Should I write a cutesy disclaimer? Oh, the joy if I do. Not mine, we all know to whom they belong.

Thanks to Diana for the beta and Patt for reading over my shoulder. Additional thanks to L and D for
listening and encouraging. How could you know? Happy Anniversary. Enjoy!

Don't assume anything; the detailed spoilers are at the end of the story. This is not a happily ever after story. Do NOT look for a happy ending.

The End of Time

"It's just not gonna work, Jim," Blair said, his head hanging down.

"Are you sure?" Jim asked as his jaw clenched forcefully.

"You can't trust me--"

"I took that back--"

"--and I can't trust you not to push me away again when you think I've wronged you in some way. You'll never have total faith in me. You haven't since Alex; just admit it."

There it was. The honest truth laid out before them.

"I... you're my best friend, Chief."

"That doesn't answer my question." Blair ran a quick hand through his hair. "I'm not gonna play yo-yo with you anymore. I'm getting torn apart every time you push me away and then pull me back. I won't do it again."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"I know. It's not like you can promise not to do it; it's in your nature to doubt people."

"That's not fair, Sandburg!" Jim said, standing with his hands on his hips. "I've given you every chance, but you just keep..."

"Letting you down," Blair said softly. "I've never failed so badly in my life, especially in my personal relationships."

"Maybe..."

Looking up at Jim's quiet opening, Blair asked, "Maybe what?"

"Maybe if we had been more `personal' this wouldn't be a problem."

"What? You think if we'd fucked, we wouldn't be in this same place?"

Shrugging, Jim answered, "You never know."

"Right," Blair snorted, "all your sexual relationships are wonderful successes, and your lovers never disappoint you."

"Hey--"

"Speaking of which, when was the last time you talked to your wife. Oh, excuse me, *ex-*wife?!"

Jim glared at Blair, that patented `I'm gonna make you sweat until you crack' stare, but Blair was having none of it. He returned Jim's stare with one of his own, the one that said, `Yeah, I'm right, I know I'm right and I dare you to prove me wrong.' They were at a stalemate.

Deadly quiet, Jim finally said, "You're not so hot in your personal relationships."

"I've never had a former lover try and kill me," Blair snapped.

"Can you say `flashpoint', Sandburg?"

"Fuck you!"

"Not if your life depended on it."

Blair's jaw snapped shut and his eyes dropped.

Jim stalked over to the loft door, grabbed his keys and said as he opened the door, "A week."

"It won't take me two days," Blair said as the door slammed shut.

Packed and ready to leave, Blair looked around one last time. He could hear Jim puttering around in the living room, so he turned off the bedroom light and went out to say goodbye.

"I'm going," Blair said to Jim's back.

"I hope you didn't take any of my CDs," Jim groused.

"Like I'd want anything of yours," Blair challenged.

Jim whipped around. "Get out!"

"With pleasure."

Blair picked up his backpack, took out his house keys and threw them on the table. They skittered to a stop on the edge, hanging there precariously before falling to the floor. Something in the movement, the sound, startled Jim into action. He crossed the loft in a half dozen steps and grabbed Blair by the arm, spinning him around.

"Is it that easy to walk away?" Jim growled into Blair's face.

"Easier than breathing," Blair snarled back.

Jim could think of nothing else but wiping that smug, self-righteous sneer off Blair's face. He dropped his mouth to Blair's, forcing his tongue in between Blair's startled lips. Blair struggled in his grasp, trying to push away, trying to get away, but something as old as time leapt to life, and then he was struggling to get closer. Jim felt it the moment Blair stopped fighting him, and started participating.

Blair's hands were at Jim's pants, scrabbling at the closure, eager to touch the hot flesh inside. And Jim was hot, hot and hard, and his cock throbbed as Blair closed his hand around it. It didn't take more than a dozen strokes before Jim was grunting and groaning, Blair's voice joining in as he rubbed his confined erection against Jim's thigh. With a roar, Jim came, shooting over Blair's fist and up on his chest. Blair shuddered against Jim's thigh and came, pulsing his completion in his pants.

Wiping his come covered hand on Jim's jeans, Blair unsteadily moved away. Jim leaned back against the couch, pants still open, tee-shirt still rucked up, come drying on his belly.

"This doesn't solve anything," Blair said sadly, as he pulled his tee-shirt out of his pants to cover the stain.

Picking up his discarded backpack, Blair opened the door and looked back at Jim one last time. Without another word, he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

It was the end.

You thought he was the Holy Grail when you found him, but he turned out to be the death of you. Once, literally. But he brought you back to life, only to make you pay every day since then. It wasn't such a bad prospect, you thought. He was angry and you were... were confused. You knew there was a reason, but you just couldn't put your finger on it.

Life after death wasn't so great, wasn't like it had been. You listened to his ranting and raving as he again and again told you you weren't a cop; like your opinions and observations didn't count, didn't matter. And yet, even though you weren't a cop, he let you get into cop situations, make cop decisions, write cop reports, and it started eating at you. You were being used.

And you watched with interest as he jumped headlong into danger. A part of you, a sick little corner of your mind, waited for him to get hurt, hoping with wicked fascination that he would get hurt so badly, he'd need your help and only your help to recover. But the bastard was lucky. His hurts were only superficial. You on the other hand, weren't so lucky. You were hit and punched and drugged and shot at.... He scraped by with only scrapes and bruises.

He never said a word. Well, he did... he reminded you that you weren't a cop. Again.

That's when you started figuring out he wasn't going to change. Yeah, you're a slow learner, but once you catch on, whoa, you take off like a wild fire.

You worked overtime on that damned dissertation, the only thing standing between you and a full professorship at some fancy college some place warm and dry. Lying in you bed at night, you would imagine yourself on a beach somewhere, drinking beer and frolicking with some nubile young woman. Or man, depending on the night. And the thoughts of actually finishing would drive you from your warm bed to your laptop. You were going to finish, and then it would be hard question time.

Knowing that the diss was the only thing keeping you at his beck and call, he worked you harder, asking, no... demanding more and more of your time. And like the good little guide, you gave it, giving up sleep to work on the diss. Then it was finished, the last words typed: "the end." It seemed so prophetic when you thought about it later.

It was the end all right. The end of your ten year career in academia, the end of your PhD hopes, the end of your beach fantasies. And the really shitty thing was, nobody apologized. Not your ditsy mother, cause she was, after all, doing it for your own good. Not the fucking publisher, who thankfully lost his job after you hired a lawyer and threatened to sue. Not the Chancellor, who even though you were vindicated, never gave you your job back. Not even when you submitted a new, hastily thrown together diss, did she say anything other than what was necessary. And of course, Jim, you knew he'd never say he was sorry for anything. The words virtually didn't exist in his vocabulary.

Even when the news came of your degree, you couldn't celebrate. Jim was solemn and serious, mad because you weren't going to do what he wanted and become a cop, but you'd never wanted that in the first place. How they could think you'd want to be a cop was beyond you. And besides, even if you did, they would all look at you the same way. Wanna be. Got in cause you let Ellison fuck your ass. Not.

Not that you hadn't thought about it. Not that it wasn't possible. You'd seen Jim date guys, knew he fucked and was fucked. But you'd never wondered too long because he was always jumping around, from fuck to fuck.

And the kicker, the crowning moment in your twisted relationship with Jim, was when he asked you, no, told you that if you didn't become a cop, he didn't know if he could continue to have you ride along with him. Ultimatum time. And you remember with such clarity the shocked look on his face when you said, "It's just not gonna work, Jim."

Oh, I guess it's been about a dozen years since Sandburg left. Christ, I haven't thought about him in a while, been too busy doing the Job. If I remember right, it was towards the end of the summer. At least, I think it was. Been too long really. I do remember getting a card from Naomi for my birthday the next year. I guess it was six months after he left, so I suppose that puts it at August or September. Ah, what the hell does it matter anyway?

Hey, I retired last month. Yeah, at the ripe old age of fifty-three. The docs always told me I'd have a lot of pain when I got older, from all the rough stuff, the bullets, the bumps, but I never really thought about it. Hell, I always figured I'd get it in the head one day, just a quick unplanned bullet to the brain. Fast and easy. But instead, I got a gold watch and a bottle of champagne from Rafe. I knew I couldn't stay after he got promoted to Captain of Major Crime. It was never the same after Simon stroked out, but Joel did a half assed decent job until he got promoted. I never wanted to be anything other than a street cop, so I never tested for Captain.

And now here I am, riding a couch. It's not so bad. I have a lot of time for reading, and it's pretty quiet around here. I go out for breakfast most days, still up at six a.m. like clockwork, no slacking off for this soldier.

Dad's in a long term care facility, we put him there about four, five years ago when he started forgetting stuff. Damn Alzheimer's. Not like I wanted to recount the past with my dad or anything, but I sure didn't plan on him not remembering me. I don't get out there very often, just once a month when Stevie comes and picks me up. It's a long drive and I don't drive much anymore unless I have to.

My senses? Well, they sorta disappeared on me over the years. I don't really remember which one shorted out first. Guess it was just a gradual thing. Hell, I didn't even really know it until one day I wanted to use my Sentinel hearing, and when I tried to find the dial... well, there wasn't a dial anymore. Yeah, in fact, I just got a brochure about a hearing aid. Might just have to look into it, I didn't hear the bakery lady calling after me the other day when I left my wallet on her counter. Gotta be more careful.

Well, I've got stuff to do. The, um... the shelves need dusting, and I think I need to wash some underwear. It's been nice visiting with you. Don't get many visitors anymore. Yep, pretty quiet around here, but feeling sorry for myself just isn't gonna work...

The end.

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Detailed spoilers: Blair feels that Jim will never be able to trust him again, so Blair leaves. End of story. Except that I think I foreshadowed Blair dying within a year of leaving, which is why there was no more contact from Naomi. And I'm pretty sure Jim's gonna forget about his self-pity, or else he's gonna remember his gun and have a meal. Hey, anybody can have a mood. Do your best. Or is it worst?

End The End of Time by Lisa, Duncans Twin: wmlisa@comcast.net

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