else want any?" Turned out, all four of them did.

Jim sat at the piano, his right hand over the keys, his left propped on his cane. He stared blindly at the black and white oblongs, cool and slightly moist beneath his fingers. He was trying to remember if Blair really played piano, or if that had just been part of a dream. It seemed so real, he more than half believed Blair must, and he thought of Blair as a young boy, barely tall enough to reach the keys, fitting his thumb on middle C, learning to decode this language as he learned to read and write. It seemed entirely possible to Jim. Blair knew so much. He contained universes within him.

If Jim raised his head, he knew he would see evidence of Blair all around him in their borrowed home. Spanish-language newspapers on the sofa, Naomi's picture propped on the mantel, an arrowhead he'd found while mowing the lawn now serving as a paperweight on an end table, another translation by Burton of some obscure text. In the kitchen there would be spices Jim had never heard of, or hadn't heard of until he'd met Blair. In the bathroom, henna creme rinse and Tom's natural toothpaste. Next to Jim's bed, a beeswax candle in a shallow pottery bowl found at the farmer's market.

Like a dog, Blair marked his world. Jim had slipped through his silently, leaving little trace of his passage. But Blair seemed to need to mark his presence, to touch his environment. And he had marked Jim, deeply, profoundly. Irreversibly. Blair had touched him and he could never be un-touched now. He was marked not simply by Blair, but as Blair's.

He saw it in Robert's face, in his gentle courtesy and subtle flirting, that he believed Jim was Blair's. Others had assumed they were a couple before; certainly, they presented a remarkably united front. And maybe they were. Maybe there were.

He dropped his eyes back to the keyboard. Very gently, he pressed a key, listening to the soft sound the felt made as it stroked the wire. No matter how softly he pressed, he could hear the vibrations swell, move into the body of the piano and then out into the air, finally swelling into the room. If he let his eyes relax, he could see the air shimmer as the note traveled through it and then bounced back off the walls and windows.

He wanted to listen to Blair play the piano again. He would have to ask Blair if he really did. The more Jim thought about it, the less certain he became. There was a special quality to dreaming in this house, he thought. Maybe it was just something to do with being uprooted and far from home, but as for the Chopec, his dreams, good and bad, had become simply the other side of existence. No less real or important than the gestures and words of the waking world.

Jim leaned forward until his head rested on the cool wood music holder. The vibrations from when he last touched a key still trembled in the grain of the wood. Once struck, those vibrations continued forever, really, moving out into space, touching the house, the trees, the pond, the corn. Once done, something could never be undone. One could only wait until the vibrations had dissipated far enough not to be noticed.

Blair sat up abruptly, his heart pounding, his mouth dry and nasty tasting. Jesus, what a nightmare. He leaned back on his hands and dropped his head back, stretching the muscles of his neck and shoulders. After a few seconds, he reached over for the water glass and took several swallows.

The house was very quiet and dark. Obviously, Jim was still sound asleep and hadn't been disturbed by Blair's sudden awakening. He scratched his head and sighed, wondering if he could fall back asleep or if he should give up and read for a while. He lay back down, not bothering to crawl under the sheets, and shut his eyes.

He heard a soft sound. A cat? Someone coughing? He opened his eyes, as if that would improve his hearing. A sighed oh-oh-ohhh drifted to him. Was Jim having a bad dream, too?

He got up and stood in the doorway, listening. For long minutes, he heard nothing, and then just as he was about to return to his bed, he heard it again. A soft murmur. Someone's voice? He stepped into the hall way and waited at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dark kitchen. He took a step.

A soughing sound, as delicate as the breeze brushing the back of his neck. Downstairs. He took another step, holding tightly to the railing, and then another. His eyes were as wide as he could open them, trying to see what was at the foot of the stairs. Jim was down there, in the Professor's Study. He'd just go check on Jim.

A few more steps and then he heard it again. A little voice, crying. It must be a cat, he thought, and swallowed. He suddenly wanted to see Jim, right now, and rushed the rest of the way downstairs. He stood on the cool tile floor of the kitchen; the stove gleamed in the moonlight that shone through the open back door. Beyond it, he could see the tall grasses shimmering in a light breeze, their tasseled heads catching the starlight. He could hear them, and the leaves of the cottonwood tree as well, tossing in the night. Something moved through the grass, toward the pond.

He heard the noise again, a crying. A child crying, he thought; there's a child out there, and he began to run, down the steps into the backyard, across the neatly mown lawn and into the wild grasses surrounding the pond. The plants were damp and spiky and stung as he dashed through them, pricking the soles of his feet.

He staggered down to the pier, stopping abruptly, holding his breath so he could hear. His heart pounded in his ears and he had to take big gulps of air. Silence. Only the sound of the grass and leaves, and the nearly noiseless bubbling of the pond.

He walked to the end of the pier and leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. The moon was mirrored back at him, its undulating reflection blinding him. There was nothing. There was no one. Just the bubbles, silently rising.

"Blair." He turned his head, but there was no one there. "Blair. Blair, wake up. Wake up, buddy." He opened his eyes and found himself in his bed, Jim sitting beside him. "Are you okay? I could hear you all the way downstairs."

"How'd you get up here? Jesus, Jim, you're never gonna recover," he started, but Jim pushed him back down.

"Yeah, well, you'd be amazed how motivated you can be when your best friend starts yelling his head off in the middle of the night."

"I was yelling?" Blair felt so disoriented; hadn't he just been outside? "What was I saying?"

Jim shook his head. "Just, nothing, really. Just yelling." He brushed the hair back from Blair's sticky face. "You okay now?"

Blair put a hand over his heart; he could feel it racing, as if he'd been out running in the night. "Yeah," he said softly. "Bad, bad dream."

"I figured."

The two men remained where they were, silent, Jim's hands resting on Blair's shoulders, Blair's hand over his heart. At last, Blair said, "You'll need help getting back downstairs."

Jim grimaced. "I think I'll stay in the other room again. Not sure I'm ready to make that trip so soon."

"Oh, man, I'm so fucking sorry --"

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

"I'll make up the bed for you. Or here, you sleep here. I'll take the other bed. No, come on, man. Just lie down." And Jim seemed relieved not to have to move again, but just to lie down where Blair's body had been. "I hope you don't catch my dream," Blair said gently, wishing he had some way to thank Jim.

"Mmm," was all Jim said, and then he was asleep, leaving Blair alone again in the night.

Jim woke up in a strange bed. Not an unheard of situation, but it had been awhile. Slowly he realized that he was in Blair's bed, in the big house in northern Indiana, on a hot summer morning. He remembered that Blair had had a noisy nightmare, and that he'd gone charging up those stairs as if he could somehow rescue Blair. His leg throbbed, telling him he'd been an idiot.

It was still early; the light through the gauzy curtains was dim, but he could tell it would be another blazingly hot day. Already he was sweaty. He pushed the sheet off his body and cautiously stretched.

On the nightstand to his right he saw a stack of paper clipped together, stuck with little yellow post-it notes. Bored and curious, he dragged it off the nightstand and onto the bed, then rolled onto his side. It was a photocopy of Burton's translation of The Perfumed Garden. Hesitantly, he began to read. It was, he instantly realized, part of the twenty-first chapter.

After only a few lines, he felt as if his entire body were blushing. Good god. No wonder the original translator hadn't translated it into French, and no wonder the good Mrs. Burton had burnt the copy she'd found. He read on, though, swallowing dryly at the some the images Burton's phrases created in his mind.

When he finished, he set it back on the nightstand, making it look as though he'd never touched it. He wasn't sure why. Blair wouldn't object. Jim was an adult. No one would care. But somehow, he didn't want Blair to know he'd read those words. Not right now.

He flopped onto his back. God, it was humid. How could Blair stand to sleep up here? The bed actually felt wet, as if he were lying in a pool of water. He turned again, then gave up and swung his legs out of bed.

There was water pooled under his feet. He cautiously lifted his right foot and watched a drop roll off his little toe. Fuck. How was he going to get down onto his knees to see what was under the bed? He rocked indecisively for a few seconds, but his leg was too sore after his ridiculous dash up the stairs last night.

At last he gave in to the inevitable and called, "Blair? Chief?" He extended his hearing in time for a soft groan and the shifting of sheets.

"Yeah, yeah," Blair muttered, and then there was a sudden thump. Had he fallen out of bed? He came into Jim's room wiping his eyes, his hair matted with sleep and sweat. "What's up?" Jim pointed at his feet. Blair's eyes widened dramatically. "Shit. Shit."

"Come here. Help me down." Without speaking, Blair pulled Jim to his feet and then kept a firm grip on his biceps as he slid his bad leg behind him and balanced on his right, then slowly bent his right knee. He knew he must look ridiculous, but the need to investigate this was overwhelming.

When Jim finally was kneeling on the hardwood floor, he dropped his hands and peered under the bed. More water. Quite a lot of water, actually. "How are the windows?"

"Nothing. Dry as a bone." Blair joined him on the floor. "Shit, Jim. How can this be happening? Did you hear anything last night?"

"Just you." As he had before, Jim tapped one finger into the puddle and brought it to his nose and then mouth. "I swear it's that pond water. There's a smell . . ."

Blair stared at him, nonplused. "This can't be happening," he whispered.

Jim patted his face comfortingly. "It's okay, Chief. We'll figure it out. Now, get me offa the floor."

"Easy for you to say," Blair grumbled, but obediently seized Jim's upper arms again and hoisted. "I'm definitely building muscle this summer."

After Jim had settled back on the edge of the damp mattress and shooed Blair off for his morning shower, he stared between his bare feet at the drying pool of water wondering, not for the first time, what the fuck was going on in this house. Why had Tina run away? Where was the water coming from?

He sighed and rubbed his face. Was any of this related to the dreams he'd been having, the dreams Blair had been having? He sincerely hoped not. The stack of paper on the nightstand caught his eye again and he blushed, remembering earlier this morning, before this discovery.

And here he'd thought things were getting back to normal.

Blair sat on the floor in the library storage room surrounded by boxes and their contents. Jim was working on the spreadsheet, being typically anal about it, but that was to Blair's benefit in the long run. And right now, it left him free to puzzle out what was happening in the house.

He'd already decided they needed to talk to Tina again, find out what had happened to her. Was it the same thing that had happened to them? Bad dreams, noises, water. Maybe she would know something about the Wildes that might help.

But in the meantime he was in a library, a library with an internet connection. Surely he could do some work right here, while he waited for Jim. Climbing to his feet, he said, "I'm gonna take a little break." Jim nodded without looking up from the laptop.

Each floor had several kiosks, so Blair headed toward the nearest on the fifth floor. A quick and dirty web search first, he decided, just to see if there was any useful research out there. His recollection was that everything in the field was pretty suspect, and he knew that little of the work he had done had really helped Jim with Molly; he had figured out how to contact her all on his own. But maybe Blair's mistake then had been relying too heavily on the technology of modern ghosthunting. Really, what did he need with magnetometers and infrared photography when he had Jim?

He used to call himself a scholar and a researcher, Blair thought, relentlessly quashing the surge of emotion that accompanied that notion. Time to sit down and do some.

In the way of most web searches, fifteen minutes online revealed a plethora of information, most of which would probably turn out to be of authenticity or utility. That was OK, though. Right now he was just looking for leads. As he discovered early on, haunted houses had been reported in Western literature since before Pliny the Younger. That left two thousand years of potentially useful case studies. Surely somewhere in the midst of so much material there would be a clue that would help Blair understand what was happening in Professor Wilde's big brick house out in the cornfield.

Except there wasn't. He did find plenty of accounts of peculiar phenomena associated with specific locations: the Cock Lane Ghost, Glamis, Epworth, Tintern Abbey, the Rochester Rappings, Borley Rectory, even Amityville. The list went on and on. Firsthand reports of genuinely weird shit from reliable witnesses. So far so good, except that in every last instance, subsequent investigations had found nothing. Zilch. Nada. The spirits inevitably seemed to evaporate in the face of even moderate skepticism.

This wasn't helping. He didn't need the weight of history telling him and that he and Jim were nuts. Maybe he'd probably do better looking up specific information about the house itself. He logged in to the City of South Bend web site and started hunting for records. How long had the Wildes owned that house? From whom had they purchased it? Who had built it?

When Robert tapped his shoulder, he practically jumped out of his running shoes. "Jesus. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"Sorry." Robert looked puzzled. "What are you doing? Can I help?"

Blair stared at him for a moment, and then said, "Maybe. I'm trying to figure out who built the house Jim and I are living in this summer. Would you know how to find that out?"

"Oh, honey, I'm an archivist," Robert said, and smiled. "Come with me." As he lead Blair down the corridor to Robert's office, he said, "South Bend has stored microfilmed copies of their old records here, as back up in case anything happens to the hard copy that's stored downtown. I'm sure we can find what you need. What are you lookin' for?"

Blair hesitated for a moment, and then said, "I'm wondering if anything, uh, if anything ever happened in that house."

Robert looked over his shoulder at him. "You know, maybe you should look at the microfilm for the South Bend Tribune first. See if there's a story about something happening."

Blair nodded. He was starting to feel better; he had a plan. Who built it; who owned it; what had happened in it. "Thanks, Robert. Uh, would you let Jim know I'll be working on this for a while? Maybe you and he can . . ."

Robert's face brightened. "Of course, Blair. I'd be happy to."

And he would, Blair thought sourly, as he started searching the indices for property taxes in the nineteen fifties. Robert would be delighted to hang with Jim.

But a couple of hours later he'd forgotten all that, had forgotten pretty much anything except what he was focused on. He'd found the original owners of the house, the Charles Wards. Charles had been some big-wig in the Singer Sewing Factory that used to manufacture parts in South Bend, until that part of the country became the rust belt, starting with the closure of Singer and Studebaker in the fifties and sixties, very shortly after he'd built the house.

From there he'd moved to the archives of the South Bend Tribune where he'd discovered several articles on the Charles Wards. Mrs. Ward, Eleanor, had been very active socially. Several short articles describing their home and the parties there had wasted Blair's time, although he found them entertaining.

After Singer had closed, Mr. Ward had kept busy around the house, according to more society articles. He was renowned for his gardens, which explained those raised beds in the back. Blair had known the Wildes wouldn't have built them. Garden parties, receptions, awards ceremonies: if something happened in South Bend, it usually happened at the Wards' home.

Blair also learned that the Wards had had a daughter, Doris. A debutante, her coming out party had also been held at her home, along with a couple of hundred of her closest friends. Reading the descriptions of the dresses and food, Blair felt he might as well be studying the Chopec, so alien was this to him. But there was a picture of Doris, with plump shoulders, a pretty smile, and two dimples. He had to smile back at the blurry microfilmed photo, so happy she looked on her special day.

Charles Ward had died, Blair discovered, in seventy-one. His wife had lived on for many years, dying in the mid-eighties. The house had gone to Doris, who had sold it to the Wildes.

And nowhere in the papers or tax rolls did he find anything but happy memories of the house in the middle of the cornfield.

He left the rewound microfilm on the counter of the media services desk and took the stairs down to the fifth floor. He really wanted some fresh air, and he really wanted to talk to Jim, get some ideas about where to look next. He was a researcher; Jim was a detective and a sentinel. Between the two of them, they ought to be able to come up with something.

He stopped at the door to the storeroom and looked in. Jim was still in his chair, bowed over Blair's laptop. Next to him, nearly leaning against him, was Robert. One hand rested on the back of Jim's chair, the other next to the laptop, so Robert was bent over Jim. They were both silently reading something on the screen.

He watched them for a few seconds. Occasionally, one of them would tap the keyboard. He heard Robert murmur something, and saw Jim nod in response. But they just stood there, almost entwined. He sighed and saw Jim straighten, his head bumping against Robert's chest. "Hey," he finally said.

"Blair," Jim called. "Come look at this."

Genuinely curious, he approached them. "Box forty-eight," Robert said. "Do you remember anything about Burton in Paraguay?"

"Well, yeah." He thought. "No, I guess I just know that. Why?"

Robert pointed at the monitor. "We think this might be interesting."

Blair peered over Jim's shoulder, wedging himself between Robert and Jim. The monitor was cleaner than it had been since it was new, he noticed, and had to smile. Then he focused on the words highlighted on the spreadsheet. After a few seconds he said, "Shit."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. He turned away from the monitor.

"No, I'll get it," Blair told him, and started rooting through the boxes, looking for sixty-eight. Jesus Christ. How had he missed that? He didn't want to say anything in front of Robert; they'd already said too much. But it looked to Blair and apparently to Jim as well that there was something about sentinels in here. Not by name, no, but a clear mention of Burton's travels in Paraguay.

"Do you think this might help Tsend's research?" Robert asked as he helped Blair wrestle the box on top of another one and then scoot both toward Jim's chair.

"We can hope," Blair said grimly, and wished Robert would go away. But he stayed with them as Blair opened the box again and began sorting through it. What would they find? He glanced at Robert, who looked curious and interested, but nothing more. Of course, what else would he look like?

At last the bundle came to his hands. He gingerly set it down on the table next to the laptop. The three men stared at it, and then Jim lightly stroked it with his forefinger. "Is this Burton's handwriting?"

Blair nodded. "Yeah. You can tell by the height of the strokes. Notice how firm the downstrokes are, too, and the shape of the capital F. Pretty distinctive."

"Well, I'll let you boys read through this. Please let me know what you find, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks, Robert," Jim said idly, still staring at the stack of crisp paper. Blair waved gratefully, and then picked up the first sheet. A few pages later, he said. "Shit. Jim, listen to this: 'Before entering into topographical details concerning Sentinels, which I hold to be racial, not geographical or climatic, I must offer a few considerations of its cause and origin." He looked at Jim. "Are you okay?"

"No," Jim gasped. "No." He staggered to his feet. "I can't read this, Blair. I just can't --" He leaned against the desk until he caught his balance, and then grabbed his cane. "I'm going for a walk. You read it, you tell me about it. But I can't hear this. Not after . . . " But by then he was out the door and heading toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

Blair was tempted to run after him, to comfort Jim. But he couldn't. Everything that made him who he was insisted he read this. He sat in Jim's chair, took a deep breath, and began to read. "Plato is probably mystical when he accounts for such passions by there being in the beginning three species of humanity, men, women and men-women or androgynes," he read. "When the latter were destroyed by Zeus for rebellion, the two others were individually divided into equal parts. Hence each division seeks its other half in the same sex; the primitive man prefers men and the primitive woman women. C'est beau, but is it true? For the Sentinel, certainement. He prefers solitude, but Nature forces him to seek a Partner, his other equal half."

Well, is it true? Blair asked himself, turning the page of the manuscript. To his frustrated dismay, the next page began a new essay, about Burton's time in the Sudan. He flipped through the pages, but nothing jumped to his hand. He'd have to go through this slowly and carefully, piece together what page went with which essay.

He sighed and leaned back in the chair. And now Jim was out hobbling around the Notre Dame campus when it was ninety degrees out. Where would he go? Maybe La Fortune, for a beer. Blair decided he needed one, even if Jim wasn't there.

But he was, staring at the big screen TV, watching a Cubs game with two or three summer school students. Blair sat next to him but didn't say anything. When the game broke for a commercial, Jim leaned back and risked a glance at him.

"There's hardly anything there," Blair told him, fairly honestly. "Maybe some more is buried, but you don't have to worry. Just a couple pages on the top."

Jim nodded and sipped his beer. Not very good beer, Blair thought, and missed his favorite microbrew, available so many miles away. At last, Jim said, "You sure?"

For a moment, Blair considered lying. It would be easy, it would reassure Jim, and what would it hurt? He stared into Jim's pale eyes, remembering half-truths he'd told his friend, half-truths and omissions and obfuscations. He sighed and said, "No. I'm not sure. I need to go through every page to be sure. Every page in every box." Jim nodded and returned his attention to the ballgame. "Jim," Blair whispered. "Nothing's going to come of it. No matter what we find." When Jim didn't respond, Blair said, "Look at me." After a another sip of beer, Jim slowly turned toward him. Blair put his hand on Jim's forearm and said, "I promise. Nothing will happen."

"You can't promise that, Sandburg. We're here to catalog the material. Some other scholar will find it. Publish it."

"Maybe."

"No maybe. You found it."

"Yeah, but I was supposed to."

They stared at each other, Jim's brow creasing in thought. "What's that mean?"

"I don't know," Blair answered honestly. "I just know -- I feel that you -- that this sentinel stuff. It's mine, Jim."

After another lengthy pause, Jim said, "What are you going to do?"

Now Blair turned away, looking out the tall windows into the quad where the War Memorial stood. Tall granite obelisks, like menhirs, arranged in an oblong; they looked barren and hot in the brilliant afternoon sun. "It's mine, Jim," was all he could think to say, and then they watched the ballgame. The Cubs lost.

"Man, Tsend, I am so impressed with the work you guys are doing," Blair said just before he scooped a large forkful of pasta salad into his mouth.

Tsend smiled broadly. "Thank you, Blair. That means a lot, since you've been to Peru and know the situation. I'm proud of what we're doing. It's just that there's so much to do, and so much to learn."

"Blair's right; the plans you've drawn up are impressive. You should invite a representative from the Chopec to your meeting in September; they aren't completely isolated, the way some tribes are, but they still maintain many of their tribal customs. I think they could contribute a lot."

Tsend was nodding even as Jim spoke. "You're right. We should. From everything you've told me, they should participate. There's a three-year initiative underway, designed to help clarify the policy options for peace and to train civil society sectors in order to empower Peruvian citizens. Think they'd be interested in something like that?"

Blair watched Jim's eyes flick away and knew he was remembering his time among the Chopec. At last he said, "Yes. I do. I can give you a couple names, too, if you'd like."

"If we'd like . . ." Tsend looked ruefully at him. "I wish you didn't have to go back to Washington State. You would be invaluable to this initiative."

Jim actually blushed, Blair noticed with some interest, before he mumbled thanks and started in on his own lunch.

They'd spent the morning meeting the analysts and scholars who were working on developing a peace settlement, educating themselves about the complex and long-standing internal conflicts in Peru. The phrase conflict transformation had caught Blair's attention. He liked the notion -- identifying the impulses to conflict and transforming them into peace building. He found himself talking excitedly about the Mbuti people's approach to conflict resolution, the ritualized tug-of-war games and role reversal, wondering out loud if the principle of opposition without conflict could be applied outside a single group.

And then at last he had looked up and seen Jim watching him with an expression that Blair hadn't seen in a long, long time. Jim looked bemused and long suffering, and it struck Blair that he'd been talking for quite a while, all the other conversations around the table falling silent as Blair worked through his ideas with excited gesticulations and a rising voice. Oops. But more than that, Jim had looked --well, proud of him. It was almost like the old days, when having an anthropologist as a partner had been an asset to Jim, not a threat

And he was an anthropologist, Blair thought, with a strange sense of complicated wonder. Denouncing his dissertation and being deprived of his degree hadn't changed that after all. This summer's immersion in academia would be his last, but he could no more stop trying to unravel the secrets of human interaction than he could stop breathing. He was still struggling to find, in all societies, the principles of social life that made life worth living. Even as Jim's partner at the Cascade PD he would be doing that. Hell, as a cop he'd be involved intimately, immediately with combating the residue of evil that every society excreted like a bodily waste. It was what he had done for three and a half years as Jim's partner.

The devil was in the details, though. Wasn't it always? As an observer he'd had it easy. His primary responsibility was to Jim, and all the choices he'd faced came down to protecting and supporting Jim. No contest, man. But now when imagined himself at the firing range, or facing a suspect in an interrogation room, pretending to misunderstand his request to see a lawyer, or giving testimony on the witness stand that would send a man to jail, he still wasn't sure if he could do it.

Maybe that was why Jim had only kissed him once.

"You okay, Blair?" Tsend's soft voice called him back from his reverie.

He smiled. "Yeah. Just," he shrugged. "Envy you this work. What you're doing is so important. The most important thing humans can do, maybe. Trying to figure out how we can live together without killing each other." He shook his head. "I'm so glad Robert brought you by the storeroom."

"Ah, Robert." Tsend smiled.

When Jim wandered into the kitchen for another beer, he found Blair staring at his reflection in the kitchen window. He saw Jim's reflection and looked away nervously, then back, so their eyes met in the inky false night of the impending storm.

Jim didn't say anything, just set the empty on the kitchen counter to be rinsed out and put in the recycling bin, and opened the fridge for another one. When his back was turned, Blair cleared his throat.

"Just, ah, looking."

Jim twisted the cap off and tossed it into the trash. "At?"

"My hair."

Now he turned. "Your hair?" he asked blankly.

Blair reached behind himself and gathered the springy mass into his fist, lifting it off his shoulders. Jim stared at his neck. "Yeah. Trying to imagine."

Maybe I've had too much to drink, Jim thought, continuing to stare at Blair's throat and neck. At last he said, "Imagine what?"

"You know. Getting it cut." He paused and then added, "For the academy."

"Oh. Yeah." The academy. Jim remembered the feel of Blair's curls in his fingers the many times he'd permitted himself to tug them. How they had fallen over his hand when he would touch Blair's shoulder. Tickling his nose when they'd press against each other, hiding from some bad guy or other. "You're not gonna do it right away, are you?"

"Wouldn't you prefer it?"

Well, shit. How to answer that? Jim didn't know. He shrugged and sipped the beer. "Not right away," he said reluctantly. As if admitting something shameful.

"I didn't always have long hair, you know. It's pretty recent. Girls like it," he added, grinning and raising his eyebrows.

"Some girls," Jim felt compelled to add, but he grinned, too. Yeah, he knew from eavesdropping that girls liked it. Boys, too.

"Some girls," Blair agreed easily, and turned to look at his reflection again, pulling his hair back and up so it appeared to be cut. "Huh."

"God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," Jim dredged up from some distant English class.

"Ya think?" Blair murmured, still staring into the window. But Jim could only shrug again. Thunder rumbled distantly and he shivered. Another bad electrical storm coming. Sometimes he missed Cascade more than air itself.

One time, when he'd been a little boy, his dad had taken him and Stevie out digging for geoducks at Long Beach. They'd been far out at low tide, when a squall had moved in from the northwest. Jim remembered his dad shouting at them, hurrying them back to shore and the car, and Stevie crying as the pail he carried bumped his leg. But mostly he remembered the sensation of every hair on his body standing on end. Static electricity, he supposed, from the storm. He wondered if his dad would remember.

But he remembered. Remembered the feeling, the prickly tingle, and how funny and scary Stevie had looked, red-faced, snotty-nosed, and hair stuck straight up. He supposed he'd looked the same; he remembered being scared. His dad's anger was probably fear, too, he realized now, thirty years later.

He felt that now, a bit. From the grinding thunder moving closer, he knew the storm was rolling in pretty quickly. He wondered if Blair would hold him again, put his hand's over Jim's ears. Blair's presence made the noise and charged atmosphere almost bearable. If he were normal, it might even be exhilarating. But he would never be normal; he knew that now. Never be anything other than what he was, what his father had feared so much, what he himself had fought so bitterly.

He brought his gaze back up from where he'd been staring holes into the floor and saw that Blair was methodically rinsing his empty beer bottle. South Bend didn't have curbside recycling, the way Cascade did, something else he missed. They had to make a special trip into town, to the recycling center, to get rid of their newspapers and bottles and cans, but Blair always made the effort, doggedly working toward what he believed in, whether it was recycling or Jim.

Because he did believe in Jim. Believed in him so much that his faith had infected Jim, a virus so communicable that Simon believed it, Jim believed it, now even Jim's dad and Blair's mother believed it. And then he'd renounced his religion, publicly, as publicly as Joan of Arc had renounced her voices as idolatry.

But Joan had still burned, he remembered, rolling the bottle in his damp hands.

He felt more than heard the next roll of thunder, shivering the air particles around him, pushing into his eardrums. He must've winced, because Blair was immediately right there, his damp and warm hands on Jim's biceps, murmuring something soothing and meaningless. As if to a child, Jim thought, but he felt distant and removed and the image wasn't shameful or embarrassing; it just was. This was who he was. If Blair hadn't made him, if he wasn't Blair's child, well, he didn't know the answer.

This is who we are, he thought dully, just before the lightning flashed and he dropped the bottle. Beer shot upwards, spraying his bare legs and cutoffs, dripping from Blair's glasses. "You goof," Blair laughed, and tugged Jim toward a kitchen chair, sat him down firmly, and pulled Jim's head against his heaving belly. "You big goof." Jim put his arms around Blair's waist and hung on, waiting for the storm to move over them. Blair smelled like beer and sweat and dishwashing liquid.

So different from when his father had scuttled them off that distant beach, four thousand miles and thirty years away. That was then, this is now. And now was safe in Blair's arms, waiting for the storm to pass. Because it always passes, he thought, and then lost himself in Blair's presence, so much safer than anywhere else in the world.

Much later, Blair's arms loosened and Jim raised his head, coming back to himself as if from a deep sleep. "Don't cut your hair," he said, his voice hoarse.

Blair leaned back and looked down at him, his face unreadable. After a moment, he said, "Okay." Jim almost kissed him again, then. Almost. The seconds stretched out and then it was too late and Blair stepped away. "Not right away," he amended.

"Okay," Jim said, not knowing what else to say. And then he cleaned up the spilt beer, hiding his face in the work.

Jim flopped onto his back. The thin mattress of the sofa bed felt even thinner tonight, the sheets damp with humidity. Not a breath of wind stirred to cut the mugginess. He might as well be breathing under water.

He couldn't stop thinking about the twenty-first chapter of Burton's translation. He'd never read anything quite like it, the odd combination of eroticism and Victorian language. He was, in fact, a bit shocked by how erotic he'd found it. Believe me, the kisses, nibblings, suction of the lips, the close embrace, the visits of the mouth to the nipples of the bosom, and the sipping of the fresh saliva, these are the things to render affection lasting. Good god.

He slid his hand down his chest, over his ribcage and stomach and then, with a slight hesitation, into his pubic hair. His penis jumped and he rolled his head back. He was gonna do it, lying on top of the covers with the door open. He knew he'd hear Blair the minute he'd start down the stairs, knew that Blair wouldn't come down the stairs, but still. It seemed dangerous. Exciting.

He pressed his hand deep into his groin, massaging himself, and then cupped his balls, rolling them, pinching the loose skin as vigorously as he could. One thing about Carolyn, she never really grasped how firmly he liked to be handled. "Mauling your balls," she'd called it, a bit disdainfully. "If you touched me like that, I'd have you in for spousal abuse."

Yes, and I never touched you like that, never wanted to, he answered her now, all these years later. But I wanted you to. I wanted someone to, and I still do. He brought his other hand down and rubbed firmly at the spot just beneath his balls that felt so fucking good.

He hadn't had sex with another human being in months. He hadn't even jacked off since they'd moved into this house. Just too much shit in his life even to want sex. He supposed that the return of these feelings tonight signaled some change, some acceptance of his situation, but all he knew was how good his hands felt, and how much he wanted to kiss someone.

The kiss is assumed to be an integral part of coition. The best kiss is the one impressed on humid lips combined with the suction of the lips and tongue, which latter particularly provokes the flow of fresh and sweet saliva.

An integral part of coition, indeed. He loved to kiss, and to be kissed. Carolyn used to suck at his ears, lick at them, and then kiss her way down his jaw to his mouth. Oh god, he'd loved that, loved it so much. She liked to be kissed on the back of her neck; it made her shiver with delight, her nipples rise into his hands.

He touched his own nipples; they'd always been sensitive, and now, with the touchy-feeliness of his sentinelism, touching them was even more pleasurable. Carolyn had used to suck at them, which had made him laugh, but now he longed for someone's mouth to be pressed against his chest, their breath warm and moist, their tongue circling his nipples, their lips closing against them.

If you would have pleasant coition, which ought to give an equal share of happiness to the two combatants and be satisfactory to both, you must first of all toy with your partner, excite him with kisses, by nibbling and sucking his lips, by caressing his neck and cheeks, stroking his back and buttocks. Turn him over in the bed, now on his back, now on his stomach, till you see by his eyes that the time for pleasure is near.

He'd always been the dominant one in bed. Carolyn had seemed to like it, although once she had lain on his back, holding his arms down, biting the back of his neck, and thrust her pelvis into his butt. "If I were a guy, I'd love to fuck you," she'd murmured, shocking him, delighting him. "I'd nail you to the mattress, I'd never let you out of bed." But she had let him out, had left his bed, in fact, and not long after she'd made that remark.

But he could do that. He was far from Cascade. He wasn't a cop here, he wasn't anything, really. He didn't have to hide. He could do anything he wanted.

He rolled onto his stomach and pressed his dick into the slippery sheets beneath him, then pulled back and pushed again. Again. Oh god, it felt so good. He moaned softly, and bit at the pillow.

Kiss the mouth, the throat, the eyes, the neck, the bosom, the belly, the split thighs open to you, the member springing up in hope and desire, and the secret passageway that so longs to be entered and filled to overflowing. Observe the hips thrusting upward, always upward toward your mouth and hands and member. Slide your fingers over the warm slick skin to excite further the passions of your partner. When by their gasping breaths and wide-open eyes you know they desire to be ridden, use the honey mixed with well water, or gilly-flowers mixed with incense to ease the passage. You will find the mouth of his passageway eager to grasp your member, which is undoubtedly the crowning pleasure for both, for this before everything begets affection and love.

Did he want that? Would his passageway be eager to grasp someone's member? He opened his legs, in invitation to whom he wasn't sure, and felt again Carolyn's weight on his back, pushing him deeper into the mattress. Not Carolyn. She'd chosen to go. Blair. Blair was here. Blair had read the same words. He knew Jim, he loved Jim, he'd stayed with Jim when no one else on earth would have. It would be Blair's weight on his back, and he opened his legs wider, lifting his hips from the bed, opening himself. God, yeah, his passageway would be eager to grasp Blair's dick, to feel it sliding into him, becoming a part of him, the crowning pleasure, fuck, yeah, fuck, Blair, please, god, Blair --

He twisted into his back and seized his dick tightly, pumped twice, and came all over his hands and stomach, but at least saving the sheets. He laughed hoarsely, a choked gasp. Wouldn't even let himself come on the professor's sofa bed. He was gasping, sweating; he really needed to get up and wipe himself down, like a horse that had been run too far, but he just needed a minute more. A minute more.

Then do all you can to provoke a simultaneous discharge of the two spermal fluids; herein lies the secret of love.

He heard Blair above him cry out, and knew that Blair, too, was coming, alone in his bed, with no one to hold him, to kiss and nibble and all that stuff that Burton had said was so important. The secret of love.

Jim felt near tears, a little disgusted with himself for listening to Blair, for using Burton's words so crudely, a little sad that he'd had to. He sighed and swung his legs out of bed. Might as well get cleaned up. No one else was gonna do it for him. He heard Blair climb out of bed, too, and then water running in the bathroom above him.

The secret of love.

"So, what do you think?"

They sat on the porch swing late Friday night, their margarita glasses empty and the fireflies gone. It was very quiet.

Jim sighed. "I don't know, Chief." He didn't have to ask what Blair was talking about. The dreams. The water. The soft noises in the night, things seen from the corners of their eyes. "You?"

Blair shrugged, and settled back into the swing, resting one foot on the screened-in window ledge. For long minutes neither spoke. At last he admitted, "I thought maybe someone had drowned in the pond." Jim nodded. "But I couldn't find anything."

The swing had become a favorite place for them in the evenings. After they'd eaten and cleaned up but before they were ready to go to bed, they liked to sit there and rock, letting the breeze cool them. Jim stared out, using his enhanced vision to watch the corn in the next field over. Every now and then, leaves would shudder, as if some animal were passing through them. He suspected they generated their own heat that rose like a bubble in the pond, pushing the leaves aside.

"Yeah, I wondered about that, too," Jim said. A drop of sweat rolled down his back, tickling him, and he rubbed against the backrest of the swing.

"Got an itch?" Jim nodded. "Here. Let me." Jim leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and Blair reached over to scratch vigorously. Jim made a low noise of pleasure in his throat. "Sometimes I wonder about the monks who started Notre Dame. Can you imagine working in the summer in those wool robes they wore?" Jim shook his head, his skin crawling at the thought.

Finally, he sighed again and sat up. "Thanks, Chief." Blair left his hand on Jim's shoulder, patted it twice and then just left it there.

We should go to bed, Jim thought, and then blushed a little, and glanced at Blair. He looked thoughtful, a little sad, and his hair, still down and drying from after his shower, gleamed in the pale light falling from the front door. "So you think someone drowned here, and that's . . . "

Blair never looked at Jim, just kept staring out into the night. Finally, he shrugged. "It's nuts." He sounded so discouraged. "Besides, uh, you would've, I mean --" he stopped abruptly. " I spent a little time online, looking at, well, haunted houses. Research. And there's just nothing there, nothing substantive anyway. If it was any kind of objective phenomena, you'd think someone would have found something in the past two thousand years or so. And they haven't. Just anecdotal evidence that no one can ever replicate or verify. It's nuts," he repeated.

Jim felt compelled to respond. "No, it isn't. After what happened in Cascade. We might've, you know, seen something."

At last Blair turned his head. "You really think that?"

I don't know, Jim thought, wishing he had an answer, anything, to make Blair feel better. "Maybe."

Blair patted his shoulder again and then removed his hand. "Should go to bed." But he didn't rise, and Jim waited, a little anxiously. He knew Blair well enough to know that something else was coming. The silent night dreamt on around them until, finally, Blair said very quietly, "Can you tell? Have you? Felt anything?"

"I'm sorry, Chief. Nothing." Just the dreams. The sounds. And the constant presence of water.

Blair nodded and swung his legs down, then stretched. "Night, Jim."

"Night." Jim sat, letting Blair's movement push the swing a bit. He tracked his friend's passage through the big house: into the kitchen for a glass of water, up the stairs, into his bathroom, and finally into bed. When he heard Blair sigh deeply, tiredly, he withdrew his attention from him and focused on the house itself.

Would he notice something? Was Molly just a freak occurrence, or did his sentinel senses let him be aware of something beyond normal perception or knowledge? Did he want to have this ability? To stretch his senses so far?

He closed his eyes. The night was heavy around him with heat and humidity. Far off, electricity crackled the air -- a storm over Lake Michigan, he thought. The South Bend-South Shore train clicking over the tracks on its way back from Chicago. Cars on I-80 miles away. Cicadas whirring, a cricket hiding in the wall, a late firefly shedding its bioluminescence. The low pop of a bubble in that pond. Something stirring in the grasses, like wind riffling the long-stemmed wheat.

Then, for Blair, he let himself push harder, forced himself to become utterly aware of the house behind him. He remembered with painful clarity what he had seen when Blair had coaxed him into zoning on the cornfield five miles from home, but this wasn't the same thing at all. No corn involved, for one thing. He was just opening his senses enough to let the house in, to feel its weight resting on the foundations, the forces and counterforces holding up the roof, the masonry between the bricks, the joists beneath the floorboards. Electricity running in the wires between the walls, the hiss of the pilot light in the oven and the water heater in the basement. The water in the well, its cool and sunless depths.

He felt a shiver down his spine despite the heat of the evening, but he continued searching without moving from the swing. He made his way through the individual rooms of the house, not entirely sure if he were recreating what he sensed from memory, or if, from out here on the front porch, he really could feel the difference in temperature and air pressure between the kitchen with its many windows and the dining room with only two. He could hear the music the piano made as air currents moved over the wires.

And then he wrapped his left fist more tightly around the arm of the swing to ground himself and tried to slip further into the physical reality of the house.

He couldn't do it. The walls had turned to glass, the mirrors of ice and running water he had seen before. He felt a rush of fear for Blair and jolted to his feet, and as soon as he did, the impression of glass disappeared. He could hear Blair sleeping upstairs, his breathing steady, his heartbeat strong. The house was just an ordinary structure of wood and brick.

He realized his eyes were still closed and he opened them, taking a few seconds to adjust to the immediacy of sight. He'd found no sense of another person, of something left behind. Just smooth blank surfaces, his senses failing him when he needed them most. Once again, just when Blair had asked for his help.

Jim picked up his glass, his heart heavy, and went inside to bed.

Thunder grumbled in the distance, and a gust of hot damp air billowed the curtains above the sink out into the kitchen. Blair looked up, grateful for the cooling breeze and curious as to its source. He glanced at Jim, just coming into the kitchen from the Professor's Study.

"Storm brewing," Jim said, crossing to open the back door. Another gust whistled in, tugging at Jim's tee shirt and riffling his hair. "Feels good."

"Whoa!" Blair grabbed his cookbook, the pages flipping wildly. "Shut the door, okay?"

"Sorry." He pushed it closed and said, "You sure you wanna do this?"

"Little late now, birthday boy, after all the work I've done, but thanks."

"Hey, I cleaned the house."

"I did the laundry."

"I washed the car."

"I mowed the lawn."

"I, uh." Jim stared out the window.

"Heh. Here, taste." Generous in his triumph, Blair held out a spoonful of black beans and rice; Jim obligingly leaned over so Blair could slide it into his mouth.

"Oh, god, that's good," he moaned. "What the hell is this?" He tried to grab the spoon from Blair's hand, but Blair pivoted, laughing, and leaned protectively over the serving bowl. Jim bent over him, resting his weight on his left hand and on Blair's back, reaching for the spoon with his right.

"Hey, hey!" Blair tried to slip under Jim's left arm, pushing the dish along the counter, but Jim caught him around the waist.

"Not so fast," he said, and grabbed the spoon. Blair relinquished it, watching as Jim took another healthy bite. "Seriously, Chief. This is really good. Thanks."

Blair nodded, smiling, enjoying the comforting pressure of Jim's body against his. "Just leave a little for Robert and Tsend, okay?"

Jim smiled at him, and Blair was aware again of the pleasure of being with him and was grateful for his continued presence in his life, even after everything that had happened. They continued to stand together at the counter, the Mauviel pots above Jim's head stirring in the wind. At last Jim said, "I'm gonna put a different shirt on."

Blair stared up at him, frozen in the moment, until Jim, smiling down at him, released Blair and started unbuttoning his shirt as he walked back to the Study. "Good idea," Blair said softly, watching Jim disappear. "Think I will, too."

The rain was just starting when Robert and Tsend arrived in Robert's red sixty-seven Volvo Amazon. "Good god," Blair said, awestruck. "Now that is a car."

Robert beamed. "A classic," he said proudly, and then had to dash up the steps behind Tsend as the first fat drops began to fall. The wind nearly ripped the screen door off its hinges; Jim carefully locked it shut.

"So much for sitting on the porch with a margarita tonight," he said mournfully as he herded their guests and Blair indoors.

"At least the wind and rain have cooled things off," Blair added, thinking about actually sleeping at night instead of tossing and turning in sweaty wakefulness.

"Here, Jim." Robert handed him what was obviously a bottle of wine, wrapped in blue and gold paper. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Robert, Tsend."

"You don't have to drink it tonight . . ." but Jim was already ripping at the paper.

"Iron Horse Wedding Cuvee. Jesus, thanks, Robert."

"It's a lovely wine," he said earnestly, and Tsend smiled in agreement.

"Our favorite champagne. Happy birthday, Jim," Tsend echoed, stopping with one hand on the piano, looking around curiously. "And what a house."

"I've heard about this place," Robert told them, wiping his glasses with a dazzlingly white handkerchief. "Is it really haunted?"

"Um," Blair said at the same time Jim said, "Haunted by what?" and Tsend said, "Robert!"

"No, really," Blair encouraged him, curious and a little apprehensive. "Is it haunted?"

Robert blushed a bit as he settled on the couch. "Of course not. But my cousin's friend Tina was telling me about the odd noises she'd hear at night when she was staying here. I think it was just too far out in the country for her."

"You want a drink?" Jim asked as Blair sat on the coffee table near Robert, obviously ready to interrogate him. "Beer, wine, coffee . . ."

"Beer would be good," Robert said, folding his handkerchief, and Tsend nodded.

Blair leaned forward. "No, really, Robert," he said again. "What have you heard?"

"Honest, Blair. Nothing. Just Tina and my cousin Melissa talking. I think Tina called the cops one night, 'cause she heard something downstairs. Or maybe on the stairs. But the house was locked up tighter'n a drum when they got here. I guess she nearly fainted with fright when she had to go downstairs to let them in. Lord, lord," he added, "You boys been hearing something?"

"No!" Jim shouted from the kitchen, appearing with two long-necked bottles of Corona in each hand.

Blair laughed. "Not really. Just a couple odd things."

"Care to tell us?" Tsend asked, taking two bottles from Jim and handing one to Robert.

Blair glanced up at Jim, who very slightly shook his head. "Nothing to tell, really," Blair said, not very convincingly even to his own ears. Robert and Tsend glanced at each other but remained silent.

Another, fiercer growl of thunder rolled through the house; even Blair could feel a slight vibration under his feet. The room got suddenly darker, and as if a faucet had been turned on, water sluiced down the windows. Jim handed Blair his beer and flicked on a table lamp.

"Better get the candles out," he said, and Blair jumped up to gather them into the dining room.

The lights were flickering when they finally sat down to dinner. Jim had shut all the windows on the north and west sides of the house; the wind was blowing the rain nearly sideways, and lightning exploded directly overhead. Jim put his hands over his ears and looked pleadingly at Blair. "Uh, Jim," he said, trying not to sound as panicked as he felt, "can you help me with something? In the, uh, in the Study?"

Jim followed him into the Professor's Study, Blair making apologetic faces over his shoulder at Robert and Tsend as he led the way. He shut the door behind them and grabbed Jim's biceps. "You're gonna be okay," he said. Jim was lightly sweating and looked pale. Another heavy blow of thunder rocked the house and Blair slid his arms around Jim, pulling Jim's head to his shoulder. "It's okay," he said nonsensically. "It'll be okay."

But it wasn't really, he thought to himself. How was he going to explain this to Robert and Tsend? That Jim had a phobia? Migraines? Epilepsy? Jesus, and they'd both read Burton. He wrapped his arms even more tightly around Jim, rubbing his back muscles firmly, trying to persuade him to relax, continuing to whisper, "It's okay. Just breathe. It's okay."

After another two blasts, Jim sighed gustily into Blair's neck. "It's going," he said, his voice shakier than Blair had heard since they'd left Cascade.

"Thank god," he said, heartfelt. "Just hold on a couple minutes more."

And he did, too, hold on to Jim, clutching him firmly, trying to brute-force the worst of the storm away with wishes and prayers. They seemed to work, too; soon all he could hear was the rain, gurgling through the gutters, pounding on the roof, crashing against the windows. Finally, Jim sniffed and raised his head; Blair kept his arms around Jim, but loosely, so he could stand.

"Jesus God," was all Jim said, wiping his eyes and nose. Blair saw he was red, as if from some extreme exertion. He stared into his friend's face, wishing he could read Jim's heart and mind.

"It's okay," he said again, with greater confidence, and this time Jim nodded.

"They're gonna think we deserted 'em."

"Fuck 'em," Blair said, but he smiled.

"Or maybe that's what they think we're doing," Jim whispered, turning even redder. Blair smiled; that sounded more like Jim. He patted Jim's shoulder just before releasing him.

Robert and Tsend were sipping their beers and discussing Notre Dame politics when they finally returned to the table. "You okay?" Robert anxiously asked Jim. He nodded.

"Sometimes the thunder and lightning give Jim migraines," Blair said casually as he seated himself and picked up the bowl of rice and beans.

Robert took the bowl and studied it carefully. "Is this what I think it is?"

"If you think it's black beans, rice, cilantro, red onions, kalamata olives, and feta cheese in a vinaigrette sauce, yes, it is."

Tsend peered into the bowl. "Hurry up, Robert. I'm starving here, smelling all this stuff."

"Blair cooked," Jim said proudly.

"And Jim cleaned house," Blair added, smiling at him. He saw Robert and Tsend glance at each other again, but didn't mind. Despite the wild storm outside, Jim was okay; they were warm and dry, eating dinner with friends, in the backwoods of northern Indiana. How could he not smile?

Over his second beer, Blair settled back to watch the others. Tsend and Jim were deep in a discussion of Peru, peacekeeping, and the Sendero Luminoso, with Robert commenting occasionally. The rain still thrummed onto the house, vibrating the chandelier above them, and most of the dishes were empty, but still Jim and Tsend talked. Blair loved seeing Jim reveal this side of himself: the scholar of survival.

"Democracy lost," he was saying to Tsend, "at Fujimoro's autogolpe. And that strengthened both the senderistas and the military. Nobody won, really. I've often asked myself what else could have been done, but with the players Peru had, I don't know. I don't know."

"You loved it there," Tsend said, and Jim nodded.

"I loved the Chopec. I loved the jungle. I -" he broke off suddenly, and Tsend nodded.

"I know. You feel a connection, but it isn't - it isn't real, in an important way. You're always a visitor. Only a visitor."

Jim nodded. Blair thought about Tsend's words. Did Tsend feel like a visitor wherever he went? Born in Mongolia, raised in San Diego, working in Indiana, researching South America? And did Jim really feel that way? Alone and always a visitor, never belonging? Until that moment, Blair thought that was a description of himself, not Jim.

Jim caught his eyes and smiled, relaxed with good company and good food, and his smile felt like a kiss. Blair raised his bottle of Corona toward him and swallowed. He watched as Jim turned his attention back to their guests. Blair felt as if he were standing on the brink of something perfect, some long-unnamed desire. How many years had he stood next to Jim, watching him, studying him? There was no longer any reason to do so, yet he continued. Unable to stop, unwilling to stop. What an idiot he'd been. The dissertation hadn't been driving him for years; it was an excuse and a convenience, a reason to justify his presence in Jim's life when all he wanted was Jim in his life.

All I want, he thought, and swallowed hard. Jim is all I want.

He rose and went to the kitchen to bring out the blueberry cobbler and vanilla ice cream, sticking four candles, one for each of Jim's decades, into the crust of the cobbler. They had a few more weeks here before they had to return. He would focus on the quotidian and ignore the larger implications of his actions and his desires.

When he returned, both Tsend and Robert were staring intently at Jim. Tsend said, "Please think about it, Jim. You and Blair would be such assets to the Institute. Could you get away for even one semester? Take a longer leave? I can see that you won't have a medical reason soon, but surely even cops can take a leave of absence?"

"To do what?" Blair asked faintly, alarmed at their intensity.

After a few seconds, Jim looked at him. "Tsend's invited us to join the Peace Institute in Peru."

Hope flared and instantly died in Blair's chest. He felt himself blush, and set the cobbler down, hard. One of the candles fell over. Now they'd have to tell Tsend what had happened, what he'd done. Shit.

"I'll make coffee," he said weakly, but Jim stood up and came to his side.

"No, Chief. Wait." He looked fixedly at Blair, then wrapped his long fingers around Blair's wrist. "Sit down and listen."

Tsend started talking before he'd even seated himself, while Jim dragged another chair to sit next to him. "You guys are, like, the perfect team. An anthropologist and a cop. Both of you speak Spanish. Both with experience in the field in South America. The research team in Lima needs people like you. We couldn't pay you much, not nearly what you're worth, but there'd be a monthly stipend and a place to live."

"A nice place to live, from what I'm told," Robert interrupted, and Tsend nodded.

"Yeah, it is nice. In a good suburb of Lima. Why just give us the names of your Chopec contact, Jim? You and Blair could go yourselves, talk to them. See if they'd help us.

"It hasn't been that long since Fujimoro ran the country. The senderistas and the Tupac Amaru are still active, although weakened. The military is a nightmare. If ever a country needs help, it's Peru; it's a living laboratory. If we can help, if we can understand the dynamics, we might be able to develop a, a protocol or strategy to help other countries work their way toward a peaceful democracy."

Blair shook his head. "Tsend, you don't understand," he began, but Robert interrupted him.

"Yes, he does, Blair." Robert trained a knowing look at him, and he felt himself blush again, wondering what, exactly, Robert was so certain he knew. He realized the storm outside was lessening, although the wind still rattled the windows in their panes and the doors in their frames. He looked at Jim.

"What do you want?" he asked Jim, who smiled weakly and let his glance slide away. They sat in silence.

Suddenly all four men jumped when something exploded. Jim put his hand to the small of his back and swore quietly; Blair knew it was because he realized yet again that he no longer carried a gun. Then he heard water, and followed Jim into the kitchen.

"Shit," he said, realizing what had happened. "I'll get a towel."

"Goddammit," he heard Jim said. "Watch your feet, Robert. Let me . . ." By the time Blair had returned, Jim had wrestled the old-fashioned wooden shutter above the washing machine closed. "Look out for the glass, Chief."

Blair picked up the larger pieces of the broken window, tossing them into the trash Tsend had carried into the laundry room, and then lay the towel over the washer to absorb the water. "How'd that happen?"

"I dunno." Jim stared pensively at the window. "No tree branch or anything. It just seems to have given."

"Maybe it was already cracked and the winds finished it off," Tsend suggested. Jim nodded, but glanced at Blair.

"Maybe," he said. "Can't do anything about it tonight."

After a few seconds, Blair said, "Let's have dessert." Robert and Tsend obediently moved back into the kitchen, toward the dining room, but Jim continued to look at Blair. "You okay?"

Jim nodded. "You?" Blair shrugged. "You wanna go to Peru?"

"You?"

"I asked you first," he grinned, but Jim didn't buy it.

"Tell me the truth, Chief." After a short pause, he added, "That's the deal."

Blair looked at the wet floor, a little ashamed. I'm afraid of the truth, he almost said, but bit his lip. Finally, he said, "Yeah. Kind of. You?"

He felt Jim's hand brush his cheek, the way it had so many times for so many years. "Yeah. Kind of," he said softly. "Let's think about it."

"'Kay." Jim's hand slid from his face to his shoulder, and then to the small of his back, and he was ushered into the dining room. "Oh, damn. The coffee," he said, and this time, Jim permitted him to escape back into the kitchen.

He stared into his reflection, wavy and distorted by the rain on the window above the sink, automatically handing dripping plates to Jim. Neither man had spoken after their guests had left. Blair guessed Jim was as confused as he was. He wondered what Robert thought he knew about them, if he should question Robert. But no, he wouldn't do that. Better to wonder than to know. Whatever Robert thought was going on, he found it justifiable, and Blair was grateful for that.

Jim startled him when he asked, "You want to try that champagne?" He realized the dishes were done; he just needed to mop up a bit. Jim closed and locked the dishwasher, so its comforting hum filled the kitchen. Blair understood that Jim wanted to talk, and nodded. He pulled the bottle from the fridge, staring at it doubtfully. "Let me," Jim said and, grabbing a dish towel, gracefully twisted the cork out of the bottle.

The champagne fizzed creamily in the glasses Blair had found, and tasted good in his anxiety. What would happen to him? He wandered out of the kitchen and sat on the piano bench, remembering Jim's hand on the keys, lightly touching them. He put his right hand on the keyboard, studying his sturdy fingers, fingers that had dug in the earth, for potsherds and potatoes, had typed at computers all over the world, had touched books and pictures and lovers. What would they do next? What could they do?

"Chief." He looked up, and was grateful for the mercy of Jim's eyes and smile. "It'll be okay."

Blair smiled back, a little shamefacedly. How did he know that? "I know," he said, without much conviction. But what does okay mean, he asked himself, and bit his lip. How could he be okay, how could Jim be okay? He couldn't see into the future at all. Back to Cascade, and the police academy? Forward to Peru? Would that be moving forward or running away? Or should he go somewhere else entirely? Naomi would love for him to join her in her travels. But he didn't want to leave Jim. He knew that now. He didn't know what to do with the knowledge, but like any knowledge, once learned, it could not be unlearned. He wanted to be with Jim.

"What do you want?" he finally asked Jim, not daring to look at him. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he couldn't not ask. Not now, that he had finally admitted to himself what he wanted.

There was no answer. After another few seconds he looked up to find Jim studying him, an affectionate smile on his handsome face. A shy smile. And a slow blush creeping over his face.

"Uh," Jim said, and cleared his throat, then took a sip of his champagne. Then he set down the flute and walked over to where Blair sat. He put his hand on Blair's neck and rubbed lightly. They didn't speak, but Blair thought he had his answer from Jim all the same. He sighed deeply, and relaxed into the strength of Jim's hand.

Jim stood by him for a few seconds more, his hand warm and comforting on Blair's neck. He had the same affectionate smile gently tugging at his lips, was still blushing. "It'll be okay," Jim said again. He tilted his head to the side and after another pause asked shyly, "Play something?"

The request was so unexpected that at first Blair couldn't even process the syllables of Jim's soft words into sense. Play something? What, games? Monopoly, Clue? There were probably board games stowed away in the closet somewhere around this big old house. Or maybe Jim was thinking of a round or two of Spin-the-Bottle. He almost laughed, a miserable, choked sound, and Jim dropped his hand, hurt. Blair sobered at once.

"I'm sorry, man. I didn't -- Play what?" He looked down at the ivory-colored keys under his fingers. "You mean this? I wish I could. Seems a shame for an instrument like this to sit idle all summer. But I don't play. Chopstix, maybe or Heart and Soul, nothing more than that. What made you think I did?"

Jim was just looking at him, the smile gone from his face now. "Nothing," he answered, and then he turned and disappeared down the hallway, toward the Professor's Study. His absence chilled Blair, who stared after him into the dark hall, eyes unfocused. Jim had believed he played the piano, Blair thought, and felt a wild, ridiculous moment of despair, as if he'd failed once again.

But because it was a ridiculous thought, he got up from the bench, picked up the bottle of champagne as well as the glass Jim had left behind, and followed him down the dark hall. Jim was sitting on the sofa in the Study. He hadn't pulled the bed out yet; he was just sitting on the leather cushions. The only light came from the living room down the hall. "Jim?"

He nodded without speaking. Blair held out the glass to him, and Jim took it, murmuring thanks, so Blair sat down on the sofa too. He took a sip from his own glass and then set it aside and let his hands rest on his knees. Jim drank too, and then gave Blair his glass to set on the end table.

"The warehouse," Jim finally said, like a man making a painful confession. "You had a piano back in the warehouse. So why --" His voice was getting quieter, "If you didn't play, why did you have that piano?"

Blair took a deep breath, steadying himself. He reached out and put his hand over Jim's. "No, I didn't. Jim, I didn't have a piano in the warehouse. C'mon, you saw that place. I wasn't hiding a piano under Larry's cage or behind the loading pallets. What's goin' on up here with you?" He lifted his hand and touched Jim's temple.

Jim tilted his head into Blair's touch. "Beats the hell out of me," he whispered, and Blair felt him shiver. He waited for Jim, his fingers still at Jim's temple, stroking gently. "I had a dream," Jim said at last. He reached up and took Blair's hand, bringing it down to hold in his own. "It must have been just a dream."

"In this house?" Blair suspected he already knew the answer. "Since we've been staying here, you mean."

"Yeah." Jim's voice was steadier. "I'm pretty sure it was one of the dreams I've had here. Right, it had to have been." Still holding Blair's hand clasped tight, he tucked Blair's arm against his own ribs, as if to make sure of his presence as he pieced the story together. "You were playing the piano in there and I was listening to you. One of the Gymnopedies of Satie. It was beautiful."

Blair was torn between laughter and tears, wishing he really could play if it made Jim happy. "That was a dream," he said. "Sorry, but you were totally dreaming that."

"I know." Jim's head was tilted to Blair's. They were sitting so close now that Blair could feel the heat of Jim's hip and thigh beside his own on the leather sofa. "Even at the time I knew. But in the dream I remembered you'd had a piano in the warehouse, and when I woke up, I still thought that part was real."

"All the dreams in this house seem a little too real." Blair looked around the shadowed Study, not entirely sure he wanted to be having this conversation at night, in the dark.

"I couldn't stand it," Jim said. "You'd already lost so much."

"Hey." Blair forgot about the house. "Don't do that. Don't think like that."

"I kissed you," Jim said.

It was as if Blair had suddenly acquired sentinel senses, too, because he could have sworn he felt the heat of Jim's blush beside him the dark. Jim was still holding his hand, but his fingers had become restless and they were trembling against Blair's palm. "That part wasn't a dream."

"I know." Jim's own voice was low but so clear and certain that Blair felt goosebumps. He turned his head to try and see the expression on Jim's face. They were so close they could have kissed, and Jim's eyes were wide open, looking into Blair's, seeing so much more than Blair could in the darkness.

He finally released Jim's hand, but only so he could reach up and touch his face, his fingertips resting on the softness of Jim's cheek. He felt the muscles bunch in a brief smile. Jim laid his hand on Blair's chest, palm flat, and Blair pressed forward, mistaking it for an invitation until he realized Jim was shaking his head.

"Hey," his voice was hoarse but not angry; he couldn't be angry with Jim. "No more unilateral decisions. That's what we agreed, isn't it? You gotta tell me what you're thinking. I can't guess anymore."

Jim gave a shaky laugh. "Can't you?" One hand still on Blair's chest, he touched Blair's face with the other, cupping the line of Blair's jaw in his palm. Jim's hand was cool, but it warmed as he touched Blair. "You're everything to me. You're my whole world, Chief."

Oh god. Blair took a deep, hitching breath before he could speak. "What, is that such a bad thing?" he managed to whisper at last. "You're my world, too. I love you, man. I love you."

"But we don't know what's going to happen!" Jim sounded desperate, almost angry. "You don't know what you're going to be doing a month from now. I can't ask you to make decisions because of what I want, not anymore."

That was the problem? Oh, for pete's sake. "Jim, nobody knows what's coming down the road for them. That's life. You don't need me to tell you that. If you don't wanna kiss me because I've got a lousy track record taking care of precious things, that I can understand, but if it's because I don't have a job yet, then that's just --"

Jim pulled his hand free and put his fingers over Blair's lips. "Sandburg, stop."

Blair stopped. He didn't say anything more, not even when Jim said, "You're right." Not even when Jim said, "I'm sorry." Then it was too late for words, because Jim had put his hands on Blair's shoulders, and carefully, gently kissed his mouth. His lips tasted like champagne.

Blair groaned and kissed Jim back. He felt himself starting to shake like a leaf, the surface of his skin prickling and electric. His heart was beating so hard it was an ache in his chest, and he desperately wanted to be gentle, as gentle as Jim was being with him, but his limbs didn't seem to work right anymore. He flailed a bit as Jim kissed him, hot and foolish and clumsy, patting the side of Jim's face and the back of his head in awkward caresses, his hands trembling violently. Then Jim wrapped his arms around Blair's shoulders and gathered him close, and that worked better because now he could simply cling to Jim, and it didn't matter how he was panting and shaking as Jim kissed him. Each kiss was open-mouthed and soft, falling upon Blair's lips, on his jaw, over his cheeks, upon his forehead, and as gentle as they were, each kiss burned.

I probably won't survive this, Blair thought, stupefied, ecstatic. Jim kissed both his eyes closed, and then he was tilting and spinning blind as Jim kissed the shell of his ear. Jim's cheek nuzzled against his own until his head dropped back. He felt Jim's lips pressed to his throat, rasping over the bristles on the underside of his chin, sucking tenderly at the hollow beside his adam's apple. Blair heard the sounds he was making as Jim did that to him, helpless grunts and cries, and he gritted his teeth in a futile attempt to silence himself. Jim must have felt the sudden tension because he stopped long enough to whisper, "It's all right. It's all right."

I know, Blair thought, working his fists in the front of Jim's shirt. Oh god I know it's all right. Jim chuckled as though Blair had spoken out loud, and then he was supporting the back of Blair's head with his hand and kissing his mouth again as he laid Blair down on the sofa. The leather upholstery creaked. Jim supported his weight over him, one elbow beside Blair's head, one knee between Blair's thighs. Blair could feel the soft flesh of Jim's inner arm brushing against his ear as Jim kissed him. Jim's teeth were rough against his own, and Jim's tongue was wonderfully slick and smooth and hot in his mouth.

One of Blair's legs hung off the couch, his foot tapping frantically. He finally managed to let go of the front of Jim's shirt and spread his hands across Jim's chest, giddy with the pleasure of touch. He remembered holding Jim earlier in the evening, sheltering him against storm. And now Jim was holding him, sheltering him with his body.

He slid his arms around Jim and tilted his mouth up, trying to pull Jim closer even though his arms barely met around Jim's back. He felt Jim's free hand fumbling with the top button of his shirt, sweetly awkward in contrast to the sure certainty of his kisses. Jim managed it at last, and Blair felt the coolness at the base of his throat before Jim's hand slipped into his shirt, covering his collarbone with his palm and fingers.

Everything was too much. Blair gasped at the warmth of Jim's hand and the intimacy of his touch. His hips bucked, and sentinel-like, he heard the denim of his jeans rasping against Jim's. Jim chuckled again, very softly, before he kissed Blair's lower lip. Then he began to work on the second button of Blair's shirt. Blair felt the pressure of Jim's knuckles curled against his chest, and when Jim lifted his mouth away to kiss Blair's face, Blair managed to whisper, "Please. You're killing me. Please."

He wasn't even sure what he was asking for. There was a hot, hard pressure between his legs, and a flooding weakness in his thighs. He wished he could slow this down, just enough to separate every sensation into its component parts, try and grasp the wonder of every instant. This was the way Jim's lips felt, tremblingly pressed to his cheekbone, and this was the way Jim's fingers felt as they riffled the hairs at the base of his throat, and this was the way Jim's voice sounded when he whispered, "I've been thinking about this. Dreaming about it."

And all Blair could say to that was, "Yes. Yes. Yes," because by then Jim had given up on the second button and had reached down and simply tugged Blair's shirt out of his jeans, shoving it up to bare his stomach. Blair inhaled with a gasp, suddenly feeling more naked than he'd ever been in his life. Jim's hand touched his belly, rubbing in gentle circles, as if he knew anything more would be too much for Blair. It was very nearly too much anyway. He felt a reckless, giddy heat crawling over the back of his scalp, throbbing between his legs, turning the inside of his eyelids red. His eyes were squeezed so tightly shut he began to see brilliant flashes of white against the red, supernovae exploding behind his closed eyes.

Knotting his fists in the back of Jim's shirt, he pulled it up until he could slip his hands underneath and touch the warmth of Jim's naked back. Jim's body arched at his touch, and the hand on Blair's stomach clenched and trembled. "Dreaming about it," Jim groaned, his voice breaking. "Blair, look at me."

Blair opened his eyes because he couldn't refuse Jim anything, and gazed up through the trailing phosphenes at the edges of his vision. He couldn't make out much in the dim lighting, just the shadowed planes of Jim's beautiful face. He wondered what Jim saw looking down at him -- his long-haired roommate, panting like he'd just run a race, shivering in heat, grinning like a loon. Ridiculous. If their positions had been reversed, Blair was sure he would have burst out laughing.

Jim didn't laugh. He lowered his head and kissed Blair deeply, tucked his arms around Blair's shoulders, and then finally allowed himself to lay the full weight of his body down over Blair's.

Blair jerked violently, abruptly unable to think about anything except how good this was. There was nothing left but warmth and pressure and all of these exquisite angles and textures. He rubbed himself against the hollow of Jim's hip, having to push hard under Jim's weight, and even through layers of denim the friction made his toes curl. His entire body was blushing -- he knew, because he could feel the heat, and because the band of Jim's naked belly was almost cool against his own. He was just on the verge, hips thrusting, finding and falling into a jerky rhythm. Jim had buried his head against his shoulder and Blair could feel Jim's hands clenched into fists under his back.

Then like a flash of light in the darkness he realized he could feel the ridge of Jim's hard dick as well. Jim's hips were grinding against his own in the same tight, helpless circles. The realization broke him. Blair saw an explosion of white even though his eyes were wide open now, and he felt the knot of pressure in his belly and his brain tightening to an unbearable degree. He froze, back arched hard under Jim's weight, his breath locked in his throat. Jim's lips moved against his neck, murmuring "Blair, please," and Blair came with his next breath.

His head snapped back against the sofa cushions, his teeth clicking together so violently he felt lucky not to have broken a molar. He felt Jim moving against him in irregular flinches and jerks, his arms locked so tightly around Blair that his shoulders were starting to ache from the pressure. His hips kept moving long after the first, most excruciating pleasure had passed, but eventually he regained enough sense of his surroundings to understand that he was lying under Jim on Professor Wilde's leather sofa in sticky underwear with Jim's head on his shoulder. He stroked Jim's back under his shirt and found it wet with sweat.

Jim grumbled contentedly, then raised his head with an effort and kissed Blair, slowly and seriously. He could feel the thunder of Jim's heart, and Jim's fingers were trembling as they cupped his face. When Jim finally raised his head again, Blair's lips were wet and swollen. This is the best thing that's ever happened to me, Blair thought distinctly, and then when he saw the way Jim was gazing down at him, he went ahead and said it out loud.

Jim laughed a little at that, but it was soft laughter, and his eyes were kind. He was gently working the rubber band out of Blair's ponytail one-handed as he said, "Best moment of my life was when this really unconvincing doctor walked into my examining room and gave me Blair Sandburg's business card." Once the rubber band was free, he ran his fingers through Blair's hair, spreading it across the cushion behind Blair's head. "Took me a few years to figure it out, of course," he continued, grinning down at him. Blair rolled his eyes, and Jim chuckled some more, obviously as pleased as could be with the state of the universe right now.

That was okay. Blair was feeling pretty smug and happy himself, especially when Jim went back to kissing him. He was petting and stroking the top of Blair's head with one hand, his other hand holding Blair's side, fingers cupped just under Blair's ribs. Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's neck and happily kissed him back. He felt a little shocky, his heartbeat too fast and his breathing quick and shallow, puffing out against Jim's face as they kissed. It was a luscious sensation, his lips wet against Jim's, exploring Jim's mouth, feeling Jim's tongue sliding over his own. Everything was hazy and soft-edged and sweet, even the cushions under his back as soft as clouds, and the weight of Jim's body as comforting and warm as a blanket on a cold and rainy Cascade night. He could hear the rain dripping somewhere and thought how nice it was to be back in Cascade.

"Hey," Jim said, and Blair opened his eyes to find Jim looking down at him. "You falling asleep on me?"

Aw, geez. It was on the tip of Blair's tongue to apologize for being so fast and so frantic in the first place, and then falling asleep for heavens sake, but when he opened his mouth instead he said, "Happy birthday, man."

Jim started to laugh. He tightened his arms around Blair in a brief hug and kept right on laughing, not those quiet chuckles of earlier, but real belly laughs, and lying under him, limp and highly suggestionable, feeling Jim's gut contracting hard with every laugh, Blair started laughing too. When he had trouble catching his breath under Jim's weight, Jim rolled off and stood up, took Blair's hand and pulled him up into a sitting position. He leaned over him, his hands on Blair's shoulders, and when Blair's own laugher had died into weak giggles he said, "I'm gonna clean up a little and hit the sack. Long day today."

"Yeah," Blair said, not laughing anymore. Suddenly he was solemn and a little worried. Taking the next step into unknown territory, he swallowed and then asked, "Come upstairs with me?"

"The pink bedroom. With organza curtains." Jim smiled down at him and then pushed a strand of hair out of Blair's eyes with gentle fingers. "Sounds perfect to me."

Blair sagged against the back of the sofa, beaming up at Jim. "Me too."

Jim unbuttoned his jeans as unselfconsciously as he ever had and let them drop. His boxers followed. "Haven't come in my pants since I was a teenager," he confessed. Blair could see his smile in the half light. He turned and walked to the bathroom, and Blair was glad to see he was hardly limping at all. The back of Jim's white tee shirt just skimmed his ass and Blair had to close his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. Jesus.

After he had disappeared into the bathroom, Blair continued to sit for a time, listening to the last of the rain water falling from the gutters in irregular drips and splashes. A shutter was loose somewhere, and it tapped in an irregular rhythm. He thought vaguely that he should hunt that down and get it fastened properly or it would drive Jim nuts tonight, but he couldn't convince himself to move just yet. He was still getting shuddery aftershocks down his spine, and when he wiggled his fingers and toes by way of experiment, he felt them tingling. He was grinning so hard his face hurt, and he had a sense of incredible lightness and freedom. It was like discovering he could fly. Could have been flying all along, but he'd been keeping his wings folded, the feathers all sticky and damp, manacled by the weight of all his mistakes and all his regrets.

And now all that had been stripped away from him, and he knew he could soar. It wasn't even so much having made love, if their wonderful, ridiculous groping on the sofa could even be dignified with the name. It was knowing at last, for certain, by the way Jim looked at him, by the way Jim had touched him, that Blair's presence no longer reminded him of betrayal and exposure.

Though now that he thought about it, it seemed maybe the change had been coming for some time. After all, they had been happy here. And they were still happy. Happy and sticky in a different way, now.

His fingers were still a little clumsy, but he finally managed to unbutton his jeans and shove them down to his knees, getting dizzy when he hung his head down to pull them over his feet. He mopped himself off as well as he could with his boxers and wadded them up with his jeans. He'd take a quick shower upstairs, he decided. He gathered up Jim's jeans, finding them still warm from his body, and carried their laundry down the hall and through the kitchen before remembering the broken window. Probably shouldn't be walking around the laundry porch barefoot until they had cleaned up in the light of day. He pitched both wadded up pairs of jeans onto the top of the washing machine from the kitchen.

Pouring himself a glass of water from the refrigerator, he drank it in one long gulp. The kitchen was half dark, but light from the dining room shone on the windows over the sink. Blair couldn't see anything outside, only the shadowed reflection of his own face. How strange to think this house had ever frightened him. He'd just had the happiest evening of his life here, and the night was still young. God bless South Bend, Indiana, he thought, grinning at his own reflection and wondering if he were still a little drunk.

Somewhere a shutter was still rattling, or perhaps that was an elm branch tapping against one of the upstairs windows. No more broken windows tonight, please. He wondered if Jim were thirsty too, decided he probably was, and poured another glass for Jim. He started back through the house, the hem of his shirt brushing his thighs, when he heard a rumble that he mistook for distant thunder. Then light flashed sharply across the glass of the foyer. Headlights. Robert and Tsend must have left behind, and only discovered it when they were halfway back to town. That sucked, didn't it? Having to drive all the way back at this hour of the night.

He switched on the porch lights and yelled back to Jim, "Robert and Tsend are back! Put some clothes on before you come out." As he unlocked the front door, it belatedly occurred to Blair that he wasn't entirely clothed either. He looked down at himself. Not so bad. The shirt was long enough for decency. He swung open the front door and stepped out.

The floodlight over the garage illuminated an empty driveway. Well, shit, Blair thought. That was weird. Surely he'd heard a car crunching on gravel, seen its headlights. He walked across the front porch, the floorboards wet under his bare feet. The rain had stopped, but water was still falling from the trees, and the night was filled with wet little pattering sounds. It was cooler than it was inside, and the air smelled wonderful, sweet and alive with ozone from the earlier storm. He had the foolish impulse to go running across the wet lawn in his bare feet, and since this night seemed to be all about satisfying foolish impulses, he went down the front steps and stepped out onto the grass. It was cold and wet, springy under the soles of his feet.

Then he saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw a shadow against the garage, just beyond the circle of light. He took a step closer, and the shadow slipped around the edge of the garage and was gone. "Hey!" Blair yelled. "Who's there?"

There was no sound but the patter of water dripping from leaves and the churring of insects, loud after the storm, but Blair knew someone was there. Dammit, he'd been right about the car and the headlights after all. "Jim!" he shouted, taking off to follow whoever it was. "Jim! There's somebody out here." He had to slow down to pick his way over the gravel driveway in this bare feet, thinking ruefully that he should have gone back inside to get some shoes. He just couldn't stand the thought of letting who ever it was skulking around here get away, though. Catching this intruder might explain everything. The water on the floor, the things he'd been seeing out of the corner of his eye almost since the day they moved in. Tina had been right -- it looked like maybe there had been an intruder all along.

Once he made it around the garage he found himself in near-total darkness. He stopped, blinking, trying to will his eyes to adjust. He listened hard, wondering what Jim could hear, wondering where Jim was. He'd probably slipped down the back steps to catch their intruder as he came around the back of the house. Blair just had to make certain he couldn't double back and escape from this direction. He took another cautious step forward, still unable to see where he was going, then another. It shouldn't be so dark on this side of the house, should it? He'd turned on practically every light downstairs before coming out here. Why couldn't he see light from any of the windows?

He kept moving forward, arms spread in front of himself so he wouldn't walk into a tree. It occurred to him how easy it would be to lose his bearings out here without any landmarks, and he took a step sideways, planning to keep one hand on the side of the house. His outstretched fingers touched nothing. He kept inching sideways, wondering how he could have misjudged the distance so badly. Now matter how dark it was, how could he have lost the entire fucking house? He kept turning his head from side to side, eyes open wide. He could discern some shapes in the darkness, but their edges were fluid, and when they moved they reminded him of things he could not bear to think about. He looked skyward and was able to see the edges of storm clouds, lit by a hidden moon, and when he looked down again, his surroundings were darker than ever.

He kept moving in the direction the house had to be, feeling his original anger beginning to give way to fear. It could not possibly be this dark out here. He could not possibly have wandered so far from the house.

Five more steps, he decided. Five more steps, and if he didn't find the side of the goddamned house by then, he would shout for Jim and to hell with it. Wasn't like he was going to catch anyone stumbling around blind anyway. One. Two. Three. Four --

His outstretched fingers touched something, and then a hand closed around his own.

"Jim!" he hissed in relief. "Christ, Jim, you nearly gave me a heart attack. I nearly gave me a heart attack."

Jim's hand clasped his own tightly but he didn't speak.

"Can you tell where he is?" Blair whispered urgently, and still Jim said nothing. All at once, Blair felt the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Jim knew their trespasser was very close, he thought frantically. That's why he wasn't answering Blair, just holding his hand in silence, in the darkness.

With his other hand Blair reached for Jim's shoulder, but touched his face instead.

Except it wasn't Jim's face. It couldn't be. The person holding his hand was four or five inches shorter than Jim, and had wavy hair that fell to shoulders. "Who are you?" Blair groaned, barely able to speak the words out loud, and instead of an answer, he felt fingers touching his face and hair, the same way Blair was touching the face and hair of the person who held his hand in the darkness.

The snap of panic was clean and sharp. Blair jerked himself free and ran.

As he fled, the prickling lawn under his feet gave way to long meadow grasses that burned his calves and ankles. Then his feet sank deeply into the muddy beach around the pond. He turned and ran a few more steps, intending to follow the shoreline, but instead found himself suddenly splashing and squelching ankle-deep in the water. At that he finally stopped, breathing hard, bent over to rest his hands above his knees and tried to listen for pursuit. There was nothing but the sound of himself panting, the rustle of the corn in the fields and the endless, mechanical buzzing of insects.

His moment of panic was already giving way to disgust. He'd actually had his hands on the person who'd been causing all the trouble around here, and instead of tackling him and yelling for Jim, Blair had let go and run for life. And Jim and Simon thought they'd make a police officer out of him? Jesus, he'd be lucky if Jim ever let him live this down.

His feet were freezing, and by now his quarry was sure to be long gone. Heaving a sigh of disgust, he splashed his way back towards shore.

Once again the darkness fooled him, though, and the water rose as high as his calves instead of receding. Even then, he couldn't bring himself to believe that he was heading in exactly the wrong direction. It seemed far more likely that he'd just stepped in a hole. He knew the closest shoreline was this way. Up in the distance he could even see the lights of the house.

It wasn't until the water was as high as his knees that Blair had to admit that he was wrong. He turned around slowly, peering into the night in all directions, vainly seeking some clue that would help him get his bearings. There was nothing. Just those elusive lights twinkling in the distance, beckoning him the wrong way.

The absurdity of his predicament was infuriating. How hard could it be to find his way out of a cow pond? He started off in another direction, and the water quickly rose up his thighs. His teeth had begun to chatter, and he didn't like to think about what his toes were sinking into. He backed up without turning around so that he couldn't be mistaken about the direction, but the water continued to rise. Shit. He stopped dead, concentrating only on staying calm. The ragged edges of his earlier panic were still close, and he knew it wouldn't take much to send him over the edge once again. He would just stand here for a moment, catch his breath, calm down, and not think about the fact that he had once drowned in water much shallower than this.

He didn't panic and he didn't lose it, but tears welled up in his eyes when he realized there was something in the water with him. The first time it brushed the back of his calves he gasped, but told himself there must be fish in this dead pond after all. The second time something touched him under the water, though, he felt fingers curling around his ankle, and he held himself rigid because if he fought or ran he would panic again, and out here in the water that could mean his life. He didn't panic, but he couldn't do anything about the tears running down his face.

Then the lights came back, and he heard Jim bellowing, "Sandburg! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The light was excruciating. He flung his arm over his face to shield himself and yelled back, "Jim, there's something in here! There's something in here with me."

Red light bled past his tightly closed eyes, and he cautiously lowered his arm and opened his eyes, blinking back tears. He was looking up close at something very white, but he couldn't figure out what it was. The water was only ankle deep now, and his feet were on firm ground. He blinked again, hard, and realized he was looking at the basement wall. He recognized that patch of mildew right at the water line.

"Sandburg!" Jim shouted again. Blair shuffled dazedly across the flooded basement into the main room and looked up. Jim was making his way down the basement stairs, looking furious and a little frightened and absolutely determined, a knight in shining silk boxer shorts.

"Stop," Blair croaked hoarsely. "Don't come down. I can make it myself."

Jim kept coming, but more slowly, and Blair met him half way up the stairs. He touched Jim's arm, not entirely sure he was real until that instant.

"You mind telling me why the hell you decided to go wandering around down in the basement with all the lights off?"

Blair bit his lip and couldn't say anything except, "Can we please get out of here?"

Jim almost seemed to expect that answer, and when they reached the top of the stairs, Blair slammed the door and bolted it behind them. Then he stood there shaking, unable to say another word until Jim pulled him away from the door and folded him in his arms. Blair took a great, gulping breath, trying steady himself, wanting to tell Jim that not even a minute ago he'd been standing out in the pond with dead things scrabbling at his ankles, and what came out instead was, "I hate this house. I hate this fucking house."

Jim held him tighter. "Then we'll go," he said. "Pack enough for overnight. We'll go back to the Inn at St. Mary's. Figure out somewhere else to stay."

Jim's unquestioning acquiescence wrenched at his heart, reminding him of their flight from Cascade. He could at least tell Jim what was going on. That's what they'd promised each other they would do from now on. He embraced Jim, too, and realized that he was still wearing his jeans, saturated halfway up his calf from walking through the flooded basement. He clung to Jim's arms for support and looked down at himself, afraid of finding out just how much of the evening may not have been real at all. "Jim, what have I been doing?"

Jim snorted in a grim approximation of amusement. "I was hoping you could tell me. For some reason you decided to go down to the basement while I was brushing my teeth. When I came out and realized you were wandering around down there without the lights on --"

"You didn't hear me yelling?"

Jim shook his head. "I heard the splashes, that's all. All this rain must have flooded the basement."

"But see, I thought Robert and Tsend had come back. I saw headlights and told you to put some clothes on before you came out. You don't remember that?"

Jim shook his head. "Didn't happen, Chief."

"The front door. I left it standing open." Blair took off to see for himself, not sure by this point whether he wanted to find it open or closed. Jim followed on his heels.

The door was closed and locked up tight. Blair put his arm against it and rested his forehead on his arm. After a moment, he felt Jim's hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter with me?" he whispered. "Am I losing my mind?"

"It's this house," Jim said, sounding certain. "There's something wrong with this place, and we've both known it almost from the start. It's time we cut our losses and got out of here. I don't think we can fight this anymore.

Blair turned around, wanting to see Jim's face. He looked concerned and serious and terribly, terribly weary. "We didn't even get to spend a night in the pink bedroom together," he blurted out, wanting to make him smile, but Jim just looked puzzled, and for a heart-stopping instant, Blair wondered just how much of the evening had been dream and illusion after all.

Then Jim wrapped his hands around Blair's shoulders and lowered his head to softly kiss his mouth. "Pink bedrooms and organza curtains can wait," he said then. "You don't like it here, we'll get out. That's all there is to it."

Blair wrapped his arms loosely around Jim's waist and laid his head on his shoulder. "If we go now, I don't know if I'll ever be able to come back."

"So we won't come back," Jim murmured, his nose in Blair's hair.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"I think I need to sit down for a minute."

"Hold on before you drip any more water all over everything."

"Right, okay." Blair dropped his head and fumbled with his fly, the sense of deja vu making his heart beat faster. He had already done this, not ten minutes ago. It had seemed so real.

Jim came back with a pair of his own boxers. Blair took them, feeling a little shy. "I put them on like this, they're just gonna need to get washed again.

"That's why God created washing machines." Jim smiled at him, and so Blair pulled on the boxers, blushing a little. Then they went to the kitchen and Jim poured them both glasses of water while Blair looked in vain for the glass he remembered using before. When they were both sitting at the kitchen table, Jim reached out and put his hand over Blair's, and Blair began talking fast, before he could lose his nerve.

"It's like I told you. I saw headlights, and I thought Robert and Tsend were coming back. I yelled and told you so."

Jim shook his head without speaking and Blair went on. "Right, I know. You didn't hear anything. I went outside and saw someone going around the garage. I tried to follow, but it was so dark I couldn't see anything." He realized, as he tried to tell Jim what had happened, that his memory was losing its sharp edges, becoming as fuzzy as the dream it must have been. "I found someone in the dark. I thought it was you, but -- but it wasn't. It was some guy about my build, with long hair. Then I guess I flipped out. I ran and ended up in the lake and there was something under the water and I was afraid if I panicked again I would --" He broke off and turned his hand, squeezing Jim's hard. "And then you turned on the lights. It was all just a nightmare, wasn't it? It had to have been."

"I think it's the only thing that makes sense," he told Blair gently. "You were practically sound asleep when I went to the bathroom to clean up."

"Then how did I end up in the basement?"

"I don't know. Sleepwalking?"

"Is that even possible? Oh, shit," Blair said suddenly. "That fucking basement's flooded. What are going to do?"

Jim snorted. "Have it pumped if we have to. I'm hoping it'll drain on its own, though, since it's flooded before. That must be where the mildew on the walls comes from."

"Oh my god. What a night." He lifted Jim's hand, and on an impulse, kissed his knuckles. When he raised his head, he saw Jim looking at him as though he was about to cry, and Blair felt the edges of his mouth quivering. "I'm sorry. This isn't the way I'd pictured the rest of the evening."

Jim smiled and stroked Blair's whisker-stubbled cheek with the side of one finger. "Don't worry about it, Chief. Life's always interesting when you're around."

"Thanks. I think."

Jim pushed himself away from the table. "Come on, it's late. Let's get some stuff together and get out of here while we're still awake."

"I don't know," Blair said, suddenly uncertain. "It seems dumb to leave just because of a nightmare."

Jim's expression was serious. "We're not just talking about a nightmare or two, and we both know it."

Blair took a deep breath. "I know. The water on the floor. That dream about the piano. Everything else. But I'm just thinking that if we run away, we'll never figure out what's really going on around here."

Jim just watched him, obviously waiting for Blair to make the decision.

"And there's the pink bedroom."

A smile touched Jim's lips. "There is that."

"Or is this like the typical teen scream flick when the hormone-driven kids are too stupid to get the hell away from summer camp when the body count starts rising?"

"Whatever you want to do," Jim said. "One way or the other."

"You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. We'll stay," Blair decided. "I think -- I think as long as you're sleeping beside me, I don't care what this house throws at us."

Blair had tried not to get his hair wet while he showered, but wading in the flooded basement had left a coating of grit around his ankles, and when he bent over to scrub it off, water had run up his back and soaked the underside of his ponytail. He could feel it dripping down his neck and sticking his tank top to his back as he hesitated at the bedroom door. Jim was curled on his side in Blair's bed, his eyes closed, perhaps already asleep. He lay on top of the white sheets, and the long, smooth lines of his body were interrupted only by his boxers.

"Second thoughts, Sandburg?" Jim muttered after a few moments, not bothering to open his eyes.

Smug bastard, Blair thought, his heart almost breaking with love. "No." He shuffled to the bed and sat down on the side, then leaned over and kissed Jim's ear.

Jim smiled. "Wan' me to move so you can get under the covers?" His voice was so drowsy and slow the very sound of it was putting Blair to sleep.

"Nah." He swung his legs around and stretched out beside Jim. "Too hot even for sheets."

"Mmm," Jim agreed. He reached out and draped his arm over Blair's chest. The warm weight made Blair sigh with pleasure. His eyes slid shut, only to snap open again when Jim said, "Let's go to Peru."

For a moment Blair allowed himself to believe it absolutely, without question, and he felt as though he were soaring. Then he sank down to earth again, but even that wasn't really a disappointment; it couldn't be, not with Jim lying here beside him. He rolled over on his side and captured Jim's hand in both his own. Jim's sleepy blue eyes blinked open, and then Blair told him gently, "You were gonna think about this first."

"I've thought about it."

"No, Jim, I mean really think about it. Sometime when you're awake and thinking straight, not half asleep and -- and, well, all love-struck or something."

"Is that what you think?" Jim didn't look sleepy anymore. His eyes were ablaze. "That I'm out of my head? That I had some kind of a breakdown and tomorrow I'll try to pretend none of this really happened?"

"No," Blair said honestly, in a very small voice. "That's not what I think."

"Good." Jim freed his hand and laid it gently at the back of Blair's neck, cupping his wet ponytail with his palm. "Because I have been thinking about it. Almost from the day we met Tsend. Maybe even before then." He gently drew Blair closer, until he could tuck Blair's head under his chin. "You know, when I came to the Chopec, they taught me how to live. All I taught them in return was how to make war on someone else's enemies. I owe them so much more than that."

"Jim --"

"I owe it to them. I owe it to Incacha." Jim was stroking the back of Blair's head now in short, gentle strokes. "I owe it to you."

Blair murmured in protest, and Jim took his head in both hands, and when Blair was looking at him once more, Jim whispered, "If you'll have me, I mean."

Tears stung Blair's eyes. "As long as you want me, man. I figured you knew that by now."

Jim kissed his mouth once, softly and sweetly, then a second time, lingeringly, and when he dropped his head back onto his own pillow, he smiled at Blair. "See you in the morning, Chief."

Blair dreamed that night that he and Jim were voyaging to Peru on a beautiful wooden sailing ship. Canvas sails snapped overhead in the wind, the air was crisp with salt, and wavelets crumpled the surface of the water all around them, as though the ocean itself were only a piece of rumpled blue silk spread out as far as the horizon. When he awoke, he imagined he could still feel the gentle rocking of the deck. He drew a deep breath and blinked hard a couple of times, the pleasant illusion of movement slowly fading. The light in the room was gray in the pre-dawn stillness. Sometime during the night Jim had rolled over, and he now lay sprawled on his back beside Blair, one arm flung behind his head, taking up rather more than his fair share of the bed.

He was beautiful. The silvery morning shadows lay softly along the sculpted planes and hollows of his body, and his chest rose and fell with every breath. The peace of Jim's slumber filled Blair with hope. Maybe there wouldn't be any nightmares anymore. Not as long as they slept like this, side by side, breaths mingling, hearts beating so closely together. Safe at last.

He'd been a little worried that he would feel differently in the morning. Maybe a bit apprehensive and unsure. As he lay beside Jim now, though, happy simply to watch him sleep, it occurred to him that although in one sense everything had changed last night on the leather sofa, in another way, the most important way, nothing had changed at all. Blair had loved Jim when he got up yesterday morning, and he loved Jim now. Nothing complicated about it, really.

The light in the room slowly took on a reddish hue as the sun came up above an unseen horizon, touching Jim's flesh with rose. In the silver light before dawn Jim had seemed ageless, almost severe in his beauty, but as the light changed he became younger than his forty years, his cheeks flushed and his lips as ruddy as his nipples. Blair longed to touch him, but because anticipation was sweet, too, he continued to lie in silence beside Jim as the light paled, briefly yellow and then, as insect song suddenly rose outside in a raucous chorus, grew whiter and whiter.

True daylight revealed the lines on Jim's face, fine and faint at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth. The scar tissue below his knee was visible now too, as well as the older, fainter scars. Blair had been there when Jim had received some of them, like the bullet wound from Angie Ferris' panicked shot, now only a faint ridge of raised flesh across Jim's left arm. Others Blair knew nothing about, like the scattering of white patches, each about the size of an infant's palm print, that began high up Jim's thigh and continued under his boxers. Blair didn't think he'd ever noticed them before.

Then he realized they were probably burn scars from the crash of his helicopter in Peru. The shock of realization must have made him flinch a bit, for Jim's eyes opened suddenly. He looked up at the pink ceiling, and then he rolled his head to the side and saw Blair beside him. He smiled beautifully. "Chief."

Blair raised himself on one elbow over Jim. "Morning," he whispered, before dropping his head to kiss Jim's lower lip. His free hand he laid on Jim's chest, finally touching the body he'd watched so patiently this morning. Jim shivered with pleasure and tilted his face up, and Blair let his hand rest on the warm swell of Jim's pectoral, stroking gently, as he kissed Jim's mouth

The air in the room was hot and still, thick with moisture after last night's storms. As they kissed, Blair felt sweat beginning to bead at his hairline. A droplet ran down the side of his face and more trickled down his back. The ceaseless, whirring racket of the cicadas and grasshoppers grew more insistent as the sun rose in the sky, eventually becoming louder even than their panting breaths. When Blair moved his palm lightly over Jim's chest he found his way slicked by perspiration. Jim's nipples rose to hard little points under his fingers and his head rolled back on the pillow. "Blair," he gasped. "Blair."

Blair followed him down, his mouth on Jim's throat, then on the tender, whiskered flesh beneath his jaw. He was half drunk on the sounds Jim made, on the way his body moved as Blair touched him, even upon the heat and the still, humid air and the hazy hot brilliance of the morning sun just beginning to reach them through the open windows. It was like falling into a dream, his sleep-heavy body moving against Jim's, stroking Jim with his lips and his fingers and hands and the full length of his body, the two of them cocooned in a blanket of heat and moisture that slowed all their movements, made every touch of flesh upon flesh a new corona of warmth. When Blair laid his palm over the shaft of Jim's cock, rigid under the silk of his boxers, he felt the burn too, his own hips bucking in sympathetic heat.

"Aw, Jim." He scooted up a little to kiss Jim's face and whisper against his mouth, "Last night was so fast. I wanna see you this time." He curled his fingers gently, holding Jim through the damp silk.

Jim almost laughed, but it came out a sort of strangled moan. "Sorry, Sandburg --" he gasped, and Blair could feel him shake. "This morning's looking fast, too."

Blair kissed him again, concentrating on the pressure of his lips against Jim's and the wet heat of Jim's open mouth. Jim was clutching at him now, both hands grasping Blair's upper arms. "Do you want to slow down?" Blair asked when he could bring himself to break the kiss.

"I want everything," Jim blurted out. He laughed for real then and pulled Blair down for another kiss. "Everything, anything."

Blair laid his hand on Jim's flat belly, felt it heaving like the deck of the ship in his dream. "I think you're flattering me, man." He had to shift his hips back so that his own dick didn't touch Jim's side, excruciatingly certain that any friction at all would be too much. He looked down at Jim sprawled beneath him, trembling with need, so beautiful that Blair swallowed hard before slipping his fingers under the waistband of Jim's boxers. "Lift up for a second," he said, and Jim immediately raised his hips from the bed, even letting go of Blair's arm to help Blair shove his boxers down to his knees.

"Oh my god," Blair whispered, wrapping his hand around Jim's naked cock for the first time. He somehow had never imagined it would be like this, that Jim Ellison in the full flush of passion would seem so vulnerable to him

Jim's eyes had been shut, but he opened them when Blair spoke, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face. "Is that a good thing or not?"

Laugher bubbled out. "It's good," Blair said. "Oh god, Jim, it's good." He stroked his palm along the shaft, up and back, fingers curled loosely, watching Jim's face. Jim's eyes fluttered shut again and his jaw tensed, a sudden flush spreading up from his throat. Blair could feel his own heart pounding like thunder in his chest, and he was sweating hard, gasping a little in the heat. On the next stroke his palm skittered stickily over the heated flesh, and Jim jerked under his hand with a groan.

"I'm sorry," Blair whispered, kissing his mouth and face until the tension in Jim's jaw had relaxed a little, and his breathing was easier. "Hold on a sec, okay?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Jim gasped. When Blair rolled away to fumble clumsily in the bedside table drawer, Jim reached down and tugged his boxers off the rest of the way. "Jesus, it's hot."

Blair found the little jar he'd been looking for and rolled back to Jim. "You want me to get up and turn on a fan?"

"I don't think it would help," Jim said breathlessly.

"Probably not." He kissed Jim's mouth while fumbling blindly to get the lid off, then dug his fingers deeply into the thick salve. "Will this be okay with you?" He held it up for Jim's inspection, and when Jim merely looked bewildered he said, "It's mostly beeswax and almond oil. Comfrey root, too, and vitamin E, but nothing you've ever had any kind of reaction to."

"Like gilly flowers and incense," Jim said, and then blushed to the roots of his hair when Blair stared at him.

"I don't know how that would work as lube," Blair admitted at last, grinning at him, then snuggling in close so he could kiss his face while he spread the salve carefully along Jim's desperately hard cock. The heat of their bodies melted the ointment, and Blair's palm and the loose circle of his fingers finally began to glide easily. "I think Burton must have left out something vital in the translation."

Jim sucked in a sharp breath. "Now you tell me." His hips were rocking with the downstrokes of Blair's hand. "Suddenly four years of sentinel research with you all make sense."

"What?" Blair was giddy in the heat and the impossible, intoxicating joy of touching Jim this way and watching Jim's face grow slack with pleasure, feeling Jim's body move against his hand.

"How much else --" Jim was panting now, open-mouthed. "-- did you lose -- in -- translation?"

Blair shouted with laughter, then buried his face against Jim's neck and shoulder. "Hey, I always figure it out eventually." He kissed the tendon at the juncture of Jim's neck and shoulder, licked the sweat from Jim's skin, then sucked the salty flesh between his teeth and bit down gently. Jim moaned and went rigid in his arms. Without changing the speed or the pressure of his strokes, Blair raised his head and whispered in Jim's ear, "Right?"

"Blair." Jim was shuddering, both hands clenched into fists.

"Am I right?" He raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at Jim's face, and suddenly he couldn't tease anymore. "Oh, god, Jim, I love you so much." He lowered his head and kissed him hard, but Jim was already coming, his body pulling under Blair's in tense, contained spasms. Blair felt wet heat splatter across his tank top, and he kept holding Jim, gentling him, as Jim's breaths eventually grew quieter. He only let Jim go in order to pull him into his arms. Jim's heart thundered against his own breast, and Jim's arms encircled his shoulders and held him close. Heat shimmered from their bodies.

"Blair," Jim said, and Blair kissed him again, remembering how it had felt last night when Jim kissed him in the afterglow, and wanting with all his heart to give Jim the same promise, the same security and love. Jim's eyes were wet when they finally parted.

"Aw, man," Blair whispered, and he wiped away the droplet running down Jim's temple with the side of his thumb.

Jim smiled at him, and another tear spilled from the corner of his eye and dripped over the bridge of his nose. "Still want to go to Peru?" he said.

Blair smiled back so hard his cheeks hurt. "So long as you're heading that way, too."

"Good," Jim said, and he tilted his head for another kiss. He tasted like tears and sweat and passion, and he kissed Blair for a long time, until Blair was dizzy with heat. Then Jim put his hand on Blair's hip, and his palm felt impossibly hot through the cotton of his briefs. When Blair moaned, he whispered, smiling, "Weather like this, you'd think we could manage to get our clothes off at the same time."

"Something for next time," Blair groaned.

It was a little cooler outside. Blair could feel the faintest of breezes blowing in over the cornfields, but the sun was a hazy hot blister rising in the east, and the sky was a dull, uniform white from high cloud cover. It was going to be another brutal day -- last night's storms had brought no relief. The humidity was so high Blair was still a bit sticky from his shower half an hour ago, and it sometimes seemed as though his hair never really dried in this climate.

He walked back to the vegetable garden on a mission to find a tomato for the sandwiches he was making for their lunches. The tiny clusters of tomatoes the size and sweetness of grapes had been bountiful all summer, but most of the slicing-size ones had fallen prey to bugs or disease. Blair supposed he could have done a little research, figured out how to take better care of the vines, but so long as he could reap at least an occasional harvest, he felt like he was doing pretty good for a city boy.

He pinched a few leaves of basil to go on their sandwiches, then pushed the leaves of the luxuriant tomato vines away, following a promising flash of red. He thought of how red Jim's nipples had looked in the rosy glow of dawn this morning, fading to a lovely pale brown as the light changed. And he remembered how red they had been afterwards, as dark as the head of his cock, when Blair had gathered him into his arms.

Oh lord. Blair sat back on his haunches, flushed red as a tomato himself. How was he supposed to get through the day today? Maybe the two of them should just stay home.

Tempting thought, but he really did want to talk to Tsend as soon as possible. And in person, not over the phone. Rationally, he knew there were a million reasons why joining the Peace Institute and going to Peru was an impossible dream for the two of them, and despite Robert and Tsend's assurances, the way Blair had left academia was right up there at the top of the list. But this was something he shared with Jim, and there was something special about that. Fate might play fast and loose with Blair Sandburg's hopes and dreams, and it hadn't exactly been kind to Jim's either over the years. But when the two of them were moving forward together, Blair had to believe the universe extended a special bit of grace.

They should definitely go to campus today and get the ball rolling.

Blair reached through the vines for a plump red tomato almost the size of his fist. When he tried to twist it off the vine, though, it disintegrated in his hand. He drew back with a little cry of disgust, frantically trying to shake pulp from his fingers. Tiny insects that had been feeding on the tomato's rotten insides crawled over his fingertips and filled the air in a dense little cloud. Ugh, ugh, ugh. He barely restrained himself from wiping his hand on his clean blue jeans. Instead he knelt and wiped his hand across the grass. This was why home gardening would never replace the produce aisle, he thought, feeling crabby all of a sudden. All this work and effort and why do you have to show for it? Rotten tomato goo all over yourself.

He started to stand up but something in the tomato bed caught his eye and he stopped half way up, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It looked, impossibly enough, as though someone had just spilled a particularly thick chocolate milkshake. It pooled and puddled across the mulch and seemed to have spilled over the wooden retaining wall as well. Blair stooped closer, remembering the intruder he had chased through the yard last night (but that was only a dream, he reminded himself). He pulled one of the popsicle stick markers from the bed and poked at the surface of the inexplicable stuff, realizing, with a new frisson of disgust, that it was solid. Worse, where a stray tomato leaf on a low-hanging vine touched the ground, it had spread over the leaf and up the vine in both directions and was in the process of overtaking a large tomato that had just begun to ripen, enveloping everything it touched half an inch thick.

It was unbelievably loathsome, like some hideous spreading blight out of a sci fi movie. So gross, in fact, that as he continued to prod experimentally at it, he decided it was actually kinda cool. Must be some sort of mold or fungus, probably brought on by all the rain they'd been having lately.

Bad news for tomato plants, though. He wondered if he could just cut out the afflicted branches, but virulent as the stuff seemed, it would probably be better to sacrifice the whole plant rather than risk losing everything in the bed. He grabbed the tomato plant at the base and yanked hard, feeling like a battlefield surgeon amputating a limb. It pulled out of the ground readily enough, but he had to struggle to extricate it from the wire framework supporting the branches. By the time he finally got it out, his hands and forearms were itching ferociously from handling the vines, and he couldn't entirely avoid a shudder, imagining spores from the disgusting stuff settling on his skin. He wondered if it were too late to take a second shower before they went to school.

And then at last he raised his eyes and actually looked at the lawn.

The yard he had mown yesterday for Robert and Tsend's visit was covered with mushrooms, crossing the grass in great, sweeping fairy rings of white and gray. Blair wandered from the vegetable garden to the swings, still carrying the sacrificed tomato plant, looking around in amazement. There were dozens of mushrooms. Hundreds of them. Besides the pale ones dotting the lawn, there were gigantic rust-red mushrooms growing at the base of the cottonwood trees, and great shelves of fungal growth stepped up trunks.

Incredible that all this could have grown overnight. He'd almost say impossible, except that the proof was all around him, and besides, he had to admit, he didn't know a whole hell of a lot about the life cycle of your average mushroom. Maybe he should look into it some time. This was -- whoa. Amazing what a little rain could do. Or a lot of it, for that matter. And why had they only sprung up last night? The rains had really started more than a week ago. Two weeks ago. This was as if the environment had finally reached its saturation point last night, and everything had fallen into mildew and decay all at once. The blight in the tomato patch, these mushrooms, the flooded basement. Nightmares of rising water and things under the surface.

But of course, the dreams had really started long before last night. He'd had the first one back in Cascade.

Just for an instant then, everything seemed on the verge of making sense. There was a pattern here after all, wasn't there? It all fit together somehow. Jim thinking that he played the piano, the water they had found on the kitchen floor and under Blair's bed, their dreams and nightmares and the person who had taken Blair's hand in the darkness last night while Blair sleepwalked through the flooded basement. It was all right here in front of him, if only he had wit enough to see it.

His right hand and arm itched, and Blair suddenly realized he was still holding the tomato plant. He half-jogged to the edge of the meadow and flung it out as hard as he could. It didn't go very far, making a clumsy cartwheel in the air and falling into the long grasses. The lake was caramel brown, churned up from the recent rain, and it had risen so much there was no longer a muddy shoreline around it. Blair didn't go any closer to the water. His moment of clarity was gone; it had been so brief, in fact, he almost doubted it had really happened. Nevertheless, he walked the long way back around the house, deliberately re-tracing the steps he'd taken in his dream last night. It gave him a prickly sense of potential deja vu, as though he might open his eyes and find himself once more in the little room in the back of the basement.

And behold, if the plague be spread in the house, it is a fretting leprosy in the house; it is unclean.

Ridiculous. Before he bounded up the front stairs, though, he turned around and looked at the neatly mown lawn, dotted with pale fungal growths, and decided he was looking forward to getting the hell away from here, at least for a few hours.

The sound of Blair thundering through the front door brought Jim back to the here and now, and he turned the page of the phone book guiltily, wondering if he were blushing. He was supposed to be looking for a glazier to replace that broken window on the laundry porch, but what he was really doing was thinking about was how good it had felt to hold Blair's dick in his hand as they cuddled in bed this morning. Warm, so warm, and both soft and hard, Blair laughing and groaning as Jim smeared that lubricant that smelled like baklava over him. The laughter had died when Jim began to rub in earnest. Blair rolled his head on the pillow and bit his lip. His eyes were open wide. Still wearing his undershirt, his BVDs shoved halfway down his thighs. Enough to make Jim wonder if he would ever see the genius all-the-way naked. Not that he would complain about the view as it was. Blair had looked wanton, debauched, his naked hips framed by the white of his underwear, slightly ridiculous and absolutely beautiful.

When he had finally seen Blair's erect cock, Jim had discovered it had a sharp leftward curve at the base, and that seemed beautiful and perfect too. Perfectly Blair. Nothing about him conformed to the norm, thank god. Thank Blair. And as he caressed that beautiful crooked dick and watched Blair's face tense, then relax, Jim had been making dreamy, passion-fogged plans for ensuring Blair knew just how thankful he really was.

Thinking about it now sitting at on his hard kitchen chair was making him a little uncomfortable, though. Maybe they could just stay home today. In fact, maybe he'd go ahead and suggest it to Blair.

Blair went straight to the sink, knocked the faucet on with his elbow and began to lather up vigorously. "There's some sort of weird fungus growing in the tomato garden," he announced.

So much for whispering sweet nothings in his ear, Jim thought. Much less franker suggestions.

"No tomato for the sandwiches I take it?"

"Sorry. I sort of lost my appetite. That stuff is gross. And did you know that mushrooms sprang up all over the yard last night?"

"I hadn't looked outside."

"All over the yard. It's kinda bizarre, really." Blair rinsed the soap from his hands, and then began lathering up all over again.

"Did you get it on your hands?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. It's the tomato plants. Makes me itch like crazy." Blair dried his hands with a dish towel and Jim was a little amazed to realize that even through a conversation like this, he was still imagining what it would be like to kneel between Blair's legs -- both of them naked, for once -- fitting his palm to the fat curve of Blair's dick, bringing the head to his mouth. Blair probably wouldn't really taste like almonds and honey, but the smell would be in the air. And Blair would make that sound, that little yelp of pleasure that escaped him when it was very, very good.

Blair plopped himself down across the table from Jim. "Found somebody to fix that window? How much is it gonna set you back? Do you think Professor's Wilde's homeowners insurance would cover it?"

"I haven't called anyone yet. Just getting some names. I was thinking -- would Robert really mind if we took some time off and just stayed here today? Someone needs to be here to let the glazier in anyway --" Jim broke off at the look on Blair's face.

"Second thoughts already?" Blair said, trying to keep his voice light, and failing utterly.

Jim had no idea what he was talking about. "Second thoughts? About you? Us? Earth to Sandburg, have you even noticed what's going on here? When you came in the door just now I was having a waking wet dream about sucking you off, and you're afraid I'm having second thoughts? I haven't even seen you naked yet."

Blair blushed, but he looked pretty pleased. He swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing. "So it's all over once I take my clothes off?" His voice was a little husky. "I'm sorry, man. I wasn't thinking that, really. I was just looking forward, you know, to talking to Tsend about Peru today. It seems so incredible, it's like I'm having trouble believing it. Just waiting for everything to go wrong."

Jim reached across the table and took Blair's hand which was still a little damp from washing up and tingling faintly. He remembered Blair theorizing once that he was picking up the pH change on the surface of the skin caused by the alkalinity of soap.

He still smelled like tomato plants.

"Blair, this is what you told me last night. We don't know what's going to happen next, and even the best intentions in the world can all go to hell. But you're everything to me. You're the best part of being alive, and you have been for a long time. Yeah, I want to go to Peru. It's something I need to do. I need to be with you, too. Even when things are bad." Jim paused, remembering when things had been bad. Those long, terrible evenings at the loft after the press conference, times that seemed like someone else's memories, lived in some other world, some other place. How could those two angry, silent, hurting men really have been him and Blair?

He looked across the table at Blair now, squeezing his hand hard, willing him to understand. "I can't promise things won't happen, that I won't be a shit sometimes, but I'll do my damnedest to talk to you, Chief. Like we agreed, right? For chrissakes, I'm not going to decide while you're out picking tomatoes that I don't wanna go to Peru after all, and not even tell you about it. Give me at least a little credit here."

Blair had a sad smile on his face when Jim finished. "I do, man," he said softly. "Sometimes I think you don't even know how much." Then he stood up and leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth, narrowly avoiding knocking over Jim's coffee cup. "We can stay home today if you like. I'm sure Robert won't mind one way or the other."

"I've got a better idea. Let's go to school today and talk to Tsend and the people at the Institute. Try to find out now if this thing could really happen for us."

"Yeah, okay." Blair grinned shyly, and Jim shoved his coffee cup out of the way before Blair kissed him again. "I think I'd like that. Besides," Blair went on, finally sitting down again, "We can call somebody to fix the window from school. Probably be a day or two before they got out here anyway, and we can stay home then."

Then an unhappy look darkened Blair's eyes again, and before Jim had time to wonder what could be wrong now, Blair asked, "How about the basement?"

"I already looked while you were outside," he said, understanding the unhappy look now. He didn't tell Blair how absurdly, irrationally hard it had been for him to unlock the basement door and swing it open himself this morning. "Most of the water's already drained. Probably be a good idea to open some windows down there and set up a couple of fans to help it dry out."

Blair nodded, not looking any happier, and then said with honesty that made Jim feel a little ashamed, "You know what the stupid thing is? I don't want to go back down in that basement, period."

"We'll do it together," Jim announced, and before Blair could protest, continued, "The steps aren't so bad. I can manage it. You know, that's the other thing we should talk about though."

"Four years of silence, and suddenly you want to talk about everything." Blair grinned at him.

"You're the one who wanted me to open up, Sandburg. Now you can damn well live with the consequences."

"Fair enough," he said agreeably. "What else do we need to talk about?"

"This house. Whether you want to stay or not."

"Whether both of us want to stay."

"Yeah, all right, both of us."

"It's probably not going to be much longer anyway, right? Depending on what happens with the Institute. And when we decide to go back to Cascade. All that stuff we don't really know about yet."

Jim nodded.

"And we can't beat the price, man."

"Don't worry about the money."

"I'm worrying about it. Sorry, I just can't help that. You tell me first though. Do you want to stay here any longer? You've had nightmares, too."

Jim considered the question, thinking honestly about the horror he'd felt last night when he realized Blair was down in the basement, alone in the dark. The difficulty he'd had opening the basement door this morning, as though he'd expected god-knows-what to be waiting at the top of the stairs for him.

"Do you think it's dangerous?" he asked Blair at last.

"Dangerous? Geez, I don't know, Jim. Well, wait, let me think about this a minute. The funny thing is, when I was outside a little while ago I had this moment when I almost thought I could figure out this house, but that's nuts. What I believe is there are just some places that register a little higher on the freak-o-meter than others, and this house happens to be one of them."

Blair looked so earnest, as though that explanation really solved anything, that Jim had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. Blair must have guessed because he waved his hand irritably in Jim's direction. "Come on, you asked me, now hear me out. See, whether this house is really haunted, or just built across a ley line, or over underground caverns or a water source, or whether there's just something about the building materials or the architecture or the landscape that screws with our senses on some kind of deep subconscious level that we're not even aware of -- I don't think we'll ever know why this house doesn't seem right to us. If we could pinpoint the problem, it wouldn't affect us in the first place, you know? A perfect catch-22. But it's nothing that could hurt us. That much I'm sure of."

"It would have hurt you if you'd fallen down those stairs in your sleep last night," Jim pointed out.

Blair flashed a grin that made Jim want to lean over the table and spill the coffee himself. "So you just have to make sure I'm not sleeping alone anymore."

In the end, they went down to the basement together, Blair lugging one of the portable fans. It was just an ordinary basement, damp after the rain, starting to smell mildewed as it grew hotter outside. With Jim's help, Blair managed to lever open several windows, which groaned as they opened and showered flakes of paint. Probably hadn't been opened in years. They set the fan up in a window near an electrical outlet, and the fresh wind made the smell of mildew stronger. When Jim turned, ready to leave, he saw Blair disappearing into the back room. He followed and found him crouched down in front of a spot of mold on an inner wall.

"It's bigger," Blair said. "It looks darker, too."

"Not surprising, after the rain and the flooding."

"You're right." Blair straightened up. "That's another possibility. Maybe it's the mold spores in the atmosphere getting to us."

Jim shrugged. "The nightmares started before the rains did."

"I know." Blair crossed his arms over his chest, looking worried and unhappy. "I was thinking that too outside. Actually, the dreams started for me before we even left Cascade, but I don't know if that's really relevant or not. I was under a lot of -- well, I'd let myself get pretty wound up back then." He whapped Jim companionably on the shoulder, a rueful grin replacing the worried look. "Not that you would have noticed or anything."

"Oh yeah, you did a great job of hiding it." Jim threw his arm around Blair's neck and reeled him in, kissing his temple. "Me, too," he confessed, and when Blair turned in his arms, looking up at him, Jim lowered his head and kissed his lips softly. The first kiss was mute apology for the past, but the next one was joy for the present, for Blair Sandburg happy and here in his arms. He turned his head a bit and bent his knees, bringing his face almost down to Blair's, and Blair's mouth opened wide, as though he were laughing, but what he was really doing was welcoming Jim in. He sucked Jim's tongue into his mouth, and he pressed his body against Jim's, arms wound around the back of Jim's neck to pull himself closer, making greedy, happy sounds in the back of his throat.

It still overwhelmed him to know that Blair wanted him so much, was so happy to have him. He stroked Blair's back, warm through the cotton of his white tee shirt, muscles straining a little as he stretched up to reach Jim's mouth. He could feel Blair's heartbeat, and as he kissed Blair deeply, he realized he was listening to it as well. He laid his palm on Blair's face, still smooth from the morning shave, ran his fingertips along the delicate shell of Blair's ear, feeling the pulse of life there as well, before wrapping his arm once more around Blair's shoulders. He was lost in their kiss, tasting and suckling at Blair's mouth. Feasting. Making love.

And then all at once, like the discovery of an uninvited guest at the banquet, Jim remembered where they were. He lifted his head, eyes a little unfocused, and the white-washed basement shimmered around him as though he were experiencing the house with every sense except sight. There were shadowed places that had nothing to do with the lack of sunshine, and patches of static where sound waves crossed and re-crossed, canceling each other out in a silence more profound than white noise, and then, mercifully, Blair whispered to him, "Hey, this isn't some sneaky plan to make me forget all about going in to school today, is it?"

Jim blinked, and the walls were once more square and solid around him.

"You all right?" The joking tone was gone. Blair touched Jim's face with his fingertips. Jim caught his hand, kissed his fingertips and then the palm of his hand. It was worth the reminder of soap and tomato plants to taste Blair's warm life underneath.

"I'm all right," he said. "Let's hit the road, Chief. The morning's halfway gone already."

"What are you going to tell Simon?"

Blair's question came out of the blue. He was lying on his stomach with a pillow under his chin -- naked at last, Jim couldn't help but think happily. The wind from the fan stirred the wildly disordered hairs on the top of his head. The Professor's Study was the most comfortable room in the house at this time of day, the cross breeze from the windows making it almost cool enough for an afternoon nap. They hadn't been napping, and Blair glistened with perspiration. It turned out he didn't taste like almonds and honey after all, but Jim was still tempted to shift up so that he could lick the sweat from the hollow of his back.

He answered Blair's question instead. "I don't know. Probably nothing until we know something definite ourselves."

Blair nodded into the pillow. "Think you'll be able to get leave?"

Well, that was a good question. Jim chose his words carefully. "Simon can make it happen if he wants to, but he's already way out on a limb for us. His department's a mess, and that's not going to change any time in the near future. His priorities are gonna have to change."

Blair turned his head to look at Jim. His lips were still swollen and red from Jim's kisses. "What do you mean? What kind of a mess are you talking about?"

"A political mess. C'mon, Chief, you don't need me to tell you this."

"You mean because of Zeller?" Blair drew his brows together. "Or because of us? Because of me."

The urge to pull Blair into his arms and stop his questions with more kisses was so strong it verged on pain. Instead Jim answered truthfully. "It was a lot of bad luck, Zeller showing up at the same time your dissertation got out."

Blair's shoulders tensed, and he wrapped his arms hard around the pillow. "Oh, my god." His eyes closed, and Jim could practically hear the wheels turning. "But I thought," Blair said at last in a very quiet voice, not opening his eyes, "I thought, with the detective's badge, and me going the academy -- I mean, how could Simon have pulled all that off if he doesn't have any clout in the department anymore?"

Jim reached out and laid his hand over one shoulder, gently massaging tensed muscles. "Simon's a political animal; you know that. He'll be running for mayor one day soon, or governor. It's just a matter of time."

Blair opened his eyes. With most of Blair's face still buried in the pillow, Jim couldn't see his rueful smile, except around his eyes. "Yeah, you're probably right about that. But what exactly are you telling me here?"

"Just trying to avoid surprises later on. Like we agreed. I'm talking to you now."

"No, you're scaring me now." Blair raised his head. "You think Simon won't be able to get a leave of absence approved so we can go to Peru? Is that what you're telling me?"

"If the stakes were high enough, I don't think there's much Simon couldn't make the Cascade PD sit up and do. But this time they just aren't that high, and I don't want Simon calling in any more favors for me. He needs to quit sheltering the two of us and go back to concentrating on his own career."

Blair was staring straight ahead. "You'll quit the police department," he said, his voice dull with realization. "Rather than jeopardize Simon's career, you'd just quit."

Jim sighed. "I've had enough of ruining careers."

"No." Blair's hands were clenched into fists in front of him. "No way. I won't let you. This wasn't what we agreed on."

"That's why I'm telling you now." Jim raised himself up over Blair, then wrapped his arms around Blair's shoulders from behind and hugged him tight before resting his head in the center of Blair's back. Blair didn't say anything, but Jim could feel the tension slowly beginning to leave the warm body coiled so tensely beneath him. Marveling all over again at the effect his touch had on Blair, Jim caressed Blair's side with his palm, feeling Blair continue to relax in perceptible degrees, even his breathing growing deeper and slower.

"I won't lie to you, Chief. I don't want to leave the force. I try to think about it, and I can hardly imagine not being a cop. But if it comes down to a choice between that and going back to the Chopec, or between that and being with you -- well, that's a decision I've already made. I think I've been realizing that all summer." He ran the palms of both hands along Blair's arms, and then laced his fingers through Blair's, gently forcing him to open his fists.

"But I don't want you to give up anything" Blair protested, sounding on the verge of tears.

I didn't want you to give up anything either, Jim thought. But you did. He turned his head and nuzzled his face through the tangled hair at the nape of Blair's neck. Then he touched a careful kiss to naked flesh, tasting the salt of his sweat. Blair gasped softly, and his fingers tightened against Jim's.

"You're not listening to me," he complained, his whole body flexing and relaxing, his back arching up against Jim. "You haven't ruined anybody's career. Not Simon's, not mine. I was the one who wrote a dissertation I couldn't defend. I was the one who used your name all the way through it, and I still haven't found a way to fix everything I screwed up, because if I had, we wouldn't be spending the summer in South Bend, Indiana, would we?"

Jim decided he wasn't in the mood for guilt and regret, especially not now, with Blair trembling beneath him in the late afternoon heat, slick with sweat, his body hot and smooth and hard, except in the places where he was soft, like here at the back of his neck, and down here where the sweet curve of his ass pressed back into Jim's hip. "Are you sorry we came?" Jim whispered, knowing it wasn't a fair question. "Because personally, I think I'm getting to like Indiana." He pushed aside damp, heavy tendrils of hair with his chin and kissed the side of Blair's neck to hear him gasp again. He felt goosebumps rise suddenly along Blair's arms despite the heat, and then Blair wrenched under him, trying to pull his hands free.

"Dammit," Blair hissed in real anguish, "I won't let you do this out of some misplaced sense of guilt. I won't."

Jim flattened his hands over Blair's, releasing his grip so that Blair could free himself if he wanted to. "I think you're listening to your own guilt," he told Blair. "Because it's not mine."

"Jim," Blair ground out, frustrated and sad, but he didn't pull his hands out from under Jim's.

"Let it go," Jim urged him quietly. "I don't want it anymore. I never did; I just didn't know how to tell you. I didn't have a way to show you."

Blair didn't answer at first, but he turned his head on the pillow and flexed his fingers hard, once more lacing them through Jim's. At that, Jim kissed the back of his neck again, very softly and gently. "Ah, Jim," Blair breathed.

"It's okay."

"I guess it scares me a little," Blair admitted, panting softly and tilting his head away from Jim, baring the side of his neck. Taking the hint, Jim kissed him again, feeling the strength of muscles and tendons hard against his lips, tasting the vulnerable pulse of life.

"It scares me, too," Jim told him before kissing him once more. "But I've got you." His lips were next to Blair's ear, and he could feel Blair tremble with every breath. "And you've always seen me through."

Blair made himself wait until noon before he called. That way he could tell himself he had done a good morning's work and was taking a well-deserved break now, when the truth was that he missed Jim so badly all he really wanted to do was jump in the truck and drive straight back home.

The phone rang once, twice, and then Jim picked up. "Ellison," he said, as though he were answering the phone back at his desk at the station, and that made Blair homesick, too.

"Hey," Blair said, instead of "I miss you."

"Chief." Jim's voice was warm, and Blair found himself clutching the phone as though it were Jim's hand. "How's it going?" Jim asked. "Get a lot of work done without me there slowin' you down?"

"Oh yeah. I could have finished these boxes weeks ago if you hadn't been here entering all the data for me. Months ago."

"Have we even been here months?" Jim's voice was thoughtful, as if he honestly wasn't sure.

"Sort of seems like forever doesn't it? So did the window guy show up?"

"Here at 10:00 sharp. Had the pane replaced and was out of here before eleven."

"That's great. But what happened to always getting three estimates?"

"Hey, he showed up when he said he would, and the price was reasonable."

"So you just went for it, caution to the winds. Cool. Must be my good influence."

"No doubt," Jim agreed dryly.

"How much was it?"

"Not bad."

"You know, man, this myth of your bottomless cash reserves is starting to wear a little thin."

Blair could practically see Jim grinning as he answered. "They say the first fights are always about money."

"Aw, screw you," Blair said happily.

"That's the plan," Jim agreed, and Blair was suddenly glad he was alone in Robert's office.

"C'mon, Jim! Don't say things like that in public."

"I'm not in public."

"Well I could have been, so have a little consideration, willya? Look, I thought I'd get out of here early, so I can hit the grocery store before the rush hour crowd."

"How early?" Jim asked, and Blair decided he sounded distinctly hopeful.

"Next hour or two. Or sooner, maybe. I'm not really getting a whole lot done here. Trouble concentrating or something. I was looking, though, and I can't find the shopping list. Did I leave it lying around there somewhere?"

"What is it about you and lists, Sandburg?"

"They're unnatural, man. When I was living on my own I never bothered with making shopping lists."

"Don't even try it. I saw the way you used to live. Well, it's not on the kitchen table."

"Try the Study. I think I had it when I went in there to borrow one of your tee shirts."

"I found it. By the way, we need to talk about your wardrobe requirements. Do you think a clothing allowance would keep you out of my closet?"

"Heh," Blair smirked. "I don't even know where to begin with a question like that."

"Very funny, Herr Freud. You have something to write with?"

"Shoot."

"Toothpaste. My kind, not your kind, unless you're running low, too."

"Jim's toothpaste," Blair typed on Robert's keyboard. "I still don't understand how a sentinel can stand to use Crest. All that saccharine and sodium lauryl sulfate --"

"Right. Obviously a sentinel would be much happier brushing with tea tree oil and, uh, dirt and whatever's in that stuff you use. Ready for the rest of it? You've got Parmesan written on the list here, and Nicoise olives, dried shiitakes --"

"Hold on, hold on." Blair switched the phone to his other ear to relieve the cramp in his neck and kept typing.

"Ready?"

"Yeah, go on."

"Tangerines and/or oranges. Mueseli. Low fat yogurt. Bread. Captain Crunch."

"Oh, knock it off. That's not on the list."

"Who's reading this, me or you?"

"Fine. Fine. Captain Crunch it is. Peanut butter flavor or crunchberry?"

"Peanut butter?" Even Jim sounded mildly repulsed. "Just plain old Captain Crunch, please. Better get some milk to go with it."

"Captain Crunch, check. Low fat milk to wash down all that refined white sugar. Check."

"Whole milk."

"Why not heavy cream while we're at it?"

"Whole milk's fine."

"Uh huh. Okay, it's your arteries. Wasn't coffee on the list, too?"

"It is if you want to stop at that coffee roasting place on the way home too."

"I don't mind. Especially if it saves us from the horror of bagged Starbucks from the grocery store."

"That'd be great. Thanks," Jim said, and Blair felt himself blushing with pleasure just at the tone of Jim's voice. They were both hopeless, he thought happily, just hopeless. "We need some more laundry detergent," Jim was saying. "And more Mop 'n Glo, or whatever works best on this kitchen floor."

"Mop'n Glow," Blair repeated as he typed.

"And if you were going to get a turkey breast to grill for sandwiches, you probably need to get another bag of charcoal and some lighter fluid, too. I think we're running low."

"Ooh, good catch. I didn't even think of that."

"Angel hair pasta. Eggs. Oh."

"Oh?"

Jim hesitated for a fraction of a instant, and then he said with slightly forced nonchalance, "And the stuff."

"The stuff? Oh." Blair felt himself blushing harder. He wondered how he'd explain the look on his face if Robert came back to his office right now. "Right. Is that everything?"

"Everything on this list anyway."

I've got a little list, Blair thought, idiotically happy. "Thanks. Guess I'll see you soon, then. A couple of hours, maybe, or less."

"Okay," Jim said, sounding as reluctant to put the phone down as Blair was. "Careful of those Indiana drivers on your way home."

Blair snorted. "I will be."

"I love you," Jim said just before he hung up the phone, leaving Blair staring at the receiver on his end. Always have to have the last word; that was Jim Ellison all over. Blair said "I love you, too." to the dead connection as though Jim could maybe hear his voice across the miles anyway. And maybe he could, at that.

And of course, now he really had zero incentive to stay and work any longer. Half an hour more, he told himself. The lunch hour crowd at the grocery store would probably be as bad as rush hour. He'd kill a little more time before leaving.

Blair settled the headset back over his ears. He had been enjoying the rare opportunity to listen to music recorded after 1975 this morning, but he had to admit it was meager consolation for spending the day without Jim. Kurt Cobain's tragic drone began vibrating through his head again.

"Jesus, don't want me for a sunbeam,
Sunbeams are never made like me . . ."

Blair had always loved this album and he loved it still, even if it had become fashionable in the years since Cobain's death to complain that the absence of those ferocious guitars betrayed the one-note talent that had really lain behind them all along. Blair didn't buy that for a second. Those numbing, buzzing vocals and stark acoustic arrangements were genius. Blair was suddenly in the mood to go harangue someone with his views on Nirvana's last recording, but somehow he doubted Robert was a fan. Tsend, maybe?

Blair sent the grocery list to Robert's printer, and then, so he wouldn't have to take off the headphones in the middle of the song, he switched over to the web browser and typed in a URL by memory. He'd been checking in a desultory sort of way all summer, mostly when Jim wasn't around, and though nothing had ever turned up, it had become a habit whenever he happened to have a few extra minutes online.

The graphics-heavy first page always took years to load. He closed his eyes and let the music pulse through him while he waited.

"Don't expect me to cry,
For all the reasons you had to die --
Don't ever ask your love of me."

He opened his eyes at last, and there it was. Blair studied the picture almost dispassionately for a while, and when he remembered this moment afterwards, he thought it was almost as though he hadn't even realized what he was looking at.

The man in the front of the picture was holding the gun, but he didn't look like he really needed it. He filled the doorway with his presence and size, naked to the waist, heavy pectorals pressed together by his upper arms as he clasped the gun in both hands. The original photograph seemed to have been grainy black-and-white captured from videotape, so heavily pixilated that all subtlety of expression was lost. It was impossible to tell what the smaller man, the one with the long, uncombed hair, shielded in the doorway by the muscular bulk of his companion, was really thinking. He might have been terrified, but it was just as likely that he wasn't quite awake yet.

The two of them had obviously just tumbled out of bed.

His fingers feeling numb and heavy as if he'd been drunk or drugged, Blair clicked on the link to the cover story. Another slow-loading page, and while he waited for it, Cobain sang, doomed and beautiful in Blair's mind's eye, stringy blond hair hiding his eyes, that green cardigan he'd worn during the performance muffling his body. He'd been dead within five months, and instead of thinking about the page loading in front of him, Blair wondered if Cobain had known, if he'd been able to read the warning signs ahead of time, or if he'd missed them as completely as Blair had.

Blair pulled off the headphones savagely. This was bullshit. Bullshit. He didn't think like that anymore. He didn't.

Blair saw his own face looking back at him from the monitor. This picture was in sharp color, and he had no trouble at all reading the expression on his face now. It was a shot from his last press conference, and he looked like a man mounting the steps to the gallows. Above the picture, the Cascade Free Press's logo appeared in an obnoxious horizontal frame (no wonder it took so fucking long to load, Blair thought with helplessly irrational fury) and below was Wendy Hawthorne's byline and the name of the article. It was the same title that had appeared on the cover page, too, but Blair hadn't been able to process it then. It wasn't easy, even now.

"Sentinels Among Us: The Rise and Fall of Anthropology's Own Cold Fusion Kid (and the Cop Who Loved Him)"

Cute, Blair decided. His eyes were stinging, though he was too shocked to weep. That's real cute, Wendy.

"James Ellison and Blair Sandburg still live together in the loft of a converted warehouse down on the west side with a view of the harbor," read the first sentence. With an eerie, distantly horrified sense of removal, Blair found himself admiring the way Wendy had adopted the Free Press's breezy Slate-wannabe style. Or maybe she just had a real good editor.

"If this were a love story, I would end with that fact instead of beginning with it. But this isn't a love story. Instead, this is the tale of an obsession that ruined the career of brilliant Ph.D. candidate and forever tarnished the honor and reputation of a decorated Army Ranger veteran and one-time Cop-of-the-Year."

Blair shoved himself away from the desk and walked to the window. It was another hot day out there. He could feel the heat radiating from the glass and onto his own flushed face. Apparently Jesus didn't want him for a sunbeam either. A vein was throbbing in his forehead and his pulse was so fast and hard in his throat he wondered if he were on the verge of giving himself an aneurysm. What a mess that would make. Teach Robert to lend out his office, wouldn't it?

He wanted to hate Wendy, but he found he didn't have the rage to spare. She was what she was, and Blair had known that all along. He never should have let Jim talk him out of giving that muckraker her interview, and he certainly never should have left town. If he'd been there, telling her what she wanted to know, keeping an eye on her for chrissakes, maybe he could have deflected this. Kept Jim out of it this time.

Instead he'd let it happen all over again. Even worse, in a way, because this time he had known it was coming. He thought of the way Jim had kissed him this morning before he left, the way he had been joking on the phone just now over the grocery list, and Blair's grief and regret grew so wild that for an insane instant he wanted to smash his head through the windowpane. Anything, anything to distract him from such unendurable shame.

In the end he didn't smash anything. It wouldn't have helped. He found himself sitting hunched in a corner with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he decided he had probably been hyperventilating a bit, the way his head felt so hot and light and his throat ached. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, finding them dry, and was glad poor Robert hadn't come back in the middle of all this.

He straightened his legs, the muscles in his left thigh twitching. He didn't know if he could bear to read the rest of the article, but it didn't really matter whether he could bear it or not. Someone had to know what it said, and if he didn't do it, who would do it instead? Robert? Jim?

Blair got to his feet, closing his eyes and bracing himself with one hand against the wall when the room spun around him. God, he was a wreck. It wasn't as if anybody had died here, after all. Nobody was shooting at him. More importantly, nobody was shooting at Jim, so what, really, was the big fucking deal? This was just a lousy aftershock, hitting them at a time when they both had thought the worst was over.

And it really was, he reminded himself, sitting down in front of Robert's computer once more and blinking, glassy-eyed, at Wendy's article. The worst had been those days just before they fled Cascade, when Jim had simply had nothing to say to him anymore -- hadn't seemed able to look at him without pain. Nothing Wendy may have written could be as bad as that.

Blair would have his head for doing this. Jim tucked the razor blade into his shirt pocket; the bottle of Windex and roll of paper towels were slung in a grocery bag over his shoulder. But Blair wasn't here, Jim reflected, feeling half smug and half guilty, and what Sandburg didn't know wouldn't hurt either one of them. It wasn't as though he wanted to fall off a ladder and break his neck, after all. He was being careful, his leg felt strong, and besides, someone had to scrape the label off and wash the new pane of glass in the laundry room. It might as well be him.

Blair would tell him that he could have waited an hour or two until he got home and did it himself, but the very idea of an unfinished task gnawed at Jim. He'd been leaving things for Blair to do this entire damned summer.

He did feel a twinge in his upper calf as he mounted the fourth rung of the ladder, but he quickly pulled his other leg up to take the weight off, and then held still, grasping the ladder with both hands and not moving anymore until he was certain his leg wasn't about to seize up on him. One more rung brought him level with the new window pane with its unsightly sticker and all the dust and grim of being transported and installed. Jim carefully fished the razor blade out of his pocket and began scraping at the label.

The adhesive turned out to be valiantly unyielding, and shreds of paper peeled away from the blade leaving a bumpy, opaque coating of glue which Jim had to scrape off millimeter by millimeter. His fingers soon began to cramp from holding the blade, and a nagging little voice told him that it really would have made more sense to wait until Blair could drive him to a hardware store for the right tools. But if he waited for Blair, Blair would never let him come up on a ladder in the first place. Jim kept scraping.

The laundry porch looked dim and shadowed viewed from outside. Far more vivid was the reflection of the yard behind him with the vegetable garden and the swing set. The grass was so green it appeared black in the glass. Sandburg's mushrooms had reached full luxuriant growth and towered four or five inches above the grass, dotted white reflections in the darkness of the lawn.

By the time Jim had removed half the label, his fingers were too badly cramped to hold the razor blade anymore, so he laid it carefully on the outside of the window sill, fished out his bottle of glass cleaner and aimed it at the glass. The mingled scents of ammonia and artificial fragrance made him sneeze. He held on to the rung tightly with his free hand until he had adjusted to the harsh scents, then tore off a length of paper towels and methodically wiped half the pane as clear as he could. There was too much grime to get it all in one pass, so he squirted the pane again and began wiping with a fresh length of towels.

The glass squeaked cleanly. He really was making progress, he reflected with a bit of pride. It probably wouldn't even occur to Blair that anyone had had to climb up on a ladder and clean the window. By and large Sandburg seemed to take cleanliness for granted, never questioning how things had gotten that way. There had been a time when that character trait had annoyed Jim -- and, he reflected honestly, once they were past this first, dizzying excitement of new passion, it would probably annoy him again. But that would be okay, too. He'd loved Blair before they'd ever gone to bed, and he didn't want him to change any more than he already had. Even the changes of the last six weeks had been almost more than Jim could stand. He thought of the gray hairs he had glimpsed this summer and felt a prickling behind his eyes. He wanted them to grow old together, but he'd be damned if he would watch Blair grow old before his time.

Jim let the used paper towels drop to the ground and put the window cleaner away. He could still see streaks in the glass, and now there were paper towel fibers too, but he would wait until he had the rest of the label off before finishing up. No point in cleaning more thoroughly yet. He carefully picked up the razor again, and as he began scraping, he saw Blair himself on the other side of the window, looking out at him.

Busted. Jim grinned and shrugged since there wasn't much else he could do. Blair's expression didn't change. In fact, he didn't move at all, and Jim suddenly wondered why he hadn't heard Blair pull up in the truck. There was an oddly fixed expression on his face, and his eyes weren't focussed on Jim. In fact, there was something subtly wrong with Blair's face, with his whole appearance. That was Blair, and yet in some indefinable way that made the hairs on the back of Jim's neck stand up, it wasn't Blair at all.

Then he realized the truth, so simple and obvious that he felt momentarily weak with relief. Of course it wasn't Sandburg standing in the house looking out at him. Jim could see the washer and dryer right through him. It was Blair's mirror image he was seeing, reflected in the half-clean windowpane.

The moment of relief didn't last long. Not even long enough for Jim to turn his head and confirm what he already knew in his gut. He couldn't possibly be seeing Blair reflected in the window. The angle was all wrong. Blair would have to be floating at his shoulder to appear in the glass like that.

Blair wasn't behind him. Not standing out in the yard at some impossibly fortuitous angle and distance, not levitating behind him. There was no recent scent of Blair anywhere near him, no sounds of anyone at all save for his own tortured breathing and rapidly pounding heart. Black spots swam before his eyes. Afraid he was on the verge of fainting, he lowered his forehead to the rung in front of him. Despite the heat of the sun on the back of his neck, he was covered with goosebumps and shivering violently. The muscles in his calf cramped as he trembled and clung to the ladder.

I can't fall, Jim thought desperately, holding on tight. I can't fall. Blair would fucking kill me.

Blair skimmed the article, his eyes jumping ahead, constantly anticipating the worst. Wendy had done her homework. Most of her sources, named and unnamed, seemed to have come from Rainer. Old students of Blair's, professors in other departments, some of his fellow grad students. Apparently there had even been someone in the administration who had been happy to leak information about everything from Blair's grants and class schedules to on-campus parking tickets and overdue library fines.

It was a grim sort of relief that Wendy had gotten much less from the Cascade PD. Jim's fellow officers and the support staff had closed ranks behind him. That was classic police culture, Blair thought, as much as any personal loyalty to James Ellison, though he knew there was plenty of that as well. As a fortunate result, there wasn't much personal stuff about Jim, just what she could glean from public records, as well as information she'd obtained two years ago when she'd been following him around to film that edition of True Crime.

"There's one question that I come back to again and again," Wendy wrote. "Did Ellison ever believe? Did Blair Sandburg really manage to convince a veteran Cascade police officer that he was actually a creature out of the fantasy lands of Victorian anthropology? The only person who could answer that is Detective James Ellison, and he isn't talking. But perhaps there are clues buried in the records of this good cop's career.

"In April of 1996, during the first months of Sandburg's association with Ellison, a murder indictment was dismissed when Ellison admitted in open court that his 'positive identification' of a suspect was based on a night sighting at a distance of over 200 yards. Far beyond the capabilities of merely human vision, but not, apparently, the superhuman abilities of one of Burton's Sentinels.

"So it seems that Ellison must have really believed Sandburg's Sentinel stories, at least at the time he swore out indictment. What's difficult to accept is that Jim Ellison could have continued to believe in such fantasies for very long. Over the next three years, Detective Ellison racked up the highest closure rate in the entire department . . . hardly results which would be expected from a delusional man.

"What I believe is that Ellison recovered quickly from his initial infatuation with Blair Sandburg's Sentinel project. Apparently, however, it was already too late for the detective. Somewhere along the way he had fallen hard for Blair Sandburg himself, and never found a way to free himself from his entanglement with this erratic, possibly brilliant, but tragically misguided student of anthropology."

Blair laid his head on the table. He could feel his cheeks burning, and the back of his neck felt hot. The whole article was ludicrous, the worst kind of soap opera, but in a world where there was no such thing as sentinels, maybe it was the only explanation that made sense. He supposed he should be grateful that this was the conclusion Wendy had come to. After all, with the amount of research she had done, she might have come up with the truth.

After a time he lifted his head again and tried to read more. His temples were throbbing and his vision blurred, and the illustrations Wendy or her researcher had dug up kept distracting him as he scrolled his way through the text. There were newspaper photographs and stills from local news shows going back more than three years. One was a picture of Jim brushing off Don Hass' questions in front of the Cascade PD during the investigation of the David Lash murders. Another was of Jim on the steps of the courthouse, his face a mask of rage as Tommy Juno walked away a free man. In yet another Jim stood before the bombed out remains of the Methodist Church on Ninth Street, Candace Drake in the far background with a sign and a megaphone.

In every last picture, Blair stood at Jim's shoulder like a long-haired shadow.

Blair had seen most of these shots before. In fact, back in Cascade he had a stack of videotapes and yellowing newspapers in a cardboard box which he'd meant to organize a long time ago. In the early days of his partnership with Jim, he'd collected these mementos of Jim's public appearances and achievements as documentation for his dissertation. Somewhere along the way, though, he'd started shoving everything into that box under the bed. He'd never seen all these pictures together like this, and he supposed that was why he'd never noticed the way he looked in every single picture.

No matter what else was going on in the frame, Blair's eyes were on Jim. Concerned, sometimes smiling a little when Jim dealt with the media in his typically ham-handed fashion, but always frankly, unabashedly adoring. There was no other word for it. In every last one he gazed up at Jim as though he were quite prepared to follow this man to the ends of the earth. The cumulative effect was inescapable. Blair had to wonder how anyone who'd been around the two of them all these years could have missed it.

Well, Wendy hadn't. Blair felt a hard twitch in his cheek, and he put up his hand to massage it away.

He tried to read more, scrolling backwards, allowing topic sentences to jump out at him. The adjectives surrounding his name throughout the article hammered a relentless theme. "Charismatic but undisciplined." "Personally affable and professionally driven."

A child prodigy grown into a maverick researcher.

Passionate about his work yet unable to tolerate criticism.

An academic so careless he never turned in papers or library books on time, who talked himself out of every administrative scrape with a glib tongue and a winning smile.

Winning smile, Blair read again. Glib tongue. Wendy made him sound like some kind of Svengali. Or maybe Dr. Frankenstein. "Zey laffed at me at ze university," he muttered, hoping to make himself laugh.

It didn't work. He had to swallow hard and squeeze his eyes shut to hold back the tears and shut out those damning words. They weren't true. Wendy wasn't right about him. Wendy didn't know anything about him. He hadn't given her that interview she wanted, so there was no truth here, nothing at all about the real Blair Sandburg.

He swallowed again. And what if he had given her that interview? It was tough to think about this rationally, but he took slow breaths, concentrating on each one, trying to slow his thumping heart and order his thoughts.

The answer was pretty clear, actually. His talking to Wendy wouldn't have changed anything at all. She would have written the very same article, the one she had obviously been planning to write from the beginning. Her promise to keep Jim out of it must have been a lie, as Blair saw now. What story was there without Jim after all? It would have been this very story, but even worse, because it would have been bolstered by Blair's own contributions. The shame of that would have killed him. He assumed that he could have influenced what Wendy wrote, but that wasn't so. He could no more have controlled this story than Jim had been able to control what Blair put in his dissertation.

And at that, Blair finally put his head down on the desk and allowed himself to weep. He cried for ever having allowed himself to believe that he loved his dissertation as much as he loved Jim. He wept more for Jim's bewildered grief and rage every time Blair had allowed the research to come first.

"A year? What about, you know, our project -- this, uh, sentinel thing?"

"I know I shouldn't have read your dissertation, and I'm sorry for any transgressions but I'm...you know, I thought we were friends. "

"What the hell did you do? What the hell did you do?"

"Chief. Tell me you didn't."

And after the tears, Blair was calmer. It was all in the past now. Jim had forgiven him a long time ago. And no matter how angry and hurt he had been, Jim had never stopped loving him.

He raised his head, found a box of tissues on Robert's desk, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He felt better, almost relieved. Wendy's article was nothing. A helluva nuisance and a severe aggravation, and it was too soon to tell what complications might arise later because of it, but in the grand scheme of things, it was nothing, nothing.

Blair abruptly closed Netscape, and then erased the history and cache files from Robert's computer as well. He would have to show Robert this eventually, but not today. Not right now. He realized he was shaking, and he missed Jim so badly it was like a physical pain. He almost picked up the phone to call him, but he didn't want to do this long distance.

Instead, he decided he would buy their groceries and then go home. That would give him time to find his center, allow his emotions to catch up with what he believed in his heart of hearts. After all, he didn't want to break down again while he was telling Jim what Wendy had done. The poor man would have enough to deal with without a distraught Blair Sandburg on his hands as well.

He made it all the way out to the parking lot before realizing that he'd left the shopping list on Robert's printer. He stopped, the truck door open, the heat in the cab more intense even than the sun beating down on his head, and tried to convince himself that he could remember everything that had been on it.

He knew he couldn't. Goddammit, he thought, slamming the door vigorously shut, then turning to hike back to the library under the sweltering sun. This was the whole problem with written language. Hadn't he been saying that all along?

Jim heard the truck from two miles away, and the sound was like a weight being lifted from his heart. He got up from the glider, flicked a dusty cicada exoskeleton off the canopy, and walked around to the front of the house to meet Blair. The sky was still clear, but there were a few wispy clouds in the north that made him think it would probably storm again before morning. Good thing they had already gotten that window replaced. A quick shudder ran down his spine, and he forced himself to turn and look at the house he'd stayed out of most of the afternoon. It looked like it always had, a solid square box of a place set in the middle of a cornfield. The red brick seemed incongruously cool under the hard white light of the early afternoon sun, and the windows were slate black, concealing an interior as dark as a cave. For a moment Jim considered closing his eyes and trying once more to see the house with his other senses, suddenly convinced that whatever secrets this house might harbor, they surely couldn't hide from senses that were more subtle than sight. Not forever. There had to be something that would give it away, a heat signature moving through an empty room, sound waves vibrating across the floorboards, a few stray molecules of scent, a fluctuation in air pressure, humidity or temperature, something.

But the truck was less than a quarter of a mile away by now. In another few moments he would see it -- and Blair -- and he had missed Blair so much today. Besides, he knew himself well enough to know that there was no use trying to concentrate on the ineffable when all he could think about was holding Blair Sandburg in his arms. It could wait until later. The fear still nagged at him, a cold place at the nape of his neck like someone behind him giving him the evil eye, but the truck was pulling into the driveway now, and Sandburg was grinning through the windshield, obviously as glad to see Jim as Jim was him.

By the time Jim had gotten to him, Blair had swung open the door and was leaning across the bench seat to drag out the first bag of groceries from the passenger side. "Hi, honey," he grunted, straining to lift the bag from such an awkward angle. "I'm home."

Jim reached in over Blair to pry the paper bag handles out of Blair's fist and set it back down on the floorboards. The inside of the truck smelled like coffee beans and oranges and sweaty Blair. Irresistible. Before Blair could frame a question, Jim was holding him by the hips, tugging Blair toward him, turning him and pushing him down until his shoulders were flat on the seat and his legs were hanging out of the truck. Jim moved between his thighs to avoid being hit by flailing feet and knees as Blair scrambled to brace himself on the running board.

Blair was laughing as he struggled. "What if the ice cream is melting?" he protested as Jim lay down over him. Both of them flinched a little at the sweet pressure, and Blair's hips began to rock up against him even in this awkward position.

Jim kissed his mouth, passionate and sloppy, and as he moved down to lick the sweat from Blair's throat he whispered happily, "You didn't buy any ice cream."

"But what if I had?" Blair was groaning, both hands holding Jim's head. Both of them were in shorts, and despite the almost intolerable heat inside the truck, Jim could feel the goosebumps rising on Blair's bare thighs.

"If you'd bought ice cream, it'd already be melted by now," Jim pointed out, and he lifted his head to take in the beautiful sight of Blair Sandburg dazed and aroused beneath him. Blair was the one who wrapped both arms around Jim's neck and brought Jim down for another kiss, thrusting his tongue into Jim's mouth, groaning a little deep in his throat, moving his body under Jim's. When he finally pulled away he was laughing.

"C'mon, Jim," he said between gasps, pushing weakly at Jim's chest. "This is like making out in a sauna."

"Is that another of your kinky fantasies?" Jim asked as he pulled Blair up, deliberately being dense so Blair would make that exasperated expression.

"Yeah, right, Jim. You got my number there." He pushed Jim away, but he was grinning as he leaned back into the truck for the second time, trying to get the groceries. "Right up there with fooling around in the library or giving you a hand job in midtown traffic."

"Does South Bend even have midtown traffic?" Jim took the first grocery bag from him.

"Why? You wanna go look for some?"

"Actually I was thinking it would be smart to get the groceries put away before the milk curdles in this heat," he announced, moving well away so Blair couldn't swat him. "You've gotta learn to control yourself, Sandburg. Set some priorities."

"Oh yeah? Prioritize this, man." Blair said, giving him the finger from under the grocery bag, but he was laughing so hard he nearly dropped everything as he came stumbling out of the truck.

So maybe it wasn't exactly like Jim's fantasies. Latex and KY instead of honey and well water, and instead of Blair's weight on his back, Blair's thighs were splayed widely over his own, and Blair was grunting and laughing and gasping as Jim sank into his body by infinitesimal degrees. This was better than fantasy. This was so good it seemed to deserve another category altogether, because in Jim's experience reality was never like this either. Reality at its best was nerves and lust and tenderness, and rather too often it was also guilt or pity or sympathy or regret and wondering, even as his body clenched in orgasm, why it was sometimes easier to make love to a woman than to talk to her

This was something else altogether. This was Blair Sandburg, who loved him, all his sins upon his head. Who told him so again and again and again. Who'd been telling Jim so for years, Jim thought. Years before they'd ever exchanged the first kiss.

Blair had made sweet, sexy threats as he pulled Jim back to the Professor's Study. Complained about the mid-afternoon heat as he turned on the fan, told Jim how he'd been waiting for this all day as he dragged out the sofa bed and yanked back the sheets. Then he pounced, the weight of his body pushing Jim down onto the bed.

He knelt over Jim, strong hands kneading Jim's biceps as he kissed his face, and in between kisses he was still talking, breathless and gasping. He told Jim he was beautiful as he lifted Jim's shirt. He told Jim he was wonderful (a fucking god, man, a fucking god) before lowering his head to kiss Jim's left nipple, sucking gently. The shock of pleasure almost made Jim sit up straight on the bed. His hands came up to hold Blair's head, but Blair had already squirmed away, trying to drag Jim's shirt over his face while kissing and licking and biting at Jim's neck. As gentle as Blair was being, Jim knew he was leaving marks. Right now he didn't care. He was pretty damned sure he wouldn't care tomorrow either.

He found the hem of Blair's tee shirt and tried to pull it over Blair's head, but Blair wiggled away from him, sitting up to pull it off himself. Then he curled at Jim's side, licking the sweat from Jim's belly as he unzipped Jim's shorts, careful of Jim's fierce erection. Jim raised his hips to help, but Blair stopped again, this time to hastily strip off his own shorts and kick them away. When Jim got his own shorts and underwear down as far as his ankles, Blair pulled them over his feet and then tossed them off the bed as well. He knelt over Jim's calves, curling up tightly to kiss the top of Jim's left foot and then the inside of his ankle. It was ticklish, maddening and wonderful, and Jim had to hold himself rigid to be certain he didn't kick. Blair laughed, then slowly scooted his way back up Jim's body, stopping to lick at the crook of Jim's knee, the hollow of his thigh, and then the head of Jim's cock. When Jim groaned, Blair straddled him, grinning down at him. "I dunno," he told Jim, looking delighted. "Is this on the list? Shouldn't we be doing laundry or something right now?"

"There is no list," Jim growled back at him, just as delighted, and when Blair said, "Are you sure? Should I go check?" shifting off Jim to the end of the bed as though he really did intend to go check on some mythical list, Jim looped an arm around Blair's waist to drag him back. Blair flopped down beside him, and then it really was like Burton as Blair pushed him over onto his belly and crawled over him, letting Jim feel the sweat slicked curve of his dick sliding between Jim's buttocks as he kissed the back of his neck. When Jim pushed back against him, trying to drag himself up to his knees even with Blair's weight on his back, Blair rolled him over again and kissed his mouth and then his eyelids and then his right temple when Jim's head rolled on the pillow. His hands were on Jim's chest, his knees on either side of Jim's hips, and in between kisses he was telling Jim how happy he was and how good this was.

Then Jim was on his stomach again, this time with Blair's hands under his chest, fingertips stroking the hard points of Jim's nipples as he carefully sucked Jim's earlobe between his teeth, and Jim felt as though something had snapped, just snapped up there in the pleasure center of his brain, because he started bucking helplessly, lowing under Blair who laughed and whispered in his ear, "I guess that works, huh?"

When Blair rolled him again they were sidewise on the bed, and Jim's head dropped off the side. Blair said, "Careful, man, don't hit the iron bar," but instead of helping Jim move, he cupped the back of Jim's head with his hand and took advantage of his access to Jim's extended throat and the underside of Jim's jaw to lick and kiss him while the slick head of his cock bobbed across Jim's stomach. It left cooling wet trails Jim could feel like a secret erratic script, love letters scrawled on his belly.

On his stomach again, head still hanging off, Blair's thighs between his own, pushing them apart, and Jim was shivering and moaning as Blair burrowed under Jim's arm in order to bite gently at the side of Jim's pectorals. Then Jim was on his back again, Blair finally allowing him to shift down so the back of head was on the bed. And when, some time later, Blair raised his head from between Jim's thighs, Jim looked down at him and saw the longing in Blair's eyes.

Ah, god, he thought. Chief. He dragged Blair up so they were face to face, kissed Blair's mouth and then rolled him over to begin all over again. Front and back, doing everything Blair had done to him, Blair struggling to help with a frantic, clumsy eagerness that made Jim want to try things Blair hadn't done yet. He slid down Blair's back to lick and bite at the swell of his buttocks, muscular after all that running, carefully rolling his balls in the palm of his hand. He could feel Blair tensing with pleasure and struggling to relax, spreading his legs wider under Jim. When he relaxed again Jim pushed the tip of his forefinger into him, and Blair seemed to melt. He moaned as Jim worked his finger deeper, and then he was begging, "Oh god yes. Please, Jim. I want you to. Please."

For once in his life, Jim thought, he had the sense not to complain that things weren't going according to plan.

And here they were. Messy and ecstatic, not following the list at all. The sheets had been pulled off every corner, exposing bare mattress, and every pillow had been knocked off except for the one under Blair's head. The hair on Sandburg's chest was dark with perspiration, the hair between his thighs darker still, plastered flat with smeared lube and sweat. The five-o'clock shadow darkening his cheeks and chin had rubbed Jim's face and nipples raw, as well as the tender skin inside his thighs. The breeze from the fan blowing across Jim's sensitized flesh felt like another caress.

Blair's eyes were turned toward the ceiling, and he was grasping Jim's hand so tightly Jim's fingertips were going numb. Blair was breathing in hoarse pants, and when Jim looked down, he realized with a sudden, sick jolt that Blair's penis was curled softly on his groin. "Chief," he groaned, and Blair turned his eyes towards him. "We can -- we can stop. I won't go on if it's hurting you."

Blair shook his head on the pillow. "Doesn't hurt," he insisted. "It's just -- you know -- pretty intense."

Jim heard himself grunt with brief laughter, and he saw the muscles ripple across Blair's stomach. Jim's laughter turned into a moan. "Intense," Jim gritted out. "Yeah." He pulled back a little, feeling some of the tension leave Blair. He tugged his hand out of Blair's clenched fist so he could brace himself to bend deeply over Blair, kissing his throat, his chest, his nipples. Blair shook and cried out. Jim wrapped his other hand around Blair's dick and fisted him with careful attention until he felt him swelling once more. The delicious leftward kink at the base of Blair's cock came back as he hardened, fitting Jim's palm so perfectly they could have been made for each other.

And maybe they had been, Jim thought, half stupefied with pleasure. When Blair's hips began to move, thrusting up against Jim's hand, Jim allowed himself to push forward too, and now it was perfect, Blair shivering in pleasure beneath him. Jim pulled back and then rocked forward again, a little deeper this time, mouthing Blair's nipple and stroking his crooked cock.

The two of them found a rhythm of sorts, excruciating and wonderful and so slow Jim wondered if this would last all afternoon. All night, maybe, if they were lucky. If their hearts didn't give out first.

Blair's wouldn't, Jim thought, and he turned his head to rest his forehead in the center of Blair's chest, trying to smother a laugh. Blair was the one who'd been doing all that running. He could feel the strain in his own lower back from this position and a growing ache above the bullet wound. Blair's spread thighs were trembling hard against Jim's legs. "You think this is funny?" Blair demanded, though he was gulping with laugher, too. His hips rolled and he exhaled hard, Jim's signal to rock back and then push deeper.

They both shuddered and groaned and when Jim could form words again he whispered against Blair's chest, "Just thinking neither one of us will be able to walk tomorrow."

"Jesus, Jim, your leg." Blair's hips rolled again, an involuntary response, and Jim rocked and pushed, the pleasure so intense he heard his teeth chattering. "I didn't think," Blair said, as if he were apologizing. "You should stop."

"Are you insane?" Jim asked as reasonably as he could, lowering his mouth to Blair's nipple again, suckling harder, stroking more firmly, hoping he could distract Blair from making any more ridiculous suggestions. He succeeded too well. Blair yelped, his cock twitching hard in Jim's hand, and then he splattered Jim's chest and his own belly.

"Sorry --" Blair said, and it came out like a sob, his head back, his throat bared, his cock still jerking and spitting in Jim's hand. "Oh, Jim."

"Blair," Jim groaned as his own orgasm was wrenched from him just as suddenly, just as violently. He collapsed over Blair, gasping. Like being hit by a pile driver, he thought, whooping for breath, struggling to straighten his legs. A warm, sexy, wonderful sort of pile driver. Oh, god. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and he was deafened by the roaring of blood in his ears, and because he desperately didn't want to get lost in his own sensations now, he worked his arms around Blair's shoulders and buried his head against the crook of Blair's neck, letting his senses follow the responses of Blair's body instead. The sound of Blair's heart, the rasp of his breath, the gradual release of tensed muscles. He felt Blair's hand reaching down between their bodies, trembling and fumbling some, but moving with great tenderness all the same to hold the base of the condom as Jim slipped from his body. Blair peeled the latex away, and then held Jim for a moment, sticky in his own hand. Jim just wrapped Blair up tighter in his arms and held on.

After a while he felt Blair's hand patting his back. Jim kissed Blair's throat, pretty certain that Blair was about to say something, and wondering if he would have strength enough to answer. It had occurred to him that Blair couldn't have tied off the end of the rubber one-handed, and it was probably leaking all over the mattress right now, but it didn't seem important enough to do anything about it.

"So whadaya think?" Blair whispered to him at last. "Not bad for a couple of beginners, huh?"

"Mmm," Jim mumbled against Blair's shoulder. "Didn't mean to push you so hard at the end. Didn't mean to lose it yet."

"You idiot," Blair's sleepy voice was warm with affection as he gently stroked the small of Jim's back. "It's making love. That's supposed to be all about losing it, right?"

"Your fault," Jim said, insisting on trying to explain, even though he suspected he wasn't doing a very good job of it. "I was trying to make you stop talking."

Blair laughed weakly under him. "Oh, god, Jim. Oh, god. This is your plan to finally shut me up? Fuck me comatose?"

"Didn't work, did it?" Jim said, and he was so tired his voice sounded a little mournful.

Blair laughed more, wheezing a little. "Better luck next time." He turned his head to kiss Jim's temple, and then they were both silent for a time, long enough for Jim to feel himself beginning to roll easily on the gentle shoals of sleep. When Blair spoke again he hardly sounded awake himself. "Or maybe next time . . . next time I'll show you how it's done."

Jim smiled against Blair's throat, but as he drifted away he was became aware of the house around him. The walls were mirrors and the basement was humming, and just for an instant he felt the clutch of fear at his heart. But Blair sighed in his ear, perfectly content, utterly happy, and the moment was over, and Jim was happy, too.

The ringing phone woke him from a sound sleep. Next to him, Blair snorted and rolled onto his stomach, apparently trying to burrow into disheveled bedclothes. The sunset turned everything in the room red. They must have been asleep for hours, Jim thought, and he was smiling when he whispered, "Hello?"

Simon said, "Jim?"

"Yeah, hey. Hold on a minute, will you?" He got out of bed, feeling a little stiff and sore, and pulled on a pair of boxers he found at the foot of the bed. The wind blown into the room by the fan smelled like faraway rain, and Jim knew the storm would be upon them soon. He carried the phone out of the Study, closing the door behind him. "I was gonna call you. How are you?"

There was a pause, uncharacteristic of Simon. Jim felt a flutter of apprehension. "You haven't seen it," Simon finally said, and he sounded confident and unhappy.

"Seen what?"

Another pause. "The Cascade Free Press. They ran a story about you and Blair."

Jim slid to the floor, feeling a bad twinge in his calf. "No," he whispered. "She wouldn't. What would she get out of it?"

"So you do know?"

He sighed heavily, and wiped a sweaty hand against his boxers. "Not really. But one of the reasons we left Cascade was because Wendy threatened to run a story about Blair and me being lovers if he didn't give her an interview. I'm assuming she ran the story."

"Yeah." In the silence, Jim could hear Simon's curiosity, his disappointment, and his fear. Jim closed his eyes and let his hearing soar westward through the hissing phone line, to Simon's heart, thudding quickly and a bit erratically, and to his breathing, heavy and open-mouthed.

Jim said, "Ask me, Simon."

"I don't need to," he said quickly. Too quickly.

Shit. Jim rolled his head against the wall with a soft thump and tried to think. At last he said, "I'm gonna tell you the truth, Simon. I can't make you believe me, but I hope you know me and Blair, well enough to know we weren't jerking you around. It was never a scam."

"I know that, Jim," he protested. "I know you're a sentinel, that Blair was studying you."

"But?"

"Well, you lived with the guy for years. You brought him to the awards banquet. Retirement parties. My birthday party."

"And that means?"

Another silence. Then Simon sighed and said, "It doesn't matter. You're both better men now."

"It matters, Simon. Listen to me. Blair and I, we were friends. Just good friends. When Wendy grabbed Blair to get that interview, I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand Cascade. It was like I was being asphyxiated. And it was killing Blair, Simon. It would have killed him. I couldn't watch him go through that. Not after everything else."

"I know that, Jim," Simon started.

"No, let me finish. I was gonna call you, so let me finish. What Wendy said, it wasn't true. Then. But Simon. We. He."

"Shit, Jim. You're kidding me."

"What -- you were ready to believe it in the papers, but not when I tell you?"

"No, I mean. That's different. No shit," he said, but now he sounded interested. Entertained, even. "Since when?"

Jim couldn't bring himself to say "since the day before yesterday."

"Pretty recently," he hedged. "Kinda crept up on me."

"Holy shit." The pause this time was reflective. At last Simon said, "Congratulations. You sly dog. You take care of that boy."

"He's not a boy, Simon."

"He's nearly young enough to be my son. Shit, Jim. Never saw that coming. Excuse the pun."

"Ha ha. Make up your mind. Did you know or didn't you? Did you wonder or didn't you?"

"Hell, does it matter now?" Jim could hear Simon's smile.

"The paper."

"Oh. Yeah. Shit. Jim, you guys gotta stay out there a while longer."

Hesitantly, Jim asked, "What about my job?"

"I won't lie to you," Simon echoed Jim's earlier words. "Both the Chief and the Mayor have called me. I've denied it, denied you were a sentinel, denied everything. But you know how people are."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." They sat in companionable silence, thousands of miles apart.

"What're you gonna do?"

"Stay here a while. There's an opportunity, maybe, with the Peace Institute at the university here, and anyway, we're not finished with the inventory. Blair's found something, a book or something that Burton wrote that's been missing for a hundred years."

"He's not gonna, you know, try and publish anything, is he?"

Jim's laugh was short and bitter. "What do you think?"

"Man. I don't know what to say."

Suddenly earnest, Jim said, "Say you're happy for me, Simon."

He could hear Simon shift hands holding the phone. At last he said softly, "I'm damn happy for you. You're not alone anymore. I envy you."

"Thanks. Thanks, Simon."

"You okay?"

"I will be. You?"

"I will be." He sighed. "Good night, Jim. Tell Blair . . . well, tell him hello."

"I will."

They said goodnight, and Jim hung up the phone, resting his head against his knees for a few minutes.

"Hey." He looked up to see Blair, eyes wide with concern, standing naked in the doorway.

"Help me up," Jim said.

Blair took both his hands and pulled. "How's your leg feel?"

"It's all right. You mind getting the phone?"

Blair scooped the phone off the floor and carried it back to the Study. He walked like he felt a little stiff, too, and so Jim crawled back into bed. When Blair joined him there, Jim scooted close and let Blair tuck him to his side. "How you feeling?" he asked Blair.

"Good, Jim. I feel good, really."

He didn't sound like a man who felt good. Jim let his head rest against Blair's furry chest and laid his hand on Blair's stomach, lightly circling his navel. Blair kissed the top of his head; his bald spot, he suspected. He twisted his head up, so he could see Blair's face. "Simon called."

Blair's eyes filled with tears and his face turned scarlet. He put his hand on Jim's face, tenderly holding him. "Wendy published."

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Been reading the web version of the Free Press. I saw it this afternoon."

Jim struggled out of Blair's arms and sat up. "You knew? And you didn't tell me?"

"I was gonna. I just -- I just didn't know how. I shoulda realized Simon would call," he added sadly.

"Chief, you gotta tell me these things. I shouldn't have to hear it from Simon."

"I know. I would have."

"Yeah, but when?" Blair looked off into space while Jim stared at him. "No more lies, Blair. Not even by omission. That was our agreement."

Blair swallowed hard and wouldn't meet Jim's eyes. "I didn't mean to lie," he said quietly. "I meant to tell you as soon as I got home, but you were so happy to see me." Blair's voice rose and wavered a little, but didn't break. He swung his feet around and put them on the floor. His back to Jim he said, "I wanted us to both be happy for a little while longer. That's all."

Jim felt as though the walls were closing in on him. He couldn't speak, and in his silence, Blair got up and shuffled to the foot of the bed, rooting around until he found his briefs and tee shirt. He pulled them on, his back hunched a little, as though he were ashamed to be naked.

"Chief." Jim was breathless with dread, but he had to know. "Tell me you didn't."

Blair flinched, but didn't answer.

"Tell me you didn't ask me because of that article."

He remained hunched at the foot of the bed, not looking in Jim's direction. "What are you talking about?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"You know what I mean. Just tell me it wasn't some sort of, Christ, some sort of guilt offering."

Blair knotted his fist in the front of his own tee shirt. His head was down, his eyes squeezed shut, looking just as miserable as Jim felt. "Did it seem like guilt to you?" Every word cost him, and he folded ever more deeply into himself with each one. "Did I look guilty, man? Did I sound guilty when I was asking you to fuck me?"

Jim realized he was shaking. They could not be doing this. They could not be in this dark, terrible place again.

No, look, don't you try to run some interrogation on me. You're not going to find some weak spot in me, all right?

"Blair," he said, all he could say, and Blair's head came up at once, and he crawled across the rumpled bedclothes and put his arms around Jim, kneeling over him so that Jim's head was pressed to his chest. The smells of sweat and sex had turned sour on Blair's body, and he was shaking in the breeze from the fan, although the air was hot and dense with moisture.

"I don't want to fight," Blair said.

Jim rubbed his cheek across Blair's chest, the weave of the cotton tee shirt so much coarser than Blair's skin. He didn't know what to say. The damage seemed irreparable after the sweetness of Blair's gift to him. He couldn't even bring himself to ask for the forgiveness he couldn't imagine he deserved.

"This, this is what I was afraid of," Blair said, stammering in his misery. "When I saw the article. Like it would start all over again, because you're right, Jim. You always were. It's your ass on the line every time I get careless."

"Blair, Chief, please. I can't hear this. I won't."

Blair's body went rigid at his words, but at least he didn't pull away. And that was something. In fact, Blair holding him was everything. He snuggled against Blair, his face pressed hard to Blair's chest, and he kept his arms locked around the small of Blair's back.

"You'd already given up your career for me," he managed to say at last, and it sounded so clinical and empty, but he pressed on because it was all he had. "You gave up your dissertation, and that book was your life, I know that. If we'd stayed in Cascade any longer, if you'd given Wendy that interview, it would have killed you."

Blair sobbed once, then choked it back hard, shaking his head above Jim.

"Don't even try it," Jim said. "You think I haven't noticed the gray hairs? The lines on your face?"

Blair made a sound half way between a sob and laughter. "Are you trying to make me feel better?"

Jim hugged him hard. "Don't you think you're worth more to me than anything Wendy could have written?"

Blair relaxed a little, more of his weight resting on Jim's thighs, and though he didn't shake his head again, he didn't answer him either.

"Okay," Jim said. "I deserve that. Maybe you didn't know back then, but can't you believe me now? 'Cause I'm trying, Chief. I'm trying to be as honest as I want you to be with me. I swear I'm trying."

"I know," Blair whispered. "I believe you."

Jim just held on after that because it seemed all he could do, and after a little while Blair slid down and stretched out beside him, one arm over his thighs, his head in Jim's lap. Jim stroked his head, his heart full, and gently tugged his fingers through the tangled curls.

Blair sighed. After a while he said without raising his head, "So what did Simon say?"

"He told me to take care of you."

"No way."

"What do you want me to say? That's what he told me."

"No shit. Wow." Blair didn't lift his head but his next sigh was easier. "I guess you told him about us, huh?"

"I told him."

"So what did he do? Did he, like, freak?"

"Nah. He says he's happy for us."

"Simon's a good guy," Blair announced contentedly.

"He wanted details."

Blair actually chuckled. "Did you give him any?"

"You walked in just as I was telling him how you get the giggles every time things start to get hot and heavy, and that I couldn't figure out if that was some sort of comment on my technique or -- ow!"

Blair had pinched him, hard. "I do not giggle."

"